Mrs Molesworth (continued 3)

Ella had left off crying in the interest of listening to her godmother. She was disappointed that Lady Cheynes said no more.

“Yes?” she said insinuatingly; “what were you saying, godmother? ‘A pity to add to’?”

“Never mind, child. I was thinking aloud. Now, take off that shawl and run down to the warm library, like a sensible girl. If you must finish darning your stockings, take one or two of them with you. There is no one but Barnes to be shocked. I am going to see your father if he is not asleep, and then I shall ask you to give me a scrap of luncheon. I only came home last night, and I heard Marcus was ill and drove over at once.”

Ella obeyed. The two went down stairs together. Then in reply to Lady Cheynes’ message came one from her nephew, saying that he was awake, and begged her to go to see him.

Ella sat alone in the library. She felt considerably less desolate and depressed, and it certainly was more comfortable than up stairs in the cold. She was very glad to have her godmother’s company at luncheon, anything was better than sitting alone through the meal with Barnes and his subordinates fidgeting about. And she was by no means sorry that the old lady should have come upon her as she had done, for however fond she was of her grand-nieces Ella felt certain Lady Cheynes did not approve of the present state of things.

“If she had been at home, I do believe I should have gone,” thought Ella.

Suddenly the door opened and her godmother reappeared. Her eyes looked very bright, there was a slight flush upon her soft old cheeks and a smile, a peculiar smile, flickered about her mouth.

“Godmother,” exclaimed Ella, as she had done up stairs in her own room. “What is it?” she went on, feeling a sort of vague excitement. “You look as if you had something to tell me. You are smiling, so it can’t be anything wrong. What have you been talking about to papa?”

Lady Cheynes drew a chair close to Ella’s, and sat down.

“Supposing I were a fairy godmother, Ella, just for fun, you know, what would you ask me to do to cheer you up a little this dreary day?”

Ella opened her eyes wide, very wide—and I almost think she opened her mouth too.

“Godmother?” she said, while a rosy colour crept over her face, “oh, godmother, what do you mean?”

Chapter Nine.

Too Good to be True.

“Godmother,” Ella repeated, “what do you mean?”

Lady Cheynes smiled.

“Supposing I were to tell you you were to go to the dance at the Belvoirs’ to-night after all?” she said.

Ella’s face fell a little.

“Godmother,” she replied, “I’m afraid you’re teasing me; I couldn’t go now.”

“Not if I took you? I was asked of course—they are very old friends, and I did not answer definitely, not being sure when I was returning home. Indeed till this morning I thought it was over, that it was last night.”

“But,” Ella went on, the corners of her mouth drooping like a little child’s, “I haven’t any frock, godmother. That makes it quite impossible.”

“I don’t know. Hester tells me there is a very pretty little white tulle frock almost ready for you. Madelene has been having it made by Mélanie—in case of anything unexpected, I suppose,” said Lady Cheynes quietly.

Ella looked as if she could scarcely believe her ears.

“Madelene has been getting a frock ready for me,” she said. “Perhaps, perhaps, godmother it was for a surprise. Wouldn’t she be vexed at my knowing it? Do you—would you dare to let me wear it? Oh, godmother,” and her eyes sparkled, “how lovely it would be!”

“Will be,” said her godmother, smiling more and more. “Listen, Ella, I’ve got your father’s leave to take you. You are to drive home with me immediately after luncheon. Hester is putting up the frock and my maid will set to work and finish it. Now think, have you everything else you need—gloves—shoes?”

“I have gloves—tan-coloured ones, but they’re quite new and nice and long. They are the last pair of those poor auntie gave me. I have never needed to wear such long ones here! And shoes—I have no white ones, godmother.”

“You must have white ones,” said Lady Cheynes. “Ah well—perhaps we can get some at Weevilscoombe. I can send a man in to the shoemaker’s there. Or if not—” and the old lady hesitated. “Never mind—we’ll manage somehow. Now, my dear, run up stairs and show Hester all that you want packed up. You must be quick, for we shall leave immediately after luncheon.”

Scarcely knowing if she were standing on her head or her heels, off flew Ella. Up stairs in her room she found Hester, who now that the young lady was in such luck thought it well to sober her down a little by looking rather grim.

“Oh, Hester,” cried Ella, flying at the old servant, seizing her by the shoulders and whirling her round, “did you ever know anything so lovely? Have you packed up the frock? Do tell me about it—how did you know about it? Was it to be a surprise and oh! Hester, what will my sisters say when they see me there? I’m so awfully afraid they’ll be vexed, even though they won’t show it to her ladyship.”

Hester stopped short in the packing she was already in the midst of.

“Now, Miss Ella,” she said, “that just shows how little you know your sisters. Vexed indeed—they’ll be just as pleased as pleased, Miss St Quentin especially. If only you knew—No, miss, you can’t see the frock—it’s all pinned up neatly, and you must let Jones undo it herself,” and Hester laid a protecting hand on the white puffy-looking packet she was reserving for the top of the trunk.

“You cross old thing,” said Ella. “However I’ll forgive you. I’m too happy to mind. All the same if my sisters did want me to go, why didn’t they ask papa—he gave in the moment godmother tackled him?”

Hester grunted, but said nothing.

“That reminds me,” Ella went on, “I must run in to see papa for a moment, to thank him. You’ve got all my things in now, Hester. I haven’t time to change this frock, though I should have liked to,” glancing at her thick grey homespun with contempt; “and besides, my Sunday frock—fancy me having come back to Sunday frocks like a good little girl!—is rather the uglier of the two. It is so clumsily made; I’d have liked to take my dark green cashmere that I brought from auntie’s.”

“And catch your death of cold. You forget, Miss Ella, it’s a deal colder here than at Bath, and in a town too it’s always warmer.”

“Oh, well, I don’t care. I shall come back first thing to-morrow morning; so it won’t matter. Oh, Hester, I am so happy—here, catch, these are my gloves. Yes, I’m sure I’ve all now.”

And with another series of pirouettes Ella took herself off.

She flew to her father’s room this time.

“May I come in? Oh, papa, I don’t know how to thank you,” she cried. And as her father looked up, she seemed to him a transfigured creature from the meek, subdued Ella of the night before. There she stood, radiant and glowing with a delight which one could have fancied illumined even the dull folds of her grey frock as with sunshine.

A smile broke over Colonel St Quentin’s pale worn face.

“My poor little girl,” he ejaculated involuntarily, “do you really care so much about it?”

“Of course I do. Oh! you don’t know how happy I am. But oh, papa, you don’t think Madelene will mind, do you?”

Colonel St Quentin’s face changed.

“Madelene mind!” he repeated. “My dear Ella, how extraordinarily you misapprehend your sister.” Just, in other words, what Hester had said. For a moment Ella’s face looked grave. If it were the case after all that Madelene was not to blame? But no—how could it be so? For papa, had been so easy to persuade—was now so plainly enjoying her delight. The girl’s expression darkened. Madelene, she felt almost inclined to believe, was worse than she had yet imagined. She must be cleverer and more cunning, thought Ella, not only to keep her in the position she did, but to make it seem that she wished it otherwise. But these reflections of course were not to be expressed. And come what would, Ella decided triumphantly, her sister could not deprive her of this one evening’s enjoyment.

“I’m glad you don’t think Madelene will be vexed,” she said quietly.

Colonel St Quentin gave a slight smile. “You must promise me, Ella,” he went on, “to be very nice—biddable and considerate you know, to your—to Lady Cheynes. It is really very good, very good indeed of her to take you. Don’t tease her to stay late, or anything of that kind. I suppose it’s all right about your dress—she says so. Now, good-bye, my dear. Enjoy yourself and don’t fancy that any one will grudge your doing so.”

“Good-bye, papa,” said Ella, stooping to kiss him.

They set off immediately after luncheon. Arrived at Cheynesacre, a great consultation took place. Jones was fortunately good-natured as well as skilful—she surveyed the snowy mass which old Hester had packed up so carefully with grave consideration.

“Yes, my lady,” she said, “boolyooners of toole, quite simple, I see. The bodice is complete, luckily. Well—if Harriet can work with me—Harriet is a handy girl, I don’t see but that it may be ready by eight o’clock—or even a little sooner.”

“Sooner, decidedly,” said Lady Cheynes, “we must start at half-past eight. It’s a long drive and of course an early dance. You must have some white flowers Ella—not a bouquet, but a spray or two on the bodice. And was there not something else you needed?”

“Shoes, godmother. I have no white ones.”

“Oh, to be sure. What do you think, Jones, could we get a decent pair at Weevilscoombe?”

Jones shook her wise head.

“Then—run down stairs, Ella, and ring for the head-gardener to speak to me in the conservatory. I will follow you immediately.”

Five minutes later, the old lady entered the drawing-room with a small, carefully enveloped parcel in her hand. There was a look in her face that Ella had never seen there before—a look which in a younger woman would have been accentuated by tears in her eyes. But old age weeps rarely and painfully. Lady Cheynes’ bright, dark eyes were undimmed, yet they had a very tender light in them as she unfolded the packet.

“Look, child,” she said. “Here is a pair of slippers which I little thought would ever have danced again. They belonged to my own child. You have never heard of her of course. She would have been an old woman in your eyes, had she been alive still. They were the last white slippers she ever wore; you see they are perfectly clean, only yellowed a little with age, in spite of my blue paper!”

Ella took them carefully and admiringly in her hands. They were very dainty little shoes, and on the front of each sparkled an old-fashioned buckle.

“How pretty they are!” said the girl. “Are these diamonds, godmother?” and she touched the buckles.

“No, they would be too valuable in that case to be left stitched on the slippers,” Lady Cheynes replied. “They are only old paste, but very good old paste. I gave them to Clarice to wear at the fancy dress ball she got the shoes for, and they were old even then. You see the shoes have high heels, Ella, which suits them for present fashions rather too well, in my opinion. That was because they were for a fancy dress. When Clarice was a girl, high heels were not worn. Now try them on, child—I only hope they are not too small.”

Ella slipped off her own shoe and drew on one of the white ones without the least difficulty.

“Do they fit you?” asked Lady Cheynes quickly, “Quite; perfectly,” said Ella, proceeding to try the second slipper. “The left foot is perhaps, yes, just a trifle too large,” she went on. “You see they are both easy, and my left foot is a little tiny bit smaller than my right—and then I have thicker stockings on than in the evening. But I am sure they will do, godmother, beautifully; and it is so very good of you.”

Lady Cheynes stooped to look at the little feet in their motley clothing of red stockings and white shoes.

“Humph,” she said, with a mingling of admiration and contrariety in her voice, “humph—I thought Clarice’s feet the smallest that ever were seen. You can put a bit of cotton-wool in the toes if you like, Ella.”

“Oh, no, thank you, they’re not as bad as that,” said Ella, jumping up. “I can dance in them splendidly—I feel I can,” and she gave herself a twirl or two. “Oh, dear godmother,” she went on, “I can scarcely believe that I’m going. I really can’t.” Jones and the handy Harriet worked their best. Before eight o’clock all was ready, and Ella stood arrayed for her godmother’s inspection.

“Very nice, yes, very nice,” said the old lady. “Put out your foot, Ella—yes, there won’t be another pair of shoes and shoe-buckles like those, there. Now, what have you to put on over you? No! no,” as Ella held up a gauzy mantle or shawl, “that’s not half enough. You must have something over that. My dark-brown fur-lined cloak, Jones, will be the very thing. You are not used to a long drive in winter such as we shall have to-night. And it is freezing now, I hear—the roads are getting slippery. We cannot go fast.”

“You must have plenty of hot-water bottles, my lady,” said Jones, as she returned with the cloak. “And I’ll tell Henry to be sure and have them filled again to come home with.”

“We shall not stay so late as all that,” the old lady replied. “However, it will do no harm to speak to Henry. What are you making such grimaces about, Ella?”

“The cloak, godmother. It is so awfully heavy—I am afraid it will crush me dreadfully, and see, it quite trails on the floor. Don’t you think, in the warm carriage—if I doubled my shawl?”

“No, nonsense,” said Lady Cheynes, decidedly. “That cloak is the proper thing. You can shake yourself out when you get there. Good tulle is elastic,” and she turned away inexorably.

It was a long drive—longer than Ella had realised. And it was so cold outside that the carriage windows had to be kept up the whole way, not admitting a breath of air; and they quickly became so opaque that even if the night had been brighter and clearer than it was, Ella could have seen nothing. In spite of her excitement and eager anticipation she felt herself growing drowsy, and when they at last drew up, though she had not been actually asleep she had been so near it that all about her seemed dreamy and unreal. Hardly understanding where she was, she found herself following her godmother across a great square hall, whose dark oak panelling was decorated with Christmas evergreens and holly, down a short passage into a room crowded with ladies’ shawls and wraps and attendant maidens.

“Shake yourself out, Ella,” said Lady Cheynes. “Yes, that is right,” as her god-daughter half mechanically obeyed her, under the supervision of one of the ladies’-maids. “You are not at all crushed. Keep our cloaks where they will be easily got at, we shall be leaving early,” she went on to the woman, who evidently recognised her. “Now, Ella, my dear. But for goodness’ sake, child, don’t look so solemn. No one would recognise you.”

“I—I didn’t mean to look solemn, godmother,” said the girl, glancing up in the old lady’s face with a little smile of deprecation in her lovely eyes.

At that instant a young man hastily crossing the hall, just behind them, caught sight of her. He stopped short and hesitated.

“By Jove!” he ejaculated under his breath, then drew back. He was out of the range of seeing or being seen by Lady Cheynes.

“Who can she be?” he said to himself.

The old lady moved on calmly till she reached the doorway where Mrs Belvoir was standing, and the greetings and introduction of Ella took place.

“We are later than I expected,” said Lady Cheynes. “You see it was such a sudden idea of mine.”

“A delightful idea,” Mrs Belvoir replied. “Where will you establish yourself, Lady Cheynes? There are a few seats in the ball-room—or would you prefer staying here?”

“I will stay here, thank you,” Ella’s godmother replied, seating herself beside her hostess. “But this child here,” she added in a lower voice, “I should like her to dance. Her sisters don’t know she is coming. It will be quite a surprise to them to see her.”

“They are both dancing,” said Mrs Belvoir. “Of course she must dance. Ah! there is Louis,”—as she caught sight of one of her sons and beckoned to him. “Louis,” and a word or two of whispered explanation followed, before he was brought up and introduced, nothing loth, to the lovely stranger.

He did not catch the name clearly; Mrs Belvoir’s special care to introduce the young girl correctly, as “Miss Ella St Quentin,” had a curious result.

“Miss Ellison Winton,” young Belvoir repeated to himself; “who in the world can she be? I have never seen her before, that’s certain.”

But long ere his fragment of a dance with her came to an end, he found himself hoping that he should see her again!

“She is quite bewitching,” he thought, “and she dances beautifully. I wish I were not engaged so deep.”

“May I introduce a partner or two to you, Miss—Miss Winton?” he said, and Ella did not notice the mistake, as she acquiesced, and two or three new men were led up to her.

“Major Frost, Mr Littleton, Sir Philip Cheynes,” followed each other in quick succession, and each in turn was informed privately by young Belvoir that the young lady was “a Miss Ellison Winton, a perfect stranger,” he added, “staying at some house in the neighbourhood;” and Ella herself, a little bewildered still, heard the various names but indistinctly—the “Sir Philip,” she caught but not the surname. And it never occurred to her to associate the bearer of it with her godmother’s grandson, whom she believed to be still in the north.

There was dancing in two rooms; during Ella’s next dance, a waltz with Major Frost, the elder Misses St Quentin were in the other room. The next, which she danced with Mr Littleton, was a square, and though she once caught sight of Madelene’s head through a doorway, they did not come more nearly together! which Ella, still more than half afraid of being seen by her sisters, was not sorry for.

“It must come, sooner or later,” she thought; “but I should like to be beside my godmother when they first see me.”

Chapter Ten.

An Old-World Shoe.

“Our dance, I think, Miss St Quentin,” said Major Frost, when, after searching some time for Madelene, he discovered her at last in the tea-room. “The second polka it is,” and as Madelene acquiesced, “I have been dancing with such a wonderfully pretty little creature,” he went on, “a Miss Wyndham, or Winton, I am not quite sure of the name. A perfect stranger, staying at some house in the neighbourhood they say. I must point her out to you.”

“I wonder who she can be?” Miss St Quentin replied. “Mrs Belvoir did not know of any particularly pretty girl coming—no stranger, I mean.”

“But she is a very particularly pretty girl; I know you will agree with me. If you don’t mind we’ll go into the other room and I will point her out to you. She is dancing with Cheynes, I think.”

Madelene felt but mildly interested in the object of her partner’s enthusiasm, but she made no difficulty. The second room was very crowded.

They danced for a few minutes and then stopped.

“It is too full, really,” said Major Frost. Then suddenly he gave a little exclamation.

“There she is,” he said, and Madelene looked where he directed. It was her turn to start and exclaim.

“What is it?” asked her partner in surprise.

Madelene had recovered herself.

“Nothing,” she said, “nothing except the most—the most extraordinary resemblance. It is not very pleasant here,” she went on, “suppose we go back to the other room. I want to speak to my sister Ermine; she is in there.”

Major Frost was too polite to object, but he was rather disappointed.

“So you don’t admire the stranger?” he said.

“On the contrary—I could only glance at her, but I could see that she is very lovely, as you said. I wonder if my cousin, Sir Philip Cheynes, knows who she is?”

Just then she caught sight of Ermine. She was fortunately not dancing. Madelene made a sign to her.

“Ermine,” she said in a low voice, “I am perfectly bewildered. Do you know I do believe Ella is here?”

“Ella?” Ermine repeated.

“Yes—dancing in the other room with Philip. If it is not she, I never saw such a likeness—never.”

“But,” said Ermine, looking dazed, “if she is dancing with Philip, he would know, he would tell us.”

“He may not know who she is,” said Madelene impatiently, for once grasping the situation more rapidly than her sister. “He has never seen her. And if it is she, she has not come in her own name. Major Frost said she was a Miss Wyndham.”

Ermine looked relieved.

“Then it can’t be she,” she said. “She would never do such a thing. Knowing too that we were to be here—it would have been perfectly absurd.”

But Miss St Quentin still looked dissatisfied.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I feel as if I were dreaming. She is not only the very image of Ella, but her dress is uncommonly like the white tulle frock that I had made for her in case papa had given in. Ermine, if she has done such a thing—such a scandalous thing as to come here by herself trusting to us not to tell—it would be—I don’t know what we should do.”

“Your imagination is running away with you, Maddie,” said Ermine. “Still all the same I shall go and have a look at this remarkable young woman—quietly, you know, without letting her see me. There’s Major Frost looking as if he couldn’t think what’s the matter, and he is rather a gossip. I’ll meet you again in the tea-room after I have made my voyage of discovery.”

So Madelene returned to her partner whose curiosity was not, at that time at least, destined to be satisfied. As soon as the dance was over, she declared herself too tired and hot to attempt the next, and sending Major Frost off to explain matters to a brother-officer of his to whom she happened to be engaged, she found a seat for herself in a corner of the conservatory where she hoped to be able to remain perdue for a few minutes.

Her head was full of Ella—for that Major Frost’s “Miss Wyndham” was not her sister she could scarcely believe. And she felt both uneasy, and indignant. Suddenly a slight rustling close at hand warned her that her retreat was no longer hers alone—a small figure in white was making its way in her direction, and as it seated itself she heard Ella’s voice say lightly to some one unseen.

“Oh, yes, you will find me here. It is very good of you to fetch it for me.”

Madelene rose to her feet. They were alone.

“Ella” she said.

The girl turned her head, then she too got up, and came forward, with a smile on her face, but a somewhat ill-assured and deprecating one.

“I was wondering when we should come across each other,” she said. “I meant to go into the other room to look for you and Ermine, Madelene,” and here she tried to smile again, but the effort was rather a failure, and her lips quivered a little. “Madelene, are you very astonished to see me? Had you no idea I—might perhaps come after all? Madelene, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t think you’d be so vexed.”

For Miss St Quentin’s face was growing very stern. She had caught sight of and identified the white tulle frock by this time.

“I cannot say anything till I understand the whole,” she began. “It is your place to tell me.”

Just then steps were heard approaching. Ella started.

“It is the man I am dancing with—he went to fetch me an ice,” she said hurriedly. “I don’t want him to see me being scolded,” and her voice sounded as if she were going to cry.

Madelene hated scenes, and still more did she hate any exposure to strangers of family affairs. She instantly drew back.

“I shall take care that your partner does not see me,” she said. “But I shall look out for you in the tea-room after this dance. Ermine will be there too.”

There was no time for Ella to reply. Miss St Quentin had no difficulty in concealing herself. She just stepped quietly behind a clump of high and thick-growing plants in the corner, where the light was not strong, and her dress being black, no one would have noticed her unless they had been directly looking for her.

A moment after, she heard a voice addressing her sister.

“Here is the ice—at least it is a cup of iced coffee. Will that do as well, Miss Wyn—?”

It seemed to Madelene that the new-comer rather slurred over the name; it was the case that he did so, for he had heard it but indistinctly, and Ella, in no hurry to be revealed to her sisters, had not cared to set the mystification right. But—Madelene scarcely noticed what he said, in her surprise at recognising Ella’s partner as her cousin Philip! For a moment or two, she could not understand it. Then again she gradually recollected that it was perfectly possible he did not know Ella—he had never seen her; he had probably been introduced to her by some one who had no idea who she really was. Madelene had already seen and talked to Philip, who had hastened his return from the north in order to be present at the Belvoirs’ dance. He was to spend the night with his present hosts and “surprise” his grandmother by appearing at Cheynesacre in the course of the following afternoon, some days sooner than she was expecting him. For neither he nor his cousins had the slightest, the very slightest, notion that such a move on the old lady’s part as she had executed with Ella in her train was possible.

“Thank you, thank you very much. Yes of course it will do—much better than a regular ice, for I can drink it off in a moment, and I do so want to lose no more of this lovely waltz,” Madelene next heard her sister reply.

“She is eager to get out of my way,” she thought, “and what wonder? But I am not going to make a scene, you need not be afraid, Ella. Philip evidently does not know her. It must all be told him afterwards. How disgraceful it seems! And just when we wanted her to have made a good impression on him—he will be utterly horrified. Oh! I wish I could see Ermine.”

The voices had ceased. Ella and her partner had left the conservatory. Madelene made her way to the entrance and then, glancing round to make sure they were not standing about anywhere close at hand, hurriedly crossed the ball-room to the room where Ermine was to meet her.

She was already there, eagerly looking out for Madelene, whom she at once drew into a corner.

“Madelene,” she began, but Miss St Quentin for once was so excited that she interrupted her.

“Ermine,” she said, “it is she—Ella. I have seen her and spoken to her. I never in all my life was so—”

“Wait, Madelene—do let me speak. Of course it is Ella, but it is all right. She came with Aunt Anna. There is nothing to be vexed about. Aunt Anna took it all upon herself. She persuaded papa to let the poor child come. Really, Maddie,” seeing that no change of expression lighted up her elder sister’s face, “I don’t understand you some times. I thought you would have been quite delighted. You did want her to come.”

But Miss St Quentin’s equanimity had been too thoroughly disturbed for her to recover it quickly. She was, at the bottom of her heart, more seriously vexed with herself than with any one else, vexed with her own hasty and, as she now saw, absurd idea that Ella would have ventured on such an escapade as to follow them by herself. And to one of Madelene’s temperament, mortification is peculiarly bitter. For the moment she yielded to her irritation and allowed herself the questionable relief of venting it on others.

“Of course I wanted her to come if the thing had been properly arranged. Papa should have consented when we asked him, or else, it seems to me, kept to his decision. Aunt Anna went to Coombesthorpe, I suppose, and found Ella weeping like a poor little martyr at having been left alone. And her entreaties and Ella’s tears prevailed where my downrightness failed, it seems,” she said cynically.

Ermine looked at her in surprise.

“Well, and what if they did?” she said. “You are not going to begin feeling jealous of Aunt Anna’s influence with papa—that would be too absurd. And as for Ella’s tears—wait at least till we know that she shed any. But, Maddie—I’ve seen Aunt Anna, and it is so absurd. Philip and Ella are dancing together—have been, at least, and neither knows who the other is! Isn’t it fun? Aunt Anna has quite entered into the spirit of it, and she says we are to try to keep it up, and not let either of them speak to her or to us when the other is by. Ella is engaged for every dance—people are all smitten by her, but aunt is going soon, so it won’t be difficult.”

“I don’t see any point in it,” said Madelene, coldly.

“Don’t you! Oh I think it’s Capital—the very thing we thought of at the beginning,” and here, though there was no one to catch her words, Ermine dropped her voice,—“if—if they were to take a fancy to each other, Maddie, it would be such a good thing, such a comfort to papa, too.”

Madelene’s face softened.

“I am afraid Ella is too superficial, if not heartless—” she said, though with reluctance. “For all Philip’s careless manner, he has really deep feelings. He would be miserable with a frivolous wife.”

“Maddie, you are prejudiced. I don’t think you have any right to think Ella shallow—her deeper feelings may not have been awakened yet, but that is a different matter,” said Ermine. “I think it would be delightful.”

“It certainly would cut the knot of several difficulties,” Madelene allowed.

“And they are far more likely to be attracted to each other, meeting as strangers,” said Ermine. “It is as good as a play! Philip is prejudiced against Ella—he fancies she is a worry to us, and she would have found this out at once, she is so quick! Oh, I think it is too lucky that they should have met like this.” Ermine looked quite ready in her enthusiasm to clap her hands—Madelene could not resist the infection. She smiled at her sister.

“My dear child,” she said, “I had no idea you were such a matchmaker. What would Aunt Anna say to it?”

“Aunt Anna knows what she is about. Don’t trouble about her,” said Ermine. “But we must not be seen whispering together like this. I want to get hold of Major Frost, to prevent his finding anything out, and spoiling it all.”

Miss St Quentin sat still for a moment or two after her sister had left her.

“If I could feel sure that Ella has any real character, real depth,” she thought. “It would certainly be very nice—if her future were assured it might, indirectly, make many things easier. It would surely make papa less morbid.”

And Madelene sighed a little as for once she allowed her imagination to glance backwards on what might have been had cares and responsibilities fallen less prematurely upon her.

Ella meanwhile, but for her disagreeable interview with her eldest sister, had been enjoying herself to the top of her bent. She had not been long of discovering that she was sailing under false colours, as more than one of her partners, imagining he had heard her name correctly, addressed her distinctly as “Miss Wyndham.” And she did not set the mistake right. She would enjoy herself for this one evening, she decided, and Madelene’s unpleasant strictures might be reserved till afterwards.

“I will keep out of their way,” she said to herself, “for if all these men knew I was their sister they would begin cross-questioning me, and it would all seem queer. And godmother won’t mind if from time to time I let her know I’m all right. She wants me to have as much dancing as I can—we shall be leaving so early.”

It all turned out more easy of execution than she could have expected. After her first half-apologetic whisper to Lady Cheynes, at the end of her dance with Major Frost, of “Godmother, I’m so happy, but need I come back to you every time? The dances follow so quickly,” had been met with an indulgent smile, and the words, “No, no, my dear—amuse yourself as much as you can, but remember we must leave at twelve,” she felt quite at ease on that point, and somehow she did not again catch sight of Lady Cheynes at all. And with her partners she took care to keep to generalities, nor was it difficult to do so, seeing that socially speaking she was really a stranger in the neighbourhood.

She danced twice in succession with Sir Philip, the second time immediately following the passage of arms with Madelene in the conservatory. She had not the faintest idea who he was, but she thought him by far the most agreeable of her partners. And he, attracted at first sight by her beauty, was still more captivated by her pretty, half-childish bearing and the little air of mystery about her, which he was quick enough to detect.

“You will give me another dance, I hope?” he said; “though indeed it is perhaps hardly fair of me to ask it, when so many less fortunate than I have been already, must be refused.”

“But you were one of the first to ask me,” she said simply, “you, and Mr—Mr something Belvoir, a son of the house, and a Sir Philip somebody, and Major—Major Frost. You are not Major Frost, are you?” she added quickly, with a slight tone of inquiry.

Philip smiled. He was not going to be trotted out by this charming little person, who knew so well how to keep her own secrets.

“Mr Louis Belvoir, you mean,” he said, calmly ignoring the latter part of her speech. “Ah, yes, there he comes. You are dancing with him? And what about another waltz?”

“It must be soon, then,” she said, “for I am leaving early; at twelve, not a moment later, my god—my chaperone said.”

“What a very strict chaperone she must be,” said Sir Philip, smiling. “It sounds quite like a certain old fairy-story. I wish I could be dancing with you when the clock strikes, to see what would happen.”

To his surprise the girl did not laugh, or even smile. She looked up at him with a curious expression.

“I don’t think I like that story,” she said. “I have never liked it since I was a baby. And yet—somehow—it seems always coming up,” she added in a lower voice.

Philip’s curiosity increased.

“You don’t mean to say,” he said laughingly, “that if I call upon you to-morrow morning I shall find you scrubbing the kitchen pots and pans?”

Ella’s face crimsoned.

“You can’t call upon me,” she retorted sharply; “you don’t know where I live nor anything about me.”

“Except your name—Miss Wyndham,” he repeated, slightly accentuating the last two words.

The girl turned quickly, as just at that moment Mr Louis Belvoir’s voice was heard.

“Our dance, Miss Winton, I think,” he said.

“And I may claim the next but one then, I hope?” Sir Philip hastened to add.

Ella nodded “yes,” as she went off on Louis Belvoir’s arm.

“Who can she be?” thought Sir Philip, as he stood there, looking after them, rather bewilderedly. “She is quite wonderfully pretty, and—what is it? Charming is such a stupid word. She is too simple and naïve to be called charming; her eyes are so honest, too. What or who is it she reminds me of I wonder? No one seems to know. And how odd she was when I alluded to ‘Cinderella.’”

He did not dance the next dance but hung about till he could claim “Miss Wyndham” for the promised waltz, and as he kept her and young Belvoir in view, he had no difficulty in finding her when the time came.

“This is my last dance,” she said, after a turn or two. “Mr Belvoir has just told me the time.”

“And is your chaperone quite inexorable? Would there be no use in trying to melt her—suppose we do?” suggested Philip eagerly.

Ella shook her head.

“No,” she said with a little sigh. “I promised not even to ask her. But oh, I have enjoyed myself so much,” and again came the little sigh.

Sir Philip’s eyes expressed the sympathy he felt, but he dared not venture on any more questions.

“I may meet you at some other dance before long, I hope?” was the utmost he risked.

“It is not likely,” she replied. “I am no—” and she hesitated.

“Not remaining long in this part of the world?”

“No—not that. I was only going to say I am not supposed to be out,” she said with evident reluctance.

“And yet she is visiting in some house in the neighbourhood evidently without any of her own family,” thought Philip, more and more intrigué, and in his own mind he was considering what observation leading to further revelations he might hazard when he was startled by a sudden move on his partner’s side.

“I must go now; please don’t think me rude,” she exclaimed hurriedly, and before he had time fully to take in the sense of her words she had gone.

“I will find out where and with whom she is staying,” he said to himself, starting forward to follow her, when a hand was laid on his arm, and turning, he saw his cousin Ermine.

“Where have you been hiding yourself all this time?” she said smiling. “Are you not going to ask me to dance to-night?”

“Of course, of course, if you care to,” Philip replied. But his manner was confused and hurried. It was evident he did not want to be detained. “I’ll be back in two minutes, Ermine,” he said, “but excuse me for an instant. Some friends of mine are just leaving, and I want—I just have a word to say to them before they go.”

“But I must speak to you for a moment,” said Ermine persistently. “Did you not know your grandmother has been here?”

“My grandmother!” ejaculated Sir Philip, so astonished as to forget for an instant his determination to discover some particulars about the mysterious Miss Wyndham, and if possible obtain a glimpse of the chaperone she had alluded to.

“Yes, of course. Aunt Anna—Lady Cheynes. Why do you look so incredulous?” Ermine went on.

“It seems so queer. What in the world put such a thing in her head, and why wasn’t I told? She will be very vexed at my not having gone near her,” he said with considerable annoyance in his tone.

“Not at all. She had not in the least expected to find you here. She had no reason to do so—you know you meant to give her a surprise by walking in to-morrow morning. She told me to tell you she knew you were dancing and she didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“All the same, I wish I had known,” Sir Philip persisted. “I can’t get over the idea of her having been here and my not knowing.”

“She didn’t stay long,” said his cousin. “She was sitting in the small drawing-room all the time, and I assure you she wasn’t in the least, not the very least, vexed at not seeing you. She’s expecting you home to-morrow.”

“It was such an odd fancy of hers to come,” Philip repeated. “Why—it’s years since I knew her go to anything of the kind. Are you sure she’s gone, Ermie? May she not be still in the cloak-room, perhaps?”

“No, I’m sure she’s gone. I wish you’d believe what I say,” said Ermine, looking slightly irritated by his pertinacity.

“Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right. But I shall be too late for the other friend I wanted to say good-night to. Excuse me, Ermie—I’ll be back in two minutes,” and before his cousin could think of any further excuse for detaining him he was gone.

“It will be too provoking,” thought she, “if he goes running against them just as they’re leaving. I wonder who it is he wants to say good-bye to.” Philip hastened as fast as he could to the hall—a sharp rush of cold air told that the door was open, and as he got up to it the sound of wheels announced that some one had just driven away.

“Whose carriage was that?” he inquired of one of the servants standing about. The man was a stranger and did not recognise him.

“Lady Cheynes’s,” he replied. “It was the Cheynesacre carriage, sir.”

With a muttered exclamation of annoyance Philip drew back. He glanced into the cloak-room as he passed—it was quite deserted, no one else seemed to be taking their departure just then. He strolled forward again towards the door, and pushing it open, stepped out on to the drive. Yes, it was a very cold night, much too cold for keeping horses waiting, in consequence of which, no doubt, no horses or carriages were to be seen.

“She must have gone,” thought the young man. “But who in the world is she, and whom can she have come with? Louis Belvoir knows no more than I do, and I don’t want to make myself conspicuous by asking any one else.”

He turned back, but just as he was stepping inside the porch, something glistening on the ground caught his eye.

“By Jove!” Philip ejaculated, “can it be one of my lady’s diamond pins? What a joke it would be—for she always maintains that she never loses anything.”

He stooped as he spoke to pick it up, but the object that met his hand was not at all what he had expected. The sparkle which had attracted him was that of diamonds of a kind, certainly, but the jewel was attached to something else, much more ponderous, though small and dainty enough for what it was—a shoe!

It had lain in the shadow, all of it except the front, on which the old paste buckle had glittered in the moonlight—it had once been a slipper of gleaming white satin, but time had slightly dimmed its brightness. Sir Philip took it into the light of the lamp—there was no servant about just then—and examined it curiously. Gradually a smile broke over his features.

“Ah,” he thought, “my allusion to Cinderella this evening seems to have been prophetic. I shall pocket this treasure. It is Miss Wyndham’s, I know, I remember noticing the buckles when she was dancing, and the rather old-world look of the slippers. Upon my word, it is like a fairy-tale. The shoes must have been too big for her.”

He was quiet and rather absent when he returned to his cousin Ermine, but had evidently got over his annoyance.

“You were in time then to say good-night to your friends, I hope?” asked Ermine with some curiosity.

“No—at least, not exactly,” he replied. “But it doesn’t matter.”

Chapter Eleven.

After the Ball.

“Good-night, and good-bye for the present, though I shall be coming over to Coombesthorpe in a day or two. I am going home very early to-morrow morning, before any of you good people will be stirring,” said Sir Philip to his cousins, when, all the guests save those staying in the house having departed, these last were dispersing for the night.

“You’re in a fidget about Aunt Anna,” said Ermine. “I can see it, Phil—you should have more trust in my assurances.”

“I have—unlimited; still I shall be more comfortable when I have seen her, I confess,” he said.

“Well, come over as soon as you can,” said Madelene. “You know,” she went on, “you haven’t forgotten that our sister—Ella—is with us?”

There was a tone of constraint in her voice which Sir Philip perceived at once.

“Poor Maddie,” he thought, “she is too good to say so, but I can see—I feel sure—that that child is a great torment to her.” And “No indeed,” he went on, “worse luck. I have not forgotten that fact.”

“Phil!” Ermine exclaimed, but there was a mischievous look in her eyes which would have puzzled her cousin had he seen it clearly.

“You should not be prejudiced, Philip,” said Madelene gravely.

“But I am, and I can’t help it,” he retorted.

“At least you must own to some curiosity on the subject,” said Ermine. “You will come over soon?”

“Of course. I want to hear and ask scores of things,” he replied. “No, I am not curious at all, except so far as your comfort is concerned. Have you found it possible to carry out my suggestion and keep her in the schoolroom in the meantime?”

“Better still,” said Ermine, her eyes dancing unmistakably. “We have for the present relegated her to the nursery.”

She dropped her voice somewhat, and glanced round her as if anxious not to be overheard. Philip raised his eyebrows in surprise, but a look of relief overspread his countenance at the same time.

“Oh, come,” he said, “that’s almost too good to be true! What a phenomenon she must be—I am really beginning to feel curious. But I mustn’t keep you chattering here any longer. They’ll all be wondering what secrets we’ve got.”

He was true to his word. The next morning, clear, cold and frosty, saw him betimes on his way to Cheynesacre. He had taken it into his head to walk over, leaving word that he would send for his luggage in the course of the day, and in a modified degree carry out his original intention of “surprising” his grandmother, by marching in upon her at her solitary breakfast. For notwithstanding her unwonted dissipation of the night before he felt pretty confident of finding Lady Cheynes at her usual place at table at her usual hour of ten.

Nor was he disappointed. He had the satisfaction in the first place of considerably startling the “Barnes” of the Cheynesacre establishment, and leaving him aghast in the hall, walked coolly on into the dining-room.

A bright fire was blazing on the hearth, the kettle was singing, the round table with its snowy cloth was spread ready for breakfast, and at it, reading her letters as usual, sat Lady Cheynes.

“Granny,” said Philip in the doorway.

The old lady started.

“My boy,” she exclaimed, “you must have got up in the middle of the night, or perhaps you haven’t been to bed at all, after your gay doings.”

“It strikes me, granny, that my gay doings are nothing to yours. I’m glad to see you looking just like yourself, but it really was too bad of you not to let me know in time last night that you were there.”

He stooped to kiss Lady Cheynes as he spoke; she looked up with a smile.

“You were enjoying yourself; I didn’t want to interrupt you. It was a sudden thought of mine; I did not stay long,” the old lady replied, speaking less deliberately than her wont.

“I can’t conceive what put it in your head to go at all,” he said, as he seated himself. “I’m tremendously hungry, granny. I walked over, and I must send Symes for my luggage. I meant to have given you a surprise; you didn’t expect me till next week, did you?”

“No, of course not. I’m not very fond of surprises as a rule, but still, as it has happened I’m glad you’re here. It seems a shame to begin working you the moment you arrive, but will you go over to Weevilscoombe this morning for me to speak to Mr Brander about Layton’s lease? It will save me from writing a letter which after all would probably not have made things clear.”

Sir Philip tapped his boots with his cane reflectively.

“This morning?” he said. “I suppose to-morrow wouldn’t do? I want to go over to Coombesthorpe to-day if I can.”

“I am afraid to-morrow would not do,” said his grandmother. “I should like you to be at Mr Brander’s by twelve. I am going over to Coombesthorpe myself, so I can tell them you will be there to-morrow. Indeed I don’t think Maddie and Ermine will be home till this evening. I am going to see their father, who has been seriously ill.”

“And that child—I’m delighted to hear she is such a child still,” said Philip. “I suppose you look after her when the girls are away.”

“Yes,” said Lady Cheynes, dryly. “I do. But who told you she was ‘such a child’?”

“Ermine. She said that not the schoolroom even, but the nursery was Ella’s proper place,” replied Philip, honestly believing that he was literally repeating Ermine’s words.

“Indeed!” said Lady Cheynes slightly raising her eyebrows.

Then the bell was rung and Sir Philip’s dog-cart ordered to be round in half an hour.

“In the meantime,” said his grandmother, “if you will come to the study, I will explain to you the points which I wish Brander clearly to understand.” Philip sauntered to the study.

“Granny is even more than commonly energetic,” he said to himself, as he stood at the window gazing out at the wintry landscape while he waited for her. “However—I wonder if by any chance she knows anything about that lovely little personage last night! She has such quick eyes, I expect she noticed her—she could hardly have failed to do so. I expect the small princess is in trouble about her shoe this morning! It looks like a family heirloom.”

He drew it out of his pocket and looked at it—yes, by daylight it seemed even quainter. The satin was a rich creamy yellow, and the buckle was of curiously antique form.

“Granny could tell the date to a year,” he thought to himself. All the same, he slipped the shoe back to its hiding place pretty sharply when he heard the door handle turn and his grandmother enter the room.

He would have been rather astonished had he overheard the directions she had just been giving to her trusty Jones.

“I don’t wish Miss Ella to know of Sir Philip’s return,” she said. “Take her her breakfast when she wakes—I told her to ring for it—and tell her that the carriage will be round as soon as she is dressed. I am going to drive back to Coombesthorpe with her, myself.”

Then the old lady rejoined her grandson in the study and kept him immersed in her instructions to Mr Brander, till his dog-cart was announced.

“You will probably stay to luncheon with him,” she said. “You may as well, for you would not find me at home. I am going to lunch at Coombesthorpe.”

“Then tell them,” Sir Philip began,—“oh no, by the by, you will not see the girls?”

“Perhaps I shall—I may wait till they return.”

“Tell them I shall be over to-morrow, then. They were looking very well last night, didn’t you think so? Ermine especially, Madelene looked rather solemn—does that child worry her much, do you think, Granny?”

“If she does, it is Maddie’s own fault,” Lady Cheynes replied sharply. “At least hers to some extent, and perhaps partly her father’s. I find Ella as reasonable as one could wish. I’m sure when she is alone with me—” but here she suddenly checked herself.

“Is she ever alone with you? Do you have her here? Upon my word, Granny, it’s most self-sacrificing of you. But—you’re not going to have her here any more, I hope, not now I’ve come back?”

“How unselfish you are!” said his grandmother, with a smile, however, that somewhat belied the satire of her words. “She is my god-daughter; I have duties and responsibilities with regard to her.”

Philip murmured something inaudible. But Lady Cheynes took no notice.

“You shouldn’t keep the horse waiting, Phil,” she said. “It is bitingly cold.”

“Good-bye then, till—dinner-time, I suppose?” he said as he went off.

He felt slightly dissatisfied. “Granny” had not seemed as pleased to see him as she usually was after an absence; she had asked him nothing about matters at Grimswell, where he had really been working hard, and “going into things,”—the rectifying of abuses, the setting a-foot new benevolent schemes, and so on—with fervour and energy which he had scarcely known he possessed. He could and would of course talk it all over with Granny when he got her to himself, that very evening probably, but still—no, she had not been quite herself that morning, she was “carried” and constrained. Perhaps there were troubles at Coombesthorpe which he had not heard of; his grandmother had spoken rather snappishly of Madelene.

“I do believe it’s all that child,” was the conclusion at which the young man finally arrived. “I must get it all out of Granny and help to smooth things a little if I can. I wonder,”—was his next thought—“I wonder if Maddie noticed that girl or knew who she was.”

He found the lawyer at home, but somewhat surprised to see him. Sir Philip explained to him his unexpected return. Mr Brander, who had known him from his infancy, pricked up his ears at the prospect of a little local gossip.

“So you were in time for the Manor dance, Sir Philip. A very successful affair I hear. My nephew,”—Mr Brander had a brother who ranked among the small squirearchy—“my nephew looked in this morning on his way home; he slept at his sister’s—and he was full of it. He was telling me all the details. I was delighted to hear that Lady Cheynes chaperoned her nieces herself, though sorry to hear of the Colonel’s illness.”

Philip looked surprised.

“Oh no,” he said, “my cousins were staying in the house. What put it into my lady’s head to go I’m sure I don’t know, but it was not as chaperone to any one.”

“Indeed,” said his companion, “I must have misunderstood Fred then. But he was quite clear about it—said that the youngest Miss St Quentin was tremendously admired, bids fair in fact to, so to speak, outshine her sisters. Of course there is the charm of novelty in her case; she is quite a stranger in this neighbourhood.”

Philip’s brow contracted. Old Brander meant no harm, but his remarks struck the young man as slightly free. Besides—what utter nonsense he was talking!

“There is some absurd mistake,” he remarked rather stiffly. “I don’t suppose you misunderstood your nephew, but he has got hold of some nonsense. The youngest Miss St Quentin is still to all intents and purposes a child; there could have been no question of her being at the Manor last night.”

In his turn Mr Brander looked surprised.

“Fred must be more exact in his statements,” he said; “he must have mistaken some one else.”

And then as Philip proceeded to lay before him the papers and explanations with which Lady Cheynes had furnished him, the conversation took the turn of business and no more was said about Mrs Belvoir’s dance.

But a feeling of increasing mystification was left in Philip’s mind.

“I cannot understand my grandmother’s sudden freak last night,” he thought. “It is sure to make people gossip, especially if any one noticed that she and I were never together the whole evening. The next report will be that she and I have quarrelled—it would be no more absurd than that Fred Brander’s story about Ella St Quentin having been the belle of the Manor ball!”

Ella was at that moment dressing as quickly as she could, having slept till long after her usual breakfast hour and only awakened to be told that as her godmother wished to drive over to Coombesthorpe for luncheon, she had no time to spare. So her thick grey linsey frock was donned again, and the fluffy masses of white tulle, slightly “tashed,” as the Scotch say, but snowily pretty still, reconsigned by Jones’s careful hands to the tray of Ella’s large basket trunk.

“It’s very little the worse,” said the maid. “If you just get Millannie to iron it out the next time you want to wear it, Miss, it’ll be as good as ever. It is Millannie to do it, I suppose? You haven’t a maid of your own yet.”

“No indeed,” Ella replied. “Hester looks after me a little, and Stevens, the second housemaid, mends my things. Mélanie never does a thing for me; she’s always busy for my sisters.”

“Never mind, Miss. It’ll be different when you come to be counted quite a grown-up young lady, which will be soon now, you’ll see. And you did enjoy yourself last night?”

“Oh indeed I did. It was—heavenly,” said Ella with fervour. “And I do thank you so much for getting my frock ready so beautifully, Jones. Now I must run off, I suppose.”

There was only one thing on her mind as she flew down stairs to her godmother, but it was rather a big thing! A most extraordinary accident had befallen her on leaving the Manor the night before. She had lost a shoe! One of the shoes. Clarice’s shoes—which Lady Cheynes had kept enveloped in silver paper for more years than twice Ella’s whole life could count, and only with much thought and hesitation had confided to her little god-daughter for one evening. It was really dreadful. Yet Ella could scarcely take blame to herself.

“They were much too big—especially that left foot one,” she said to herself. “I shall always think myself wonderfully clever for keeping them on while I was dancing. And the buckles are not real. I am glad of it, though I am afraid godmother will mind quite as much as if they were.”

Should she tell of the loss at once? She hesitated. She was not cowardly, but she was very reluctant to cause pain to the old lady, and it was perhaps needless to do so, as there seemed every probability that the slipper would be found. If her godmother did not ask about them, Ella decided that she would not speak of the shoes, and as soon as possible she would find some way of making inquiry at the Manor.

“If Madelene and Ermine are not cross about my having been there,” she thought, “I’ll get them to help me. They can’t blame me when I tell them exactly how it happened—it must have been just as I was getting into the carriage. I remember one of the horses started a little and godmother told me to be quick.”

Lady Cheynes seemed to have forgotten all about the precious loan. She was in a fidget to be off, congratulating herself on her cleverness in having prevented her grandson and god-daughter meeting, or indeed having any suspicion of each other’s vicinity. For she had entered into the spirit of the mystification thoroughly, as Ermine had said, and quite agreed with her that it would be most amusing to witness Sir Philip’s astonishment when he should be presented to the little lady, of whom he had so mistaken an idea.

“Don’t let them meet, if you can possibly help it, auntie, till Phil comes over to us,” Ermine had said, to which Lady Cheynes had agreed.

“He is very prejudiced against her, I warn you,” she had added. “I doubt if he would ever have let himself even admire her if they had met first in an ordinary way.”

“That’s just why,” Ermine replied enigmatically, but Lady Cheynes asked for no explanation.

Not much was said during the drive to Ella’s home. The girl was still a little sleepy, and rather nervous too when she thought of the shoe. And her godmother seemed pre-occupied and slightly absent. Only once just before they reached the Coombesthorpe lodge, she turned somewhat abruptly to Ella.

“Then you did enjoy last night, my dear? It was worth the trouble?”

“Godmother,” said Ella earnestly, “I enjoyed myself, tremendously. I shall always thank you for having taken me, always, more than I can say,” and she held up her pretty face for a kiss. “I do hope,” she added after a moment’s silence, “I do hope Madelene will not be vexed about it. She surely won’t be when she hears how it all was.”

Lady Cheynes caught her up sharply.

“Madelene vexed,” she said. “My dear child what are you saying? Why, how can you imagine Madelene would be vexed?—she will have been delighted. And even supposing she had any such feeling, which is impossible—really impossible, she knows her duty, the respect she owes to her father, and I may say, to myself, far too well to resent anything we approve.” Ella did not venture to say anything in disagreement, but in her heart she began to do her elder sister greater injustice than ever heretofore: she began to doubt her sincerity.

Colonel St Quentin was better, was the news Barnes met them with, and when the ladies’ arrival had been announced to him, he sent word that he would join Lady Cheynes in the library in five minutes.

“You need not stay with me, my dear Ella,” said her godmother, “your father and I will entertain each other till luncheon is ready and you may like to get your things unpacked.”

Ella never resented anything from her godmother, and set off to her own room quite contentedly. A bright fire was burning in “the nursery” to welcome her, and faithful Hester, on the pretext of unpacking, was waiting eagerly to hear the young lady’s adventures.

“Oh, how jolly of you to have a fire, you dear old thing,” was Ella’s greeting. “Dear me, how strange it seems to be back again! Hester, open my box quick and let me have a peep at my frock before you put it away. I want to feel sure it wasn’t all a dream.”

“Then you enjoyed yourself, Miss Ella? Indeed, I can see you did,” said the old woman, as she carefully shook out the “bovillonnés” which had so exercised Mrs Jones’s mind. “Your dress isn’t—not to say spoilt, at all. It’ll look as good as new for the next time.”

“Next time indeed!” sighed Ella, “and when will that be, I wonder? There was a gentleman there last night, do you know, Hester, that said I reminded him of Cinderella? But Cinderella was luckier than I—she went to three balls, one after the other, and—”

But Hester interrupted her. She was peering anxiously into the trunk.

“Miss Ella,” she said, “I can’t see the fellow to this slipper nowhere. They’re not your own, are they? At least I don’t remember packing them up.”

Ella’s face grew grave.

“Oh dear,” she exclaimed, “I had forgotten about it. I don’t know what to do,” and the story was related to Hester.

“You must tell Miss Madelene—Miss St Quentin, about it, as soon as ever she comes home, and I daresay she’ll send to inquire at the Manor. Dear—dear—it would be a pity if it were lost.”

And the talking about it put other things out of the girl’s head, otherwise she might not improbably have gone on to tell Hester more details about the ball and the unknown who had compared her to the old fairy-tale heroine.

But the luncheon-bell interrupted her gossip with Hester. Ella found her father already in the dining-room with Lady Cheynes.

“I’m so glad you’re better, papa,” she said, as she went up to kiss him, her sweet face bright and eager.

“Yes, my dear. I’m glad of it myself. And you—why, Aunt Anna, she looks like a robin-redbreast—as brisk and fresh as can be! Not at all as if she had been dancing till I don’t know what o’clock.”

“Gaiety suits her apparently,” said Lady Cheynes smiling. She was delighted to see the beginning of a better understanding between the father and child,—“and she was a very good girl, Marcus; I must do justice to her. She stopped dancing,—though she owned that her partner was most attractive—resolutely, when the time came for us to leave, and neither by word or look hinted at wishing to stay longer.”

“That’s right,” said Ella’s father approvingly. “And what news of Philip, aunt? Will he be turning up soon?”

“I expect to find him at Cheynesacre when I get back there this afternoon,” said the old lady.

Colonel St Quentin brightened up still more.

“Indeed! I am very glad to hear it. We must try to have a cheerful Christmas—Ella’s first among us too—” Ella smiled with gratification—“Madelene and Ermie will be delighted to hear Philip is back. You will be able to wait to see them this afternoon?”

Lady Cheynes hesitated.

“I fear not,” she said, “the days are so very short now.”

“And Phil arriving. Ah well—tell him to come over soon.”

Ella left her father and his aunt to themselves again after luncheon, but apparently they had not much more to say to each other, for she was soon sent for to bid Lady Cheynes good-bye.

“And be a sensible child, my dear,” were her godmother’s parting words, “don’t begin fancying nonsense about Madelene. Let her and Ermine see your father by himself when they come in this afternoon and he will tell them all about it.”

“Thank you, dear godmother,” said Ella.

She seemed almost to cling to the old lady as if reluctant to let her go.

“Poor child,” thought Lady Cheynes as she drove off, “yes—there is much good in her. She is very sweet and may certainly be led, even though not driven. If only they don’t all get at cross-purposes—I fear Maddie is right—it was a mistake to separate her from them all.”

It was nearly dark when the Coombesthorpe carriage, which had been sent to the Manor to fetch the two sisters, drove up to their own door. Ella who had spent the afternoon in restless Sittings about the house, unable to settle to anything and anticipating half nervously the meeting with Madelene and Ermine, was in the hall to receive them.

“Will you go to papa?” she said gently. “He is anxious to see you—he is a good deal better. I shall have tea ready for you in the library in a quarter of an hour, if that will do.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Madelene, and “That will do beautifully,” Ermine replied more heartily.

Ella’s heart sank. She had honestly meant and wished to do her best.

“Madelene is not going to be nice to me,” she reflected.

The truth was that Miss St Quentin was feeling both anxious and bewildered.

“Ermine,” she said, pausing at the door of her father’s room, “are you going to tell papa about Philip’s having been there last night?”

“No, I don’t suppose there will be any approach to the subject. If Aunt Anna has chosen to keep up the little mystification till to-morrow, it would be rather impertinent for us to interfere. And Madelene, you are not to begin blaming yourself to papa for having, as you say you did, spoken crossly to Ella last night. It will just worry him and make mischief. Just let him see, as I shall, that we were both heartily pleased for her to have the pleasure.”

Madelene sighed.

“I don’t feel—” she began.

“Oh well, if you want to do penance, apologise to Ella. She looks very meek and mild—I fancy she is in a mood of good resolutions, and for any sake don’t let Phil find us all at loggerheads.”

Chapter Twelve.

Smuts.

The interview with her father turned out satisfactorily for Madelene. Each was suffering from inward consciousness of having acted to some extent unreasonably, and each felt a kind of unexpressed relief at not being brought to task. Colonel St Quentin’s manner and tone were plainly deprecatory of blame.

“You must not think me weak and foolish for having given in to your aunt, when I had stood out so—well, I suppose I must say—obstinately with you and Ermine,” he said with a slight smile.

“Ermine and I were only too delighted for Ella to have the pleasure of it,” Madelene replied.

“I knew that—I was assured of that,” said her father, and then the subject was allowed to drop.

Ella was looking very demure in her grey linsey-woolsey, waiting beside the tea-table in the library, when the two others joined her. A smile which she could not altogether repress, crossed Ermine’s face as the contrast between her little sister’s present “get-up” and that in which she had last seen her, crossed her mind.

“Oh, well, I’m not sorry to be home again,” she said aloud. “What do you think, Ella? Would you like to have yesterday night over again?”

Ella looked up with a half doubtful questioning in her sweet eyes. Was Ermine chaffing her, or was this veiled sarcasm, or what? But before she had time to form any judgment on the matter, to her surprise Madelene interposed.

“Ella,” she said—she was standing near the fireplace, and her tall figure in its dark winter garb looked very imposing, though her face, had Ella seen it clearly, was gentle and almost touching in its expression—“Ella, my dear,” she said, “I want to say to you now, at once, that I am very sorry I so misjudged you last night, blaming you when you did not deserve it—when indeed you could not have deserved it; for a moment’s reflection might have shown me you could not have come to the Manor unknown to or unapproved of by papa. But I was so astonished that for once, I suppose I lost my head. Will you forget about it, and believe that I am very happy you had the pleasure?”

“Of course,” said Ella. “I often am hasty myself—I never dislike any one for being a little cross,” she went on, smiling. “I’m very glad you liked me to be there. Papa was very kind about it,” she added, unable to repress a little hit at her sister, “he agreed to my going at once when my godmother proposed it.”

Madelene’s face grew cold again.

“Why could you not stop at the right place, you foolish child?” thought Ermine. But she kept her thoughts to herself—a glance at Madelene had told her that it was best so.

Outwardly, however, things seemed most prosperously smooth.

“Your frock looked lovely, Ella,” said Ermine. “Mélanie will be quite jealous of Jones.”

“And it is really not spoilt at all,” said Ella, eagerly. “But oh, Madelene, that reminds me—I had such a misfortune.”

Miss St Quentin looked up anxiously. To her nature any appeal for sympathy always brought healing on its wings.

“What?” she said, expecting to hear of some trifling accident. Her face expressed real concern when she heard the particulars of the lost shoe.

“We must certainly try to get it back,” she said. “It is pretty sure to have been picked up. Only if any dishonest servant has got hold of it, the buckle would be a temptation; an ignorant person would so easily mistake the paste for diamonds—I will write to Mrs Belvoir to-morrow, Ella—it is too late to-night—and send over a man expressly.”

“Thank you,” said Ella. “But,” she went on, “will she understand? Did she know I was your sister, as I didn’t come with you?”

“Of course,” said Madelene haughtily. “You don’t suppose Ermine and I would have given any cause for gossip. We took care to speak quite naturally the next morning about Aunt Anna having brought you over for a little—it was all Louis Belvoir, who Mistook your name at the first.”

“Oh yes, I see,” said Ella. She seemed on the point of saying more, but her courage failed her.

“I wonder if they know who the man was that I danced that last waltz with,” she said to herself.

Ermine seemed to play into her hands.

“How did you like young Belvoir, by the by, Ella?” she inquired. “He dances well, doesn’t he? What other men did you dance with?”

But Ella was not going to be trotted out, especially not before Madelene, whose eyes, she fancied, and perhaps not without reason, were fixed on her scrutinisingly.

“There were several,” she replied; “I didn’t hear all their names distinctly. Yes, I thought Mr Belvoir danced well, but there were one or two others who danced quite as well.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Ermine. “No one in particular, then?”

“Major Frost was very amusing,” said Ella.

Madelene, who had finished her tea, put down her cup and turned to the door.

“We had better go up stairs and take our things off, Ermine,” she said.

“I am afraid Ella is the reverse of ingenuous,” she said when they had left the library. “We know she danced more with Philip than any one. She is a regular woman of the world in the way she can keep back what she does not choose to tell—it would be only natural for her to ask us who he was, if she really did not know.”

“Oh, Maddie, I don’t think you are fair about her,” said Ermine. “And talking of not being ingenuous—she might accuse us of it when she comes to know him. She will know we must have seen her dancing with him, if she takes the trouble to think it over, and our not mentioning his being there may strike her.”

“Well, it isn’t my doing. I hate mystifications,” said Madelene. “However as Aunt Anna is mixed up in it I suppose it will be all right. But—no, Ermine, I’m afraid Ella is not the sort of wife we should wish for Philip. And I’m afraid of letting myself wish it, lest I should really be influenced by selfish motives, for no doubt it might make things easier.”

“You’re enough to provoke a saint,” said Ermine. “However I don’t suppose either you or I will have much power to ‘make or mar’ in the matter. If it is to be, it will be—so far we haven’t meddled; we didn’t originate their meeting as they did.”

“People always take refuge in that sort of fatalism when they want to throw off responsibility,” said Madelene. “I don’t believe in fatality about marriages any more than about anything else. But I shall not interfere, I am far too uncertain of its being a good thing for Philip.”

“Maddie has had an Indian letter, and she has got a fit of extra conscientiousness in consequence,” thought Ermine. “If I were Bernard, I don’t think I’d stand it.”

And yet as she looked at her sister, and saw the gentle sadness in her eyes, and noted the increasing signs of endurance and uncomplaining patience in the delicate features, a sort of rush of tenderness came over her. No one better deserved to be happy than her own sweet Madelene, she said to herself.

The evening passed peacefully. Colonel St Quentin was pleased to have his daughters with him again, and pleased too with himself for feeling so much more cordial and affectionate than heretofore towards his youngest child. And Madelene was pleased too to see him so, for jealousy formed no part of her nature, though her exaggerated conscientiousness and self-questioning sometimes took the appearance of suspiciousness of others. Ella’s quick eyes detected her elder sister’s satisfaction at her father’s kindlier tone, and she felt puzzled by it.

“She does seem as if she wanted papa and me to get on better together, after all,” she thought, and the idea softened her own manner in turn. Besides this, she was, though she would on no account have confessed it, both tired and sleepy; the unusual excitement, more than actual fatigue had told upon her, and she was not sorry when Ermine, openly acknowledging that she was quite ready to go to bed, proposed that they should all say good-night.

“It’s quite disgraceful to be so done up after such a very mild amount of dissipation,” she said laughingly. “Philip would make great fun of us. He is coming over to-morrow, Maddie, you know.”

“Yes, papa says Aunt Anna left a message from him to tell us so,” said Madelene thoughtlessly.

Ella pricked up her ears at this.

“How could—” she began, but something in the expression of her elder sister’s face made her stop short.

“Ah,” she reflected, “Madelene said that by mistake. They didn’t want me to know that precious cousin of theirs was coming. I shall hate him for being their cousin and not mine—only he is dear godmother’s grandson, and I should like him for that. Godmother must have had a letter from him while I was there, I suppose. She might have told me of it.”

And a feeling of resentment to Lady Cheynes too, mingled with her indignation against her sisters. Her “good-night” was correspondingly cold, but they did not seem to notice it.

“I will write a note to Mrs Belvoir to-night, Ella,” said Madelene in a low voice, as they were leaving the room, “to have it ready for to-morrow morning, so that one of the grooms can take it over quite early and wait for an answer.”

“Thank you,” said Ella, and for the moment she felt really obliged. The lost slipper was weighing a good deal on her mind, and she began to think that after all she would feel rather foolish if obliged to confess to her godmother how she had lost it.

“She will certainly say I should have found it out before I got into the carriage, but I quite thought it was among the rugs—and Jones looked herself for me, this morning. I think it must have slipped off just as I stepped in and rolled out before they shut the door.”

And her dreams were haunted by the slipper. She thought Madelene came down to breakfast next morning with it tied on to her head as an ornament, and that it suddenly skipped on to the floor all of itself, and became a wonderful white satin chariot which careered round the room drawn by six cats, while on the box sat her partner in her last waltz at the Manor, shouting at the top of his voice that he was going to take a note to Mrs Belvoir first thing in the morning, and to wait for an answer. And these words “wait for an answer,” seemed to mingle themselves fantastically with all the consciousness of her sleep. Or perhaps it seemed so to her, for they were the first that fell on her ears as she began to awake next morning. The door was opening and some one just entering was speaking to another person outside.

“Yes,” said the voice—it was old Hester’s—“wait for an answer—be sure to tell him.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Ella. “What is it about waiting for an answer?”

“It’s the message for the groom, who’s going to the Manor, Miss Ella,” Hester replied. “Miss St. Quentin gave me the note last night, and I was telling Stevens. She’s so sorry for you to be uneasy about the shoe—‘taking off the pleasure of her first little treat, poor child,’ was her words to me, Miss Ella.”

“It’s very kind of her,” said Ella sleepily, with again the return upon herself as to her judgment of her sister. Suddenly a new idea struck her. “Hester,” she said, “what sort of person is Sir Philip Cheynes? Is he nice, or is he conceited and stuck-up, and—flirting, you know—that sort of a man?”

“Bless you, no, Miss Ella, not as ever I’ve heard tell. What’s put such a notion in your head? If he was stuck-up, he’d not be so to his own cousins; and he does think all the world of them, that he does. And as for being a flirting gentleman, he’d be uncommon clever to get Miss Maddie or Miss Ermie to join in such like nonsense, though by what I hear sometimes, young ladies—and young ladies who think a deal of themselves too—is not so partickler as they might be, now a days. I don’t hold with that tennis-playing, Miss Ella, and all that sort of apeing gentlemen, as seems the fashion.”

Ella laughed.

“Tennis is very dull, I think. I shouldn’t like to spend several hours a day at it,” she said.

“Sir Philip is evidently a prig of the first water,” she decided mentally. “But if so, he’s not likely to admire me, so why do they want to keep me out of his way, as I see they do? And they have got god mother to join them in it for some reason.”

Ella’s inward indignation sent her down stairs to breakfast in anything but a genial mood. And, as her moods were very apt to do, it found its expression in her outer woman.

“You do look so grim, Ella,” said Ermine. “I am so tired of that linsey-woolsey frock of yours—couldn’t you put a bit of scarlet about yourself somewhere? Even a red tucker would be an improvement.”

Madelene glanced at her younger sister as Ermine spoke.

“You might wear your sailor serge every morning now, I think, Ella,” she said. “That frock is getting shabby and it is a dingy shade. You remember we couldn’t get the grey we wanted. About Christmas time too, one likes to see people looking bright.”

Ella surveyed her garments with a half indifferent air that was rather irritating.

“I think it does very well,” she replied. “Even aunty thought two new winter frocks enough. I don’t see that it matters so long as it is warm, and indeed to tell the truth, I like this better than my Sunday frock; it is so clumsily made.”

Madelene said no more.

“Every step forward seems followed by two backwards with her,” she reflected. “Ermine had better not build any castles in the air about her and Philip—if she had the slightest suspicion that we should like such a thing, it would, I do believe, make Ella detest him.”

“I have sent over to the Manor, Ella,” she said as she rose from the breakfast-table; “the groom should be back by half-past twelve or so, as Mrs Belvoir is sure to be at home. I am sure you are feeling anxious about the poor little slipper.”

“I am,” said Ella. “Thank you, Madelene.”

And indeed it was partly distress of mind about the lost property which was making Ella indisposed this morning to take a roseate view of life.

“The weather seems really settling in for frost,” said Ermine. “After the rain it will make the roads very slippery. I hope the frost will last till after Christmas, now it has begun. I wish I could go a good long walk this morning, but I fear we mustn’t think of it—eh, Maddie?”

“No—there are arrears of things to see to even after being away only two days,” Miss St Quentin replied. “You might get Philip to take you a walk after luncheon, when I go to sit with papa.”

“And Ella too,” Ermine added. “Would you like a nice long walk, Ella? It would be a pleasant variety to have an escort for once.”

“No, thank you,” said Ella, stiffly, though in her heart she thought Ermine much kinder than her elder sister. “I don’t care for walking in the afternoon. I shall go out after I’ve finished my practising this morning.”

“Not alone, Ella?” said Madelene; “or at least if you do go alone, it will not be further than the grounds, I hope?”

“No,” said Ella, “I don’t mean to leave the grounds.”

She spoke more amiably—for this sort of authority or interference on her sister’s part did not irritate her, as it might have done some girls. She resented nothing which gave her the sensation of being considered a person of importance.

Twelve o’clock found her walking briskly down the drive which led to the principal entrance. The sharp clear air stimulated her nerves pleasantly; she felt high-spirited and almost happy. As Madelene had said truly, Coombesthorpe had a beauty of its own in every season.

“It is lovely,” thought Ella, as she looked around her, down across the gently sloping lawns to where the first murmur of water told of the stream pursuing its way, lonely now, without the merry companionship of its summer friends, the birds and gnats and butterflies; not to speak of the many quaint creatures who found their homes on its banks. “I wonder where they all go to?” she went on. “I suppose lots of them are asleep. I wish I knew more about country things. Ermine is so clever about them. I could learn all sorts of things from her if I was sure she—they—wanted to like me—”

Then her gaze passed on from the thicket concealing the brook, up again to the hills rising beyond. There was snow on the higher peaks; to be guessed at rather than seen, for a thin wintry haze made hills and clouds melt into each other. Ella shivered a little.

“Fancy living up on those hills,” she thought. “And they say there are cottages there where the people stay all the winter. The road to the Manor passes round the foot of them. I wonder how soon the groom will be back. Oh, I do hope he will bring the shoe.” She had forgotten about it for the moment; the recollection made her hasten her steps. She would ask the woman at the lodge if possibly the groom had already returned; if not, she would walk a little way down the road, which for some distance beyond these first gates remained a private one, in hopes of meeting him, for it would be easy to ask if he was bringing back a parcel or only a note.

There seemed no one stirring about the lodge when she got there, which was unusual, as the couple who lived in it were the proud possessors of two very pretty children, one or other or both of whom were generally to be seen peeping out of the doorway when any one came by.

“They seem all asleep,” thought Ella, who had long ago made great friends with the little family. “I hope they’re not ill.”

She made her way to the door as she spoke, and tapped gently, at the same time endeavouring to “lift the latch,” like Red Riding Hood of old, and let herself in. But the door resisted; it was evidently fastened inside.

Ella tapped more loudly, and almost before she finished doing so, a faint sound of weeping caught her ear, but no reply came to her knocks.

“Is any one in?” she called out, beginning to feel a little uneasy. “Willie, Hetty, who is it crying? Mrs Rose, are you there?”

A sort of movement inside, sounding like the slow, enforcedly deliberate way in which a little, short-legged child gets down from a chair, followed by a pattering of small feet across the stone floor, became audible. Then a doleful voice replied to her questions:

“I’m all aloned. I’m Hetty. I dunno who you is. Mammy’s took Willie in Master Crocker’s waggin to doctor’s. Willie’s eyes is bad. And the pot won’t budge and the dinner’s spilin.”

Then ensued a louder burst of bitter wailing.

Ella rapped again impatiently.

“Let me in then, you silly child,” she cried. “I’m Ella—Miss Ella from the hall. You know my voice, surely, Hetty. I’m not a wolf,” she added, half laughing.

Thus adjured, Hetty cautiously approached.

“Miss Ella,” she said in a tone of relief. “I’ll try to loose the door, Miss, but its drefful hard. Mother locked it outside and pushed the key in under the door. I weren’t to open it till daddy comed home, but mammy didn’t know Miss Ella’d be coming,” she added, as if half in vindication to herself of her departure from mammy’s injunctions.

“Then do the same again,” said Ella. “Push the key under the door and I’ll open it outside. Your little hands can’t turn it.”

Hetty gave a sort of grunt of satisfaction at the brilliant idea. The key was pushed through, and in another moment, Ella stood on the open threshold. Poor Hetty’s face was swollen with crying and scorched by the fire, and her first greeting to Ella was a fresh burst of tears.

“’Tis the dinner—daddy’s dinner,” she exclaimed, and sure enough a rather ominous smell of burning drew Ella’s attention to the fire. Quick as thought the girl pulled off her thick jacket, tossed aside her fur cap—for the kitchen felt very hot after the keen clear air outside—and stood for a moment investigating the formidable-looking pot, which was the cause of Hetty’s woe.

“Give me a towel or something, Hetty. I don’t want to burn myself.”

Hetty stuffed a substantial cloth into her visitor’s hands.

“And a apern, Miss, or you’ll smutty your nice gown. Here’s one of mammy’s.”

Ella took the hint and tied it on, and well for the linsey-woolsey that she did so, as it was not without various black streaks on the vicarious apron that she succeeded in safely depositing “daddy’s dinner” on the hearth-stone.

“Goodness! how heavy pots are,” she exclaimed, “and how the fire does scorch one’s face—even a little one like that. I don’t think the dinner’s much burnt, Hetty,” she went on, carefully investigating the contents of the stew-pot with the aid of an iron spoon, and sniffing them gingerly at the same time.

“Stir it about, Miss, please, so as it won’t stick to the sides,” suggested Hetty; which Ella proceeded to do, thinking to herself the while, that if all other trades failed her, that of a cook would be little to her mind.

“Now, Hetty,” she said, “I think this’ll take no harm, staying where it is. When does your father come home? It’s about his time, isn’t it?” as the clock struck the half hour to one.

“He should a’ been home before, Miss Ella, else mammy wouldn’t a’ left me and the pot aloned. But there’s a deal to do in the houses, now it’s so cold, a’ seein’ to the fires,”—her father was one of the gardeners—“and maybe Mr Meakins has kept him late. But it’s all right now, Miss, and thank you,” said six-year old Hetty, remembering for the first time to bob her courtesy. “Would you like to wash your hands, and there’s a smut on your cheek? You’ve made it worser,” as Ella involuntarily raised her hand to the indicated spot.

“Thank you, Hetty, perhaps I’d—” Ella began, when suddenly the sound of horse’s feet approaching, reminded her of her original errand at the lodge. “There’s the groom—the groom from the Manor,” she said, flying off, forgetful alike of smutty marks and “mammy’s” big apron in her eagerness, and heedless of Hetty’s assurances that she could open the gate, anxiety as to which the little maiden supposed to be the cause of the young lady’s excitement.

Ella’s ears had not misled her. A horse was waiting at the gate, but scarcely had she called out to its rider—

“You’ve been at the Manor; what message is there?” when a glance upwards told her that she had made some great mistake. It was no groom who sat there, gazing at her in speechless astonishment—it was a gentleman; so much she perceived instantaneously; but this first flash of surprise was as nothing compared with the shock of astonishment which succeeded it when in another half second her eyes told her brain what at first it refused to accept—the rider was her partner—her partner par excellence that is to say, of two nights before at Mrs Belvoir’s dance.

But if Ella was surprised, what was the effect on the new-comer of the sudden apparition of the mysterious little personage who had made so much impression on him? Was it she—“Miss Wyndham,” or was it only a case of extraordinary resemblance? Yet if not Miss Wyndham, who then? He knew the Roses at the lodge, as well as he knew himself—Mrs Rose was the only daughter of one of his own tenants, and though a comely young woman, in no way exceptionally pretty—this girl could be no sister or cousin of hers, he felt sure. Yet again his hasty glance had shown him that she was not in the ordinary attire of a lady; she was half covered by a huge and not over-clean apron, her hair was pushed off her forehead, her face was scorched-looking and a grimy streak crossed it on one side. “Miss Wyndham,” if Miss Wyndham it were, must be playing a part in a comedy, or else—could it be that the girl he had been so struck with was not a lady; that in some clever way she had inveigled herself in among the smart people at the Manor, and that this was the meaning of her strange, half mysterious, half reticent manner? A curious and by no means agreeable thrill passed through the young man as this last idea drove its predecessors out of his mind with the rapidity of lightning. Hetty meanwhile had run out and was fumbling at the gate. The sight of the child brought Philip back to matters-of-fact.

“I will open myself, Hetty,” he said, for the elder girl stood as if transfixed making no effort to help the little one. And in a moment he had dismounted and was leading his horse through the gateway.

They both stared at each other for half a second. Ella was the first to speak, though her cheeks glowed more and more as she did so. Happily she had forgotten all about the sooty mark on her cheek.