are fond of children, will you take poor Harry? Poor Esther Grey had married for love, very he is not very well, and wants to be nursed." | unwisely, as all her friends said; and, indeed, she And before Dym could answer, she found herself little knew what was before her when she acceprocking the cradle, with a sleepy boy on her lap ted the young doctor, Edward Grey. "And she who took up all her attention. might have married any one,' as one of them "I am afraid he will tire you, Miss Elliott," observed-a rich East India director, an uncle of observed his mother. Mrs. Grey had a soft monotonous voice, with a fretful chord in it like Harry's. Was this the woman that Honor liked best in Birstwith-better even than Mrs. Chichester, and good natured merry little Mrs. Trevor? Dym found herself wondering and watching her hostess between the Entervals of rocking. She was certainly an interesting looking young woman. The shape of the face was almost as fine as Honor's, and she had large sad looking brown eyes. Dym found out afterwards she ha been a great beauty; but constant ill health had faded the fresh complexion, making her look sallow and older than her age. The pretty soft hair was thin and brushed carelessly from the face, as though Esther Grey had ceased to care for her own good looks; and her dress was put on with the same negligence, the loose sleeves showed the white wasted arms pitiably, and Dym had quite shrunk from the touch of the thin hot fingers. One thing she noticed, Mrs. Grey was evidently a fond mother, for her eyes brightened when Dym praised Harry's curly hair, and commented on the beauty of the baby-another boy-and her voice lost a little of its dreary whine, as Rupert and Edgar came in with their hair nicely brushed and took their places at the table with Honor, while little Amy gathered up the remnant of the toys, and then sat quietly to work on her duster. "The children are all as good as gold, when Honor is here," whispered Mrs. Grey. "And then she teaches them so beautifully. Rupert learns twice as fast with her as he does with me; and he is such a clever boy! I am afraid I haven't the right knack of teaching. He asks me questions, and that makes me nervous. I am a sad invalid, Miss Elliott." Dym put a civil question or two, which soon brought out a whole list of ailments from the poor lady. Dym asked Miss Nethecote afterwards whether she really had all that the matter with her, and was told very gravely in answer that she feared Mrs. Grey was very delicate. Dym grew to understand her interest in her after a time, when she knew both better. VOL VII.-4 Esther's, who had just died without leaving them a penny. But she was only eighteen; and Edward Grey was good-looking and very much in love; and every thing went on as merrily as weddingbells for the first two or three years. Esther was not a very good manager, but she looked wonderfully beautiful; and Mr. Grey was disposed to be lenient, and to think that she would do better as she grew older. And doubtless this would have been the case if Esther had had a mother to advise her, or even had she known Honor sooner; but Mr. Grey had not yet begun to practice in Birst with. The close street and the small house in the smoky suburb of Leeds began to oppress the young country beauty, the children came too fast, and the little household grew more pinched and straightened every day; Esther's fresh roses paled, her spirits declined, she grew wan and anxious, then fretful; naturally sweet tempered and lymphatic, she soon ceased efforts that seemed unavailing, and before youth was past sunk into a nervous invalid. Most people pitied Mr. Grey, but in truth the fault lay on both sides. He was a clever, energetic man, indefatigable in his profession, and much loved by his patients; but as the years went on, transforming Esther from the petted wife into the harassed worn-out mother, he was a little hard on her, his comfortless home was distasteful to him, he grew weary of constant complaints and ailments; at times when he came home jaded and weary, and needing those little nameless offices which wives generally delight to offer, he would speak almost roughly to her: "If you would make some effort things would not be so shameAnd so fully neglected," he said sometimes. they grew apart. Esther was too gentle to retaliate, but her tears were the constant source of annoyance to her husband; in time she ceased to tell him of her nervous fancies, she began to suffer in silence; she never told him now what was the truth, that such efforts were beyond her. With the consciousness of failing strength there came a new, strange tenderness into her heart for the husband of her youth. "He will learn to hate me and to hate his home," she said once to Honor in the first days of their friendship; "and he used to love it so. I believe he hardly cares to look at his children, because he thinks they are so neglected; he is working himself to death for us, and yet I never dare tell him so. Last night I could hardly sleep for watching him, he looked so gray and thin." In those days Honor would preach patience and courage, she would bid Esther look her troubles boldly in the face, and rouse herself to her daily work; but of late she had ceased wholly from such advice. Instead of that she would come almost daily and take tasks on herself, to spare Esther; the mending baskets would dwindle down almost by miracle, though Grace Dunster and Phil could tell another tale. Rupert began to make progress with his lessons, and Amy at times was transformed into a neat-handed little maiden. Honor would brighten the whole household for a few hours, but of late there was always a lingering tenderness in her manner as she kissed Esther and wished her good-bye, and often as she left the house she would sigh to herself and say, "Poor girl, poor Esther !" Love begets love: a real warm affection will often grow out of mere pity and liking; we cannot help another without a strong interest springing up in our hearts for the object we have succored; the Samaritan, as he journeyed on, must often have thought of the man whose wounds he had just bound up with oil and wine. Honor soon learnt to love the woman who was leaning all her weary weight on her; she bore with her as patiently as though she were her own sister; the gentleness that failed to stir the hus band's latent love irresistibly attracted Honor; presently, in the long watches beside Esther's bed, she discerned the feeble excellences and beauties of her nature. "I never knew a purer or more loving heart," she once said to Dym; "and by-and-by he will find it out; not that I blame him," she hastily added, with that sweet charity that was natural to her; "he has the hardest life a man can have, and Esther has never been to him the wife he needed." Mr. Grey did not make his appearance that day till the luncheon was nearly over. He brightened He brightened up visibly when he saw Honor, and shook hands cordially with Miss Elliott, and even addressed his wife cheerfully. still young, his hair was turning gray, and d worn perceptibly off the temples. There was irritable look about the mouth, too, and the fa was deeply lined. Dym liked him at coz "What a fine head he has, and what deepset. thoughtful eyes!" she remarked to Honor ane wards. "Yes, he is very clever; a most intellectual man, as Mrs. Chichester says; but as blind as 1 bat in some things. There are eyes that can out see Africa," she added, laughing, in well-know reference to the immortal Mrs. Jelleby. Dym could not see this at first. She though Mr. Grey's manner very amiable to his wife 2: children. He took his place at the table wit a little joke at Rupert's expense, and praet Honor's arrangement of the fruit and flowers, She little knew this was a gala day with him. poor man, whenever Honor was present. very good you are to us, Miss Nethecote ar said, in low voice, when late in the afternoon is walked with them to their own gate. Hv "Am I?" she returned in her abrupt wi "Well, if you think so, I wonder if you will de me a favor in return?" "A hundred, if you will," very warmly. 66 Nay, one will do; you are a clever doctor, Mr. Grey, but you have sadly neglected one of your patients. Just go in now, and find out wh is the matter with your wife." They found Humphrey in his broad-b-mm:! hat, leaning against the garden gate, watching tur them. "I thought you were never coming. Yot be late, surely, Duchess ?" Honor gave a bright dissenting smile. "I do not think so, dear; I shall only deta you a few minutes. Will you and Miss Elliott walk on ?" "I have promised to dine with Trevor, so yea can put me out of your reckoning," returned M. Nethecote rather more gruffly than usual. Honor looked up in a little surprise. "Only that I am sorry to go without you, dear," putting her hand on his arm and looking at him wistfully. "Can't help it," still more abruptly. “Te squire has not asked me, nor you either, I expect;" He was a fair, gentlemanly man, but, although wrinkling his brows hideously. "I am going by Mrs. Chichester's invitation," replied Honor calmly. "I am sorry you will not come with me, Humphrey." "Better not," was the abrupt response. "When the squire is in this mood we might have words. If he had asked me, well and good. I never refused him anything, and I won't begin now; but madam may keep her invitations for me." Was good-natured Humphrey Nethecote cross or hurt? Dym wondered. Honor left him quietly after this rebuff. Perhaps the secret of her power over men-ay, and women too-was that she was so silent with them, speaking just to the purpose, and nothing more. "Women are too fond of trying to stop a leak with a word; I prefer deeds," she once said; and in very truth Honor was a woman of deeds. She came down the garden a few minutes later, and beckoned to Dym. "We have no time to lose; good-night, Humphrey; give my love to Mrs. Trevor." "We are both going the same way," replied her brother, rather sulkily, as he prepared to accompany them. "Always the same way, though we do sometimes take different turnings," assented Honor fondly, as she took his arm. Dym marvelled at the look that passed between the brother and sister; it made her think of Will with a sigh. Then she bethought herself how beautiful Honor looked; she wore a soft white dress of some clinging material, falling in close long folds, with a black lace shawl arranged as a mantilla. "We shall meet nothing but cows till we get to Ingleside," she said in answer to Dym's look of surprise. But she was wrong; for in the last field they came upon the squire. He was sitting on the stile, evidently enjoying the sunset, with his gun resting against his knee, and Kelpie sitting erect on his haunches, with his tongue lolling out, and his eyes fixed eagerly on his master. "There's a group for you," whispered Humphrey. "What a fine-looking man the squire is, to be sure!" Honor dropped her brother's arm, and went forward alone. Dym could see the start of surprise, and the sudden swarthy reddening of his brow as he saw her, and it struck her, Honor looked just a little pale. hastily as he rose, that its muzzle almost touched Honor's knee. "That was very careless of you, Mr. Chichester," she observed coolly, as he stooped in affright; "I shouldn't wonder if it were loaded, too." Mr. Chichester's answer was to shoulder the gun, and discharge its contents into a distant hedge; after which he restored it to its proper position, but Dym noticed that his hand trembled, and there was a frown on his face as he addressed Honor. "Yes, there might have been an accident, and you would have been the cause of it,' he said, almost angrily; "the old caliph was right when he insisted women were at the bottom of all mischief." "A civil greeting, and evidently intended for me, Mr. Chichester." Why did you come upon me so suddenly?" he demanded; then looking at her from head to foot, "it is not often we see you in the home field at this time in the evening, and in a white dress, too." "I am coming up to Ingleside to spend the evening." "If it be not too rude a question, did you ask yourself, Miss Nethecote ?" "No, Mr. Chichester." There was something arch in Honor's face as she answered him. "What has brought you, then ?" he repeated, still more irritably. Honor put her hand in his with a dignified frankness that was quite irresistible. "Will you help me over the stile, please? Your mother is waiting dinner, I know. I will explain as we walk on." How Dym longed to hear that explanation! Probably Humphrey walked slowly to give Honor her opportunity, for he lingered provokingly now and then to admire the prospect; and drove Dym nearly wild with a long dissertation on the architecture of some new schools the squire was building; he would persist in walking with her up the drive, though she told him twice Mr. Trevor's dinner gong had sounded, and he was even longer than usual in shaking hands. "I shall be too late to dress for dinner, and Mrs. Chichester is so particular," exclaimed poor Dym in great vexation, as she ran up the terrace steps. She gave a great start as she turned the corner and saw Honor standing there alone: her attitude struck Dym as peculiar; her arms were hanging loosely by her side, and her face had an unaccountable paleness on it. As she caught sight of Dym she drew her breath with an effort, and the color came back. Dym felt a little frightened. "Are you well, Miss Nethecote ?" "Perfectly so," drawing up her head a little haughtily; "the squire has gone in to put away his gun. I was waiting for you. What a time you and Humphrey have been!" "Yes, he was so tiresome," returned Dym, who was rather put out. Things were uncomfortable and mysterious, and she did not like it: why had Miss Nethecote influence with the squire? and why had he nearly shot her one minute and been angry with her the next? and why should she be standing all alone on the terrace? Honor gave one of her slow curious smiles at the girl's honest confession. "So Humphrey bores you sometimes, does he? He is a little heavy, but so good. Ah, no one knows half his goodness. But we must not be standing out here; let us go to Mrs. Chichester." Dym never enjoyed a meal less than she did that dinner; never had a quartette been less harmoni ous. Before the first course was over she longed for that tiresome Humphrey with all her heart. The squire specially seemed ill at ease; a certain excitement, usually foreign to him, was observed in his manners. He laughed and talked without ceasing, but the merriment was forced; now and then he made abrupt pauses, and looked scrutinizingly at Miss Nethecote. Honor sat magnificent and silent; but now and then her hands were pressed closely together, and there was a firm closing of the beautiful lips, as though they had determined not to smile. Once when Mr. Chichester spoke very sharply, almost unnecessarily so, to Stewart, and the poor lad colored up painfully, she looked full at him, and then dropped her white lids and said nothing; a few minutes afterwards Guy called the boy gently to him, and bade him leave the room. "But if I promise to reconsider my decision?" and as she hesitated, "Mother, I have some papers to look over before to-morrow's post, art to settle a little matter in which Miss Nethecate has been pleased to interest herself; we will ya you in the drawing-room by-and-by." "Very well, Guy," then, as Honor still lingered the squire touched her hand lightly, and said it a tone Dym had never heard before, "Coc Honor, come," and Honor yielded. Dyın followed Mrs. Chichester into the dr ing room. The windows were opened on to the terrace; the white china lamps were lighted, there was a soft halo of light around Mrs. Chichester, as she sat in her low chair and knitted placid': a dusky moth brushed around the light, a b wheeled suddenly in the darkness; there was a soft perfume of flowers. Dym, stealing to the window with a strange unknown pain at her heart. saw Honor's white dress on the dark terrace pat below, and heard the squire's tones as they passed and repassed the window. "Come, my dear, we will have a little reading I have missed you sadly to-day." Another tre these words would have sounded sweet to the gir whom nobody but Will ever seemed to mis; ber to-night she obeyed the summons impatiently, a jarring chord had been touched, a sudden secret sting betrayed the existence of Dym's old enem Honor's presence at Ingleside somehow dsturbed her. "He has not spoken a word to me to-night I am nothing-nothing to him," she cried rebelliously as she took the book. "Are you tired, my dear? there is something triste in your voice," said Mrs. Chichester, whose acute ear had missed the genuine ring of enjoyment in the girl's monotonous tones. "I don't know. I think I want Will to-night and to her own surprise as well as Mrs. Chiche Just then Mrs. Chichester gave the signal for ter's, Dym suddenly burst into tears. rising. "You may send my coffee into the library, mother," Guy said, as he opened the door for them to pass; and Dym, as she drew back to let Miss Nethecote precede her, heard him whisper, "One turn on the terrace, Honor;" but Miss Nethecote shook her head. "Shut your book, my dear, come here to me,” said her tender mistress. She stroked the girl's hair softly with motherly touches as Dym crouche on the floor beside her. I do not know what pain, what infinite trouble suddenly swelled Dym's poor little heart to bursting; Dym had no words to ex press it, she could not tell his mother that Mr. Chichester was her friend, and that she was nothing to him. She only felt sad and forlorn all at once like a child who wanted to be petted. "If he would only say a kind word to me sometimes as he used," she thought, as she laid her head against Mrs. Chichester's satin gown; "he has been so strange, so unlike himself of late. Oh, if we could only have one of the old evenings in Paradise row back again, I should be quite content." Quite content! Poor Dym! Little did she know how soon the "sweet summer of her content" would be overcast-when she should rue her woman's bitter knowledge, and pray for peace as one prays for salvation, only to come to it through the tears of a long pain. But they who glean the aftermath must look on happy harvest fields that others have reaped, and youth, though not the perpetual sunshine that poets will have it, or the perennial bulbul in bowers of roses, still wears its bandage of ignorance blissfully, and so the salt waves lap to its very feet before it says, "Alas, me, for my trouble is upon me!" So Dym cried, she hardly knew for what reason except for home sickness and Will, and a longing for kind words from lips she had learnt to revere. And Mrs. Chichester petted and made much of her, and called Dorothy to administer drops of red lavender for the vapors, for so she had called them in her youth; and Dym dried her eyes and let herself be comforted, and held up her face like a very child to be kissed; and neither of them knew that a chord had been touched that night which in the years to come would swell into an infinite diapason that would fill all her woman's universe with happiness or woe. Dym was a little ashamed of her outbreak, and wanted to go on with her book by-and-by, but Mrs. Chichester would not let her. "Tell me about your day instead, my dear," and Dym was beginning rather a lame narrative, when Mr. Chichester came in alone. is Honor?" cheek. Guy's bearded lips touched the thin hand almost reverently before he took it in his own. "Come, mother, confess I have been horribly churlish." "My darling boy!" and then her glance added, "but we are not alone." Dym had one of his old looks then. What, are you there, Miss Elliott! I did not see you. Well, as you have been the witness of my rudeness to my mother you ought to hear my apology too. We don't mind Miss Elliott, do we mother; she is a harmless little thing." How the harmless little thing quivered and crimsoned under the old kind smile and words! "She has been fretting, Guy. I don't think she has been well to-night, she wants her brother," explained Mrs. Chichester, anxious to turn. her son's attention from herself. "What, Will Clericus? I shall be seeing him next week. What will you give me, Miss Elliott, if I bring him back with me?" Dym clasped her hands. "Oh, do please, Mr. Chichester," she cried fervently. He laughed, and then his tone changed. What, are you so home-sick and Will-sick as all that, poor child? What have you been doing with her, mother?” But Mrs. Chichester's face had grown anxious again. "O, Guy, you are not going up to London ?" "We will talk about that presently, mère chérie. Are you sure you have forgiven me?" "My dearest boy, pray do not talk so!" her hand wandering lovingly in the thick long beard certainly in any woman's eye Guy Chichester would have been a son of whom to be proud. It was touching to see the strong, stalwart figure in that boyish attitude. In spite of the light manner, the brown face looked troubled and agitated, and the honest eyes were full of pain. "Guy, for my sake, please do not talk so." "It is all my cursed temper. I ought not to "What a time you have been, Guy! and where have plagued you about that boy. I can see it has made you ill. Never mind, mother, I have repealed the sentence." "She is just speaking to Stewart in the library. Mother," kneeling on one knee on her footstool and laying forcible hands on her knitting, "mother I have been a brute to you these last few days." Mrs. Chichester laid her hand fondly on her son's shoulder, and the color came into her faded "Thank you, my dear; but, Guy," hesitating, as though not sure of her ground, "must you, will you go to London ?" "Yes, mother, I must," an emphasis on the words, and rising abruptly. |