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 LIBRARY 
 
 ■^T^IVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS, 
 
 ^ NOVEL. 
 
 By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY 
 
 Author of ''Uncle Max" "Only the Governess" Etc. 
 
 / 
 
 ! \ 
 
 • 
 
 /v '^ \ 
 
 NEW YORK ! 
 
 THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY. 
 
 No. 65 DuANE Street.
 
 PA,44-iS"
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 five-o'clock tea. 
 
 Five-o'clock- tea was a great institution in Oldfield. 
 
 It was a form of refreshment to which the female inhabit- 
 ants of that delightful place were strongly addicted. In vain 
 did Dr. Weatherby, the great authority in all that concerned 
 ithe health of the neighborhood, lift up his voice against the 
 Unild feminine dram-drinking of these modern days, denounc- 
 ing it in no measured terms: the ladies of Oldfield listened in- 
 credulously, and, softly quoting Cowper's lines as to the " cup 
 that cheers and not inebriates," still presided over their dainty 
 little tea-tables, and vied with one another in the beauty of 
 their china and the flavor of their highly scented Pekoe. 
 
 In spite of J)r. Weatherby's sneers and innuendoes, a great 
 deal of valuable time was spent in lingering in one or another 
 of the pleasant drawing-rooms of the place. As the magic 
 hour approached, people dropped in casually. The elder 
 ladies sipped their tea and gossiped softly; the younger ones, 
 if it were summer time, strolled out through the open win- 
 dows into the garden. Most of the houses had tennis-grounds, 
 and it was quite an understood thing that a game should be 
 played before they separated. 
 
 With some few exceptions, the inhabitants of Oldfield were 
 wealthy people. Handsome houses standing in their own 
 grounds were dotted here and there among the lanes and 
 country roads. Some of the big houses belonged to very big 
 people indeed; but these were aristocrats who only lived in 
 their country houses a few months in the year, and whose 
 presence added more to the dignity than to the hilarity of the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 With these exceptions, the Oldfield people were highly gre- 
 garious and hospitable; in spite of a few peculiarities, they had 
 their good points; a great deal of gossip prevailed, but it was 
 in the main harmless and good-natured. There was a won-
 
 4 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. ^ 
 
 derful simplicity of dress, too, which ia these days might bo 
 termed a cardinal virtue. The girls wore their fresh cambrics 
 and plain straw hats; no one seemed to think it necessary to 
 put on smart clothing when they wished to visit their friends. 
 People said this Arcadian simplicity was just as studied; nev- 
 ertheless, it showed perfection of taste and a just appreciation 
 of things. 
 
 The house that was considered the most attractive in Old- 
 field, and where, on summer afternoons, the sound of youth- 
 ful voices and laughter were the loudest, was Glen Cottage, a 
 small white house adjoining the long village street, belonging 
 to a certain Mrs. Challoner, who lived here with her three 
 daughters. 
 
 This may be accounted strange in the first instance, since 
 the Challoners were people of the most limited income — an 
 income so small that nothing but the most modest of enter- 
 tainments could be furnished to their friends; very different 
 from their neighbors at Longmead, the large white house ad- 
 joining, where sumptuous dinners and regular evening parties 
 were given in the dark days when pleasures were few and ten- 
 nis impossible. 
 
 People said it was very good-natured of the Maynes; but 
 then, when there is an only child in the case, an honest, 
 pleasure-loving, gay young fellow on whom his parents dote, 
 what is it they will not do to please their own flesh and blood? 
 and, as young Richard Mayne— or Dick, as he was always 
 called — loved all such festive gatherings, Mrs. Mayne loved 
 them too; and her husband tried to persuade himself that his 
 tastes lay in the same direction, only reserving certain groans 
 for private use, that Dick could not be happy without a house 
 full of young people. 
 
 But no such entertainments were possible at Glen Cottage; 
 nevertheless, the youth of the neighborhood flocked eagerly m- 
 to the pleasant drawing-room where Mrs. Challoner sat tran- 
 quilly summer and winter to welcome her friends, or betook 
 themselves through the open French windows into the old- 
 fashioned garden, in which mother and daughters took such 
 pride. 
 
 On hot afternoons the tea-table was spread under an acacia- 
 tree, low wicker-chairs were brought out, and rugs spread on 
 the lawn, and jSan and her sisters dispensed strawberries and 
 cream with the delicious home-made bread and butter; while 
 Mrs. Challoner sat among a few chosen spirits knitting and 
 talking in her pleasant low-toned voice, quite content that the 
 burden of responsibility should rest upon her daughters.
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 5 
 
 Mrs, Cballoiier ahvaj's smiled when people told her that she 
 ought to be pvoad of her girls. No daughters were ever so 
 u)uoh to their aiothers as hers; she simply lived in and for 
 them; she saw with their eyes, thought with their thoughts 
 — was hardly herself at all, but Nan and Phillis and Dulce, 
 each by turns. 
 
 Long ago they had grown up to her growth. Mrs. Chal- 
 loner's nature was hardly a self-sufficing one. During her 
 husband's life-time she had been braced by his influence and 
 cheered by his example, and had sought to guide her children 
 according to his directions; in a word, his manly strength had 
 so supported her that no one, not even her shrewd young 
 daughters, guessed at the interior weakness. 
 
 When her stay was removed, Mrs. Challoner ceased to guide, 
 ajid came down to her children's level. She was more like 
 their sister than their mother, people said; and yet no mother 
 was more cherished than she. 
 
 Her very weakness made her sacred in her daughters* 
 eyes; her widowhood, and a certain failure of health, made 
 her the subject of their choicest care. 
 
 It could not be said that there was much amiss, but years 
 ago a doctor whom Mrs. Challoner had consulted had looked 
 grave, and mentioned the name of a disease of which certain 
 symptoms reminded him. There was no ground for present 
 a[)piehension; the whole thing was very shadow.y and unsub- 
 stantial — a mere hint — a question of care; nevertheless, the 
 word had been said, and the mischief done. 
 
 From that time Mrs. Challoner was wont to speak gloomily 
 of her health, as of one doomed. She was by nature languid 
 and lymphatic, but now her languor increased; always averse 
 to effort, she now left all action to her daughters. It was they 
 who decided and regulated the affairs of their modest house- 
 hold, and rarely were such wise rulers to be found in girls of 
 their age. Mrs. Challoner merely acquiesced, for in Glen 
 Cottage there was seldom a dissentient voice, unless it were 
 that oC Dorothy, who had been Dulce's nurse, and took upon 
 herself the airs of an old servant who could not be replaced. 
 
 They were all pretty girls, the three Misses Challoner, but 
 Nan was;jar excellence the prettiest. No one could deny that 
 fact who saw them together. Her features were more regular 
 than her sisters', and her color more transparent. She was 
 (all, too, and her figure had a certain willowy grace that was 
 most uncommon; but what attracted people most was a 
 frankness and unconsciousness of manner that was perfectly 
 charming.
 
 6 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Phillis, the second sister, was not absolutely pretty, perhaps, 
 but she* was nice looking, and there was something in her ex- 
 pression that made people say she was clever; she could talk 
 on occasions with a fluency that was quite surprising, and that 
 would cast Nan into the shade. " If I were only as clever as 
 Phillis!" Nan would sigh. 
 
 Then there was Dulce, who was only just eighteen, and 
 whom her sisters treated as the family pet; who was light and 
 small and nimble in her movements, and looked even youtiger 
 than she really was. 
 
 Nobody ever noticed if Dulce were pretty; no one questioned 
 if her features were regular or not, or carpd to do such a thing. 
 Only when she smiled, the prettiest dimple came into her 
 cheek, and her eyes had a fearless childlike look in them; for 
 the rest, she was just Dulce. 
 
 The good-looking daughters of a good-looking mother, as 
 somebody called them; and there was no denying that Mrs. 
 Challoner was still wonderfully well preserved, and, in spite of 
 her languor and invalid airs, a very pretty woman. 
 
 Five-o'clock tea had long been over at the cottage this after- 
 noon, and a somewhat lengthy game of tennis had followed; 
 after. which the visitors had dispersed as usual, and the girls 
 had come in to prepare for the half past seven-o'clock dinner; 
 for Glen Cottage followed the fashion of its richer neighbors, 
 and set out its frugal meal with a proper accompaniment of 
 flower-vases and evening toilet. 
 
 The three sisters came up the lawn together, but Kan car- 
 ried her racket a little languidly; she looked a trifle grave. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner laid down her knitting and looked at them, 
 and then she regarded her watch plaintively. 
 
 " Is it late, mother?" asked Nan, who never missed any of 
 her mother's movements. " Ten minutes past seven! No 
 wonder the afternoon seemed long.*' 
 
 " No one found it long but Nan," observed Dulce, with an 
 arcli glance at her sister, at which Nan slightly colored, but 
 took no further notice. " By the bye," she continued, as 
 though struck by a sudden recollection, " what can have be- 
 come of Dick this afternoon? He so seldom fails us without 
 telling us beforehand." 
 
 " That will soon be explained," observed Phillis, oracularly, 
 as the gate-bell sounded, and was immediately followed by 
 sharp footsteps on the gravel and the unceremonious entrance 
 of a young man through the open window. 
 
 " Better late than never," exclaimed two of the girls. Nan 
 Bftid: " Why, what has made you play truant, Dick?" in a
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 7 
 
 slightly injured voice. But Mrs. Challoner merely smiled at 
 him, aud said nothing; young men were her natural enemies, 
 and she knew it. She was civil to them and endured their 
 company, and that was ail. 
 
 Dicli Mayne was not a formidable-looiiing individual; he 
 was a strong, thick-set young fellow, with broad shoulders, 
 not much above middle height, and decidedly plain, except in 
 his mother's eyes; and she thought even Dick's sandy hair 
 beautiful. 
 
 But in spite of his plainness he was a pleasant, well-bred 
 young fellow, with a fund of good humor and drollery, and a 
 pair of honest eyes that people learised to trust. Every one 
 liked him, and no one ever said a word in his dispraise; aud 
 for the rest, he could tyrannize as royally as any other young 
 man who is his family's sole blessing. 
 
 " It was all my ill luck," grumbled Dick. " Trevanion of 
 Exeter came over to our place, and of course the mater pressed 
 him to stay for luncheon; and then nothing would do but a 
 long walk over Hilberry Downs." 
 
 " Why did you not bring him here?" interrupted Dulce, 
 with a pout. " You tiresome Dick, when you must know 
 what a godsend a strange young man is in these wilds!" 
 
 " My dear!" reproved her mother. 
 
 " Oh, but it is true, mamma," persisted the outspoken 
 Dulce. " Think how pleased Carrie and Sophie Paine would 
 have been at the sight of a fresh face! It was horrid of you, 
 sir!" 
 
 " 1 wanted him to come," returned the young man, in a 
 deprecating voice. " I told him how awfully jolly it always 
 is here, and that he would be sure to meet a lot of nice peo- 
 ple, but there was no persuading him; he wanted a walk and 
 a talk about our fellows. That is the worst of Trevanion, he 
 always will have his own way." 
 
 " Never mind," returneii Nan, pleasantly; she seemed to 
 have recovered her sprightliness all at once. " It is very 
 good of you to come so often; and we had Mr. Parker and his 
 cousin to look after the Paines." 
 
 " Oh, yes! we did very well," observed Phillis, tranquilly, 
 *' Mother, now Dick has come so late, he had better stay." 
 
 " If I only may do so?" returned Dick; but his inquiry was 
 directed to Nan. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you may stay,*' she remarked, carelessly, as she 
 moved away; but there was a little pleased smile on her face 
 ihat he failed to see. She nodded pleasaii'.ly to hini as he 
 da:ted forward to open the door. It was Nan who always
 
 ^ itOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 dispensed the hospitalities of the house, whose decision was un- 
 alterable. Dick had learned what it was to be sent about his 
 business; only once had he dared to remain without her sov- 
 ereign permission, and on that occasion he had been treated 
 by her with such dignified politeness that he would rather 
 have been sent to Coventry. 
 
 This evening the fates were propitious, and Dick under- 
 stood that the scepter of favor was to be extended to him. 
 When the girls had flitted into the little dusky hall he closed 
 the door and sat down happily beside Mrs. Challoner, to 
 whom he decanted eloquently of the beauties of Hilberry and 
 the virtues of Ned Trevanion. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner listened placidly as the knitting-needles 
 flashed between her long white fingers. She was very fond of 
 Dick, after her temperate fashion; she had known him from 
 a child, and seen him grow up among them until he had be- 
 come like a son of the bouse. Dick, who had no brothers and 
 sisters of his own, and whose parents had not married until 
 they were long past youth, had adopted brotherly airs with 
 the Challoner girls; they called one another by their Christian 
 names, and he reposed in them the confidences that young 
 men are wont to give to their belongings. 
 
 With Nan this easy familiarity had of late merged into 
 something different: a reserve, a timidity, a subtile suspicion 
 of change had crept into their intimacy. Nan felt that Dick's 
 manner had altered, but somehow she liked it better; his was 
 always a sweet, bountiful nature, but now it seemed to have 
 deepened into greater manliness. Dick was growing older; 
 Oxford training was polishing him. After each one of his 
 brief absences Nan saw a greater change, a more marked def- 
 erence, and secretly hoped that no one else noticed it. When 
 the young undergraduate wrote dutiful letters home, the long- 
 est messages were always for Nan; when he carried little offer- 
 ings of flowers to his young neighbors, Nan's bouquet was al- 
 ways the choicest; he distinguished her, too, on all occasions 
 by those small, nameless attentions which never fail to please. 
 
 Nan kept her own counsel, and never spoke of those things. 
 She said openly that Dick was very nice and very much im- 
 proved, and that they always missed him sadly during the Ox 
 ford terms; but she never breathed a syllable that might make 
 people suspect that this very ordinary young man with sandy 
 hair was more to her than other young men. Nevertheless, 
 Phillis and Dulce knew that such was the case, and Mrs. Chal- 
 loner understood that the most dangerous enemy to her 
 peace was this lively spoken Dick.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS 9 
 
 Dick was very amusing, for he was an eloquent young fel- 
 low: nevortheiess, Mrs. Challoner sighed more than once, and 
 her attention visibly wandered; seeing which, Dick good- 
 humoredly left off talking, and began inspecting the different 
 articles in Nan's work-basket. 
 
 " I am afraid 1 have given your mother a headache/' he 
 said, when they were sitting round the circular table in the 
 low, oddly shaped dining-room. There was a corner cut off, 
 and the windows were in unexpected places, which made it 
 unlike other rooms; but Dick loved it better than the great 
 dining-room at Longmead; and somehow it had never looked 
 cozier to him than it did this evening. It was somewhat dark, 
 owing to the shade of the veranda; so the lamp was lighted, and 
 the pleasant scent of roses and lilies came through the open 
 windows. A belated wasp hovered round the specimen glasses 
 that Nan had filled; Dick tried to make havoc of the enemy 
 with his table-napkin. The girls' white dresses suited their 
 fresh young faces. Nan had fastened a crimson rose in her 
 gown; Phillis and Dulee had knots of blue ribbon. " Tre- 
 vaiiiou does not know what he lost by his obstinacy," thought 
 Dick as he glanced round the table. 
 
 " What were you and the mother discussing?" asked Dulce, 
 curiously. 
 
 " Dick was telling me about his friend. He seemed a very 
 superior young man," returned Mrs. Challoner. " I suppose 
 you have asked him for your party next week?" 
 
 Dick turned very red at this question. " Mater asked him; 
 you may trust her for that. If it were not for father, I think 
 she would turn the whole house out of the windows: every day 
 some one fresh is invited." 
 
 " How delightful! and all in your honor,'* exclaimed Dulce, 
 mischievously. 
 
 " That spoils the whole thing," grumbled the heir of the 
 Maynes " it is a perfect shame that a fellow can not come of 
 age quietly, without his people making this fuss. I begin to 
 think I was a fool for my nains to refuse the ball." 
 
 " Yes, indeed; just because you were afraid ot the supper 
 speeches," laughed Dulce, " when we all wanted it so." 
 
 " Never mind," returned Dick, sturdily; " the mater shall 
 give us one in the winter, and we will have Godfrey's Baud, 
 and I will get all our fellows to come." 
 
 " That will be delightful," observed Nan, and her eyes 
 sparkled — already she saw herself led out for the first dance by 
 the son of the house — but Dulce interrupted her; 
 
 " But all the same, I wish Dick had not been o stupid 
 
 (<
 
 10 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 about it. Ko one knows what may happen before the winter. 
 I hate put-off things," 
 
 " ' A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush ' — eh. Miss 
 Dulce?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed; that proverb is truer than people think/* 
 she replied, with a wise nod of her head. " Don't you re- 
 member, Nan, when the Parkers' dance was put oS, and then 
 old Mr. Parker died; and nearly the same thing happened 
 with the Normantons, only it was an uncle in that case.'^ 
 
 " Moral: never put off a dance, in case somebody dies." 
 
 " Oh, hush, please!" groaned Isan, in a shocked voice; " 1 
 don't like to hear you talk about such dreadful things. After 
 all, it is such delicious weather that I am not sure a garden- 
 party will not be more enjoyable; and yuu know, Dulce, that 
 we are to dance on the lawn if we like." 
 
 " And supposing it should rain," put in that extremely 
 troublesome young person, at which suggestion Dick looked 
 very gloomy. 
 
 " In tbat case I think we must persuade Mrs. Mayne to 
 clear a room for us," returned Nan, cheerfully. " If your 
 mother consults me,'^ she continued, addressing Dick, who 
 visibly brightened at this, " I shall recommend her to empty 
 the front drawing-rooui as much as possible. There is the 
 grand piano, or the band might come in-doors; there will be 
 plenty of room for the young people, and the non-dancers can 
 be drafted off into the inner drawing-room and conservatory.'* 
 
 *' What a head you have!" exclaimed Dick, admiringly; 
 and Phillis, who had not joined in the argument, was 
 pleased to observe that she was quite of Nan's opinion: danc- 
 ing was imperative, and if the lawns were wet they must man- 
 age in-doors somehow. " It would never do for people to be 
 bored and lislless,'* finished the young lady, sententiously, and 
 such was Phillis's cleverness that it was understood at once 
 that the oracle had spoken; but then it was never known for 
 Nan and Phillis to differ. 
 
 Things being thus amicably arranged, the rest of the con- 
 versaticu flowed evenly on every other point, such as the ar- 
 rangements of the tennis-matches in the large meadow, and 
 the exact position of the marquees; but just as they were leav- 
 ing the table Dick said another word to Nan in a somewhat 
 low voice: 
 
 " It is all very well, but this sort of thing does make a fel- 
 low feel such a conceited fool." 
 
 " If I were you I would not think about it at all," she re- 
 turned in her sensible way. *' The neighborhood will expect
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIEL8. 11 
 
 something of the kind, and we owe a little to the other peo- 
 ple; then it pleases your mother to make a fuss, as you call 
 it, and it would be too ungrateful to disappoint her." 
 
 " Well, perhaps you are right,'' he returned, in a slightly 
 mollified tone, for he was a modest young fellow, and the 
 whole business had occasioned him some soreness of spirit. 
 ** Take it all in all, one has an awful lot to go through in life; 
 tJiere are the measels, you know, and whooping-cough, and 
 the dentist, and one's examination, and no end of unpleasant 
 things; but to be made by one's own mother to feel like an 
 idiot for a whole afternoon! Never mind; it can be got 
 through somehow," finished the young philosopher, with a 
 sigh that sent Nan into a fit of laughter. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DICK OBJECTS TO THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 " Shall we have our usual stroll?" asked Phillis, as Nan 
 and Dick joined her at the window. 
 
 This was one of the customs at Glen Cottage. When any 
 such fitting escort offered itself, the three girls would put on 
 their hats, and, regardless of the evening dews and their crisp 
 white dresses, would saunter, under Dick's guidance, through 
 the quiet village, or down and up the country roads " just for 
 a breath of air," as they would say. 
 
 It is only fair to Mrs. Challoner's views of propriety to say 
 that she would have trusted her three pretty daughters to no 
 other young man but Dick; and of late certain prudential 
 doubts had crossed her mind. It was all very well for Phillis 
 to v&Y Dick was Dick, and there was an end of it. After all, 
 he belonged to the phalanx of her enemies, those shadowy in- 
 vaders of her hearth that threatened her maternal peace. 
 Dick was not a boy any longer, he had outgrown his hobblede- 
 hoy ways; the slight sandy mustache that he so proudly caressed 
 was not a greater proof of his manhood than the undefinable 
 change that had passed over his manners. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner began to distrust these evening strolls, and 
 to turn over in her own mind various wary pretexts for de- 
 tailing Nan on the next occasion. 
 
 "Just this once, perhaps it does not matter," she mur- 
 mured to herself, as she composed herself to her usual nap. 
 
 " We shall not be long, little mother; so you must not be 
 dull," Dulee had said, kissing her lightly over her eyes. This 
 was just one of the pleasant fictions at the cottage — one of
 
 13 irOT LIKE OTHEJt GIRLS. 
 
 those graceful little deceptions that are so harmless in fami- 
 lies. 
 
 Dulce knew of those placid after-dinner naps. She knew her 
 mother's eyes would only unclose when Dorothy brought in 
 the tea-tray; but she was also conscious that nothing would 
 displease her mother more than to notice this habit. When 
 they lingered in-doors, and talked in whispers so as not to dis- 
 turb her, Mrs. Challouer had an extraordinary facility for 
 striking into the conversation in a way that was somewhat 
 confusing. 
 
 " I don't agree with you at all," she would say, in a drowsy 
 voice. " Is it not time for Dorothy to bring in the tea? 1 
 wish you would all talk louder. I must be getting a little 
 deaf, I think, for I don't hear half you say." 
 
 " Oh, it was only nonsense talk, mammie," Dulce would an- 
 swer; and the sisterly chit-chat would recommence, and her 
 mother's head nid-nodded on the cushions until the next in- 
 terruption. 
 
 " We shall not have many more of these strolls," observed 
 Dick, regretfully, as they walked together through the village, 
 and then branched off into a long country road, where the air 
 blew freshly in their faces and low mists hung over the 
 meadow-land. Though it was not quite dark, there was a tiny 
 moon, and the glimmer of a star or two; and there was a 
 pleasant fragrance as of new-mown grass. 
 
 They were all walking abreast, and keeping step, and Dick 
 was in the middle with Nan beside him. Dulce was hanging 
 on to her arm, and every now and then breaking into little 
 snatches of song. 
 
 " How 1 envy you!" exclaimed Phillis. " Think of spend- 
 ing three \\hole mouths in Switzerland! Oh, you lucky Dick!" 
 
 For the Mayneshad decided to pass the long vacation in the 
 Eugadme. Some hints had been dropped that Nan should 
 accompany them, but Mrs. Chal loner had regarded the invi- 
 tation with some disfavor, and Mrs. Mayne had not pressed 
 the point. If only Nan had known! but her mother had in 
 this matter kept her own counsel. 
 
 " 1 don't know about that," dissented Dick; he was rather 
 given to argue from the mere pleasure of opposition. " Mount- 
 ains and glaciers are all very well in their way; but I think, 
 on the whole, I would as soon be here. You see, I am so 
 accustomed to mix up with a lot of fellows, that I am afraid 
 of finding the pater's sole company rather slow." 
 
 " For shame!" remarked his usual monitress. But she
 
 NOT LIKIE OtHER GIRLS. 18 
 
 spoke gently; in her heart she knew why Dick failed to find 
 the mountains alluring. 
 
 " Why could not one of you girls join us?" he continued, 
 wrathfully. The rogue had fairly bullied the unwilling Mrs. 
 Mayne into giving that invitation. 
 
 " Do ask her, mother; she will be such a nice com[)anion 
 for you when the pater and 1 are doing our climbing; do, 
 there's a dear good soul!" he coaxed. And the dear good 
 soul, who was secretly jealous of Nan and loved her about as 
 much as mothers usually love an only son's choice, had be- 
 wailed her hard fate in secret, and had then stepped over to 
 the cottage with a bland and cheerful exterior, which grew 
 more cheerful as Mrs. Challoner's reluctance made itself felt. 
 
 " It is not wise; it will throw them so much together," 
 Nan's mother had said. " If it were only Phillis or Dulce; 
 but you must have noticed — " 
 
 " Oh, yes, 1 have noticed!" returned Mrs. Mayne, hastily. 
 She was a stout, comely looking woman, but beside Mrs. Chal- 
 loner she looked like a housekeeper dressed in her mistress's 
 smart clothes. Mrs. Mayne's dresses never seemed to belong 
 to her; it could not be said that they fitted her ill, but there 
 was a want of adaptability — a lack of taste that failed to ac- 
 cord with her florid style of beauty. 
 
 She had been a handsome woman when Eichard Mayne 
 married her, but a certain deepening of tints and broadening 
 of contour had not improved the mistress of Longmead. Her 
 husband was a decided contrast: but he was a small, wiry man, 
 with sharp features that expressed a great deal of shrewdness. 
 Dick had got his sandy hair; but Richard Mayne the elder 
 had not his son's honest, kindly eyes. Mr. Mayne's were 
 small and twinkling; he had a way of looking at people be- 
 tween his half-closed lids in a manner half sharp and half 
 jocular. 
 
 He was not vulgar, far from it; but he had a homely air 
 about him that spoke of the self-made man. He was rather 
 fond of telling people that his father had been in trade in a 
 small may, and that he himself had been the sole architect of 
 his fortune. " Look at Dick," he would say; " he would 
 never have a penny, that fellow, unless 1 made it for him; he 
 has come into the world to find his bread ready buttered. I 
 had to be content with a crust as I could earn it. The lad's 
 a cut above us both, though he has the good taste to try and 
 hide it." 
 
 This sagacious speech was very true. Dick would never 
 ha7e succeeded as a business man; he was too full of crotchets
 
 l4 NOT LIKE OTHEll GlKLS. 
 
 and speculations to be content to run in narrow grooves. The 
 notion of money-making was abhorrent to him; the idea of a 
 city life, with its hard rubs and drudgery, was utterly distaste- 
 ful to him. " One would have to mix with such a lot of 
 cads," he would say. " English, pure and undefiled, is not 
 always spoken. If I must work, I would rather have a turn 
 at law or divinity; the three old women with the eye between 
 them knows which.'' 
 
 It could not be denied that Dick winced a little at his fa- 
 ther's homely speeches; but in his heart he was both proud 
 and fond of him, and was given to assert to a few of his closest 
 friends " that, take it all in all, and looking at other fellows' 
 fathers, he was a rattling good sort, and no mistake." 
 
 When Mrs. Challoner had entered her little protest against 
 her daughter's acceptance of the invitation, Mrs. Mayne had 
 risen and kissed her with some effusion as she took her leave. 
 
 " It is so nice of you to say this to me; of course I should 
 have been pleased, delighted to have had Nan with us " (oh, 
 Mrs. Mayne, fy for shame! when you want your boy to your- 
 self), " but all the same I think you are so wise." 
 
 " Poor child! 1 am afraid I am refusing her a great treat," 
 returned Mrs. Challoner, in a tone of regret. It was the first 
 time since her husband's death that she had ever decided any- 
 thing without reference to her daughters; but for once her 
 maternal fears were up in arms, and drove her to sudden reso- 
 lution. 
 
 " Yes, but, as you observed, it would throw them so entire- 
 ly together; and Dick is so young. Eichard was only saying 
 the other night that he hoped the boy would not fancy him- 
 self in love for the next two years, as he did not approve of 
 such early engagements. " 
 
 " Neither do I," returned Mrs. Challoner, quickly. " Noth- 
 ing would annoy me more than for one of my daughters to 
 entangle herself with so young a man. We know the world 
 too well for that, Mrs. Mayne. Why, Dick may fall in and 
 out of love half a dozen times before he really makes up his 
 mind. " 
 
 '* Ah, that is what Richard says,'* returned Dick's mother, 
 with a sigh; in her heart she was not quite of her husband's 
 opinion. She remembered how that long waiting wasted her 
 own youth — waiting for what? For comforts that she would 
 gladly have done without — for a well-fnrnished house, when 
 she would have lived happily in the poorest lodging with the 
 Eichard Mayne who had won her heart— for whom she would
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIKLS. 15 
 
 have toiled and slaved with the self-abnegating devotion of a 
 loving woman, otily he feared to have it so. 
 
 " ' When poverty eaters the door, love flies out of the win- 
 dow;' we had better make up our minds to wait, Bessie. I 
 can better work in single than double harness just now." 
 That was what he said to her; and Bessie waited — not till she 
 grew thin, but stout, and the spirit of her youth was gone; 
 and it was a sober, middle-aged woman who took possession of 
 the long-expected home. 
 
 Mrs, Mayne loved her husband, but during that tedious 
 engagement her ardor had a little cooled, and it may be 
 doubted whether the younger Richard was not dearer to her 
 than his father; which was ungrateful, to say the least of it, 
 as Mr. Mayne doted on his comely wife, and thought Bessie as 
 handsome now as in the days when she came out smiling to 
 welcome him, a slim young creature with youthful roses in 
 her cheeks. 
 
 From this brief conversation it may be seen that none of the 
 elders quite approved of this budding affection. Mrs. Chal- 
 loner, who belonged to a good old famil}' , found it hard to for- 
 give the Maynes' lowliness of birth; and though she liked Dick, 
 she thought Nan could do better for herself. Mr. Mayne 
 pooh-poohed the whole thing so entirely that the women could 
 only speak of it among themselves. 
 
 *' Dick is a clever fellow; he ought to marry money," he 
 would say. " I am not a millionaire, and a little more would 
 be acceptable;" and, though he was always kind to Nan and 
 her sisters, he was forever dealing sly hits at her. " Phillis 
 has the brains of the family," he would say; " that is the girl 
 for my money. 1 call her a vast deal better looking than Nan, 
 though people make such a fuss about the other one;" a 
 speech he was never tired of repeating in his son's presence, 
 and at which Dick snapped his finger metaphorically and said 
 nothing. 
 
 When Dick wished that one of them were going to Switzer- 
 land, Nan sighed furtively. Dick was going away for three 
 months, for the remainder of the long vacation. After next 
 week they would not see him until Christmas — near six 
 months. A sense of dreariness, as new as it was strange, 
 swept momentarily over Nan as she pondered this. The sum- 
 mer mouths would be grievously clouded. Dick had been the 
 moving spirit of all the fun; the tennis-parties, the pleasant 
 dawdling afternoons, would lose their zest when he was away. 
 She remembered how persistently he had haunted their foo't- 
 gteps. When they paid visits to the Manor House, or Garden-
 
 16 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 hurst, or Fitzrny Lodge, Diok was sure to put fn an appear- 
 ance. People had nicknamed him the " Challoners'" Squire;'^ 
 but now Nan must go squireless for the rest of the summer, 
 unless she took compassion on Stanley Parker, or that dread- 
 ful chatter-box his cousin. 
 
 The male population was somewhat sparse at Oldfield. 
 There were a few Eton boys, and one or two in that delightful 
 transition age when youth is most bashful and uninterestmg — 
 a sort of unfledged manhood, when the smooth, boyish cheek 
 contradicts the deepened bass of the voice — an age that has 
 not ceased to blush, and which is full of aggravating idio- 
 syncrasies and unexpected angles. 
 
 To be sure, Lord Fitzroy was a splendid specimen of a 
 young guardsman, but he had lately taken to himself a wife; 
 and Sir Alfred Mostyn, who was also somewhat attractive and 
 a-very pleasant fellow, and unattached at present, had a tire- 
 some habit of rushing off to Norway, or St. Petersburg, or 
 Niagara, or the Rocky Mountains, for what he termed sport, 
 or a lark. 
 
 " Itseems we are very stupid this evening," observed Phillis, 
 for Dick had waxed almost as silent as Nan. " 1 think the 
 mother must nearly have finished her nap, so I propose we go 
 back and have some tea;" and, as Nan languidly acquiesced, 
 they turned their faces toward the village again, Dulce still 
 holding firmly to Nan's arm. By and by Dick struck out in 
 a fresh direction. 
 
 " I say, don't you wish we could have last week over 
 again?" 
 
 "Yes! oh, yes! was it not too delicious?" from the 
 three girls; and Nan added, " I never enjoyed anything so 
 much in my life," in a tone so fervent that Dick was de- 
 lighted. 
 
 " What a brick your mother was. to be sure, to spare you 
 all!" 
 
 " Yes; and she was so dull, poor dear, all the time we were 
 away. Dorothy gave us quite a pitiful account when we got 
 home." 
 
 " It was a treat one ouglit to remember all one's life," ob- 
 served Phillis, quite solemnly; and then ensued a most ani- 
 mated discussion. 
 
 The treat to which Phillis alluded had been simply perfect 
 in the three girls' eyes. Dick, who never forgot his friehds, 
 had so worked upon his mother that she had consented to 
 chaperon the three sisters during Commemoration; and a con-
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIKLS. 17 
 
 sent being fairly coaxed out of Mrs. dial loner, the plan was 
 put into execution. 
 
 Dick, who was in the seventh heaven of delight, found 
 roomy lodgings in the High Street, in which he installed his 
 enraptured guests. 
 
 The five days that followed were simply hours snatched out 
 of fairy-land to these four happy young creatures. No won- 
 der envious looks were cast at Dick as he walked in Christ 
 Church Meadows with Nan and Dulce, Phillis bringing up the 
 rear somewhat soberly with Mrs. Mayne. 
 
 " One pretty face would content most fellows/' his friends 
 grumbled; " but when you come to three, and not his own 
 sisters either, why, it isn't fair on other folk." And to Diek 
 they said, " Come, it is no use being so awfully close. Of course 
 we see what's up; you are a lucky dog. Which is it, Mayne? 
 — the pretty one with the pink-and-white complexion, or the 
 quiet one in gray, or the one with the mischievous eyes?'* 
 
 " Faix, they are all darlints and jewels, bless their purty 
 faces!" drawled one young rogue, in his favorite brogue. 
 " Here's the top of the morning to ye, Mayne; and it is 
 mavourneen with the brown eyes and the trick of the smile like 
 the sunshine's glint that has stolen poor Paddy's heart." 
 
 " Oh, shut up, you fellows'." returned Dick, in a disgusted 
 voice. " What is the good of your pretending to be Irish, 
 Hamilton, when you are a canny Scotchman?" 
 
 " Hoots, man, mind your clavers! You need not grizzle at 
 a creature because he admires a wee gairl that is just beyond 
 the lave — a sonsie wee thing with a glint in her een like dia- 
 monds." 
 
 " Hamilton, will you leave off this foolery?" 
 
 " Nae doubt, nae doubt; would his honor pe axing if he pe 
 wrang in the head, puir thing? Never mind that, put pe giv- 
 ing me the skene-dhu, or I will fight with proad-swords like a 
 gentleman for the bit lassie;" but here a wary movement on 
 Dick's part extinguished the torrent of Highland eloquence, 
 and brought the canny Scotchman to the ground. 
 
 Perfectly oblivious of all these compliments, the Challoners 
 enjoyed themselves with the zest of healthy, happy English 
 girls. They were simply indefatigable; poor Mrs. Mayne suc- 
 cumbed utterly before the five days were over. 
 
 They saw the precession of boats; they were at the flower- 
 show at Worcester; Sunday afternoon found them in the Broad 
 Walk; and the next night they were dancing at the University 
 ball. 
 
 They raved about the beauty of Magdalen cloisters; they
 
 18 NOT LIKE OTHEE GIRLS. 
 
 looked down admiringly into the deer-park; Addison's "Walk 
 became knowu to them, and the gardens of St. John's. 
 Phillis talked learnedly about Cardinal Wolsey as she stood in 
 Christ Chnrch hall; and in the theater " the youug ladies in 
 pink " invoked the most continuous cheers. 
 
 " Can they mean us?'* whispered Dulce, rather alarmed, to 
 their faithful escort Dick. " I don't see any other pink 
 dresses!" 
 
 And Dick said, calmly: 
 
 " Well, I suppose so. Some of those fellows up there are 
 such a trumpery lot." 
 
 So Dulce grew more reassured. 
 
 But the greatest fun of all was the afternoon spent in Dick's 
 room, when all his special friends were bidden to five-o'clock 
 tea, over which Nan, in her white gown, presided so grace- 
 fully. 
 
 What a dear, shabby old room it was, with old-fashioned 
 window-seats, where one could look down into the quadrangle! 
 Dick was an Oriel man, and thought his college superior even 
 to Magdalen. 
 
 It became almost too hot and crowded at last, so many were 
 the invitations given; but then, as Dick said afterward, "he 
 was such a soft-hearted beggar that he could not refuse the 
 fellows that pestered him for invitations." 
 
 Mrs. Mayne, looking very proud and happy, sat fanning 
 herself in one of these windows. Phillis and Dulce were in 
 the other, attended by that rogue Hamilton and half a dozen 
 more. Nan was the center of another clique, who hemmed 
 her and the tea-table in so closely that Dick had to wander 
 disconsolately round the outskirts; there was no getting a look 
 from Nan that afternoon. 
 
 How hot it was! It was a grand coup when the door opened 
 and the scout made his appearance carrying a tray of ices. 
 
 " It is well to be Mayne!" half grumbled young Hamilton, 
 as Dulce took one gratefully from his hand. " He is treating 
 us like a prince, instead of the thin-bread-and-butter enter- 
 tainment he led us to expect. Put down that tea. Miss Chal- 
 loner; 1 see iced claret-cup and strawberries in the corner. 
 There is nothing like being an only child; doting parents are 
 extremely useful articles. 1 am one of ten; would you believe 
 it?" continued the garrulous youth. " When one has six 
 brothers older than one's self, I will leave you to imagine the 
 consequences." 
 
 " How nice!" returned Dulce, innocently; " I have always
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GlfiLS. Id 
 
 80 longed for a brother. If it had not been for Dick, we 
 Bhould have had no one to do things for us.'' 
 
 "Oh, indeed! Mayne is a sort of adopted brotherl" ob- 
 served her companion, looking at her rather sharply. 
 
 " We have always looked upon him as one. We do just as 
 we like with him — scold and tease him, and send him on our 
 errands;" which intelligence fairly convinced the envious 
 Hamilton that the youngest Miss Challoner was not his friend's 
 fancy. 
 
 Dick always recalled that evening with a sense of pride, 
 flow well and gracefully Kan had fulfilled her duties! how 
 pretty she had looked, in spite of her flushed cheeks! He had 
 never seen a girl to compare with her — not he! 
 
 They were so full of these delightful reminiscences that they 
 were at the cottage gate before they knew it; and then Dick 
 astonished them by refusing to come in. lie had quite for- 
 gotten, he said, but his mother bad asked him to come home 
 early, as she was not feeling just the thing. 
 
 " Quite right; you must do as she wishes," returned Nan, 
 dismissing him far too readily, as he thought; but she said 
 " Good-night!" with so kind a smile after that, that the fool- 
 ish young fellow felt his pulses quicken. 
 
 Dick lingered at the corner until the cottage door was 
 closed, and then he raced down the Longmead shrubbery and 
 set the house-bell pealing. 
 
 " They are in the library, I suppose?" he asked of the but- 
 ler who admitted him; and on receiving an answer in the 
 affirmative, he dashed unceremoniously into the room, while 
 his mother held up her finger and smiled at the truant. 
 
 " You naughty boy, to be so late, and now you have spoiled 
 your father's nap!" she said, pretending to scold him. 
 
 " Tut! tut! what nonsense you talk sometimes!" eaid Mr. 
 Mayne, rather crossly, as he stood on the hearth-rng rubbing 
 his eyes. " I was not asleep, 1 will take my oath of that; 
 only I wish Dick could sometimes enter a room without mak- 
 ing people jump;" by which Dick knew that his father was in 
 one of his contrary moods, when he could be very cross — very 
 cross indeed! 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 MR. MAYNE MAKES HIMSELF DISAGREEABLE. 
 
 The library at Longmead was a very pleasant roriui, and it 
 iras the custom of the family to retire ihither on occasions
 
 50 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 when guests were not forthcoming, and Mr. Mayne could itt« 
 "dulge in his favorite nap without fear of interruption. 
 
 A certain simplicity, not to say homeliness, of manners pre- 
 vailed in the house. It was understood among Ihcm tliat the 
 dining-room was far too gorgeous for anytiiing but occasions 
 of ceremony. Mrs. Mayne, indeed, had had the good taste to 
 oover the satin couches with pretty, fresh-looking cretonne, 
 and had had arranged hanging cupboards of old china until it 
 had been transformed into a charming apartment, notwilh- 
 sLanJing which the library was declared to be the familv-rnom, 
 where the usual masculine assortment of litter could be re- 
 garded with indulgent eyes, and where papers and pamphlets 
 lay in delightful confusion. 
 
 Longmead was not a pretentious house; it was a moderate- 
 sized residence, adapted to a gentleman of moderate means; 
 but in summer no place could be more charming. The broad 
 gravel walk before the house had a background of roses; hun- 
 dreds of roses climbed up the railings or twined themselves 
 about the steps; a tiny miniature lake, garnished with wafer- 
 lilies, lay in the center of the lawn; a group of old elm-trees 
 were beside it; behind the house lay another lawn, and beyond 
 were meadows where a few sheep were quietly grazing. Mr. 
 Mayne, who found time hang a little heavily on his hands, 
 prided himself a good deal on his poultry-yard and kitchen-gar- 
 den. A great deal of his spare time was spent among his fa- 
 vorite Bantams and Dorkings, and in superintending his opin- 
 ionated old gardener; on summer mornings he would be out 
 among the dews in his old coat and planter's hat, weeding 
 among the gooseberry bushes. 
 
 " It is the early bird that finds the worm," he would say, 
 when Dick sauntered into the breakfast-room later on; for, 
 in common with the youth of this generation, he had a whole- 
 some horror of early rising, which he averred was one of the 
 barbarous usages of the dark ages in which his elders had been 
 bred. 
 
 " I never took any interest in worms, sir,'' returned Dick, 
 helping himself to a tempting rasher that had just been 
 brought in hot for the pampered youth. " By the bye, have 
 you seen Darwin's work on ' The Formation of Vegetable 
 Mold?' He declares that ' worms have played a more impor- 
 tant part in the history of the world than most people would 
 at first suppose;' they were our earliest plowmen." 
 
 "Oh, ah! indeed, very interesting!" observed his father, 
 dryly; " but all the ^ame, I beg to observe, no one succeeded 
 in life who was not an early i iser. "
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. Stt 
 
 *' A sweeping assertion, and one I might be tempted to 
 argue, \t it were not for taking up your valuable time," re- 
 torted Diok, lazily, but with a twinkle in his eye. " 1 know 
 my consf.itulioti better than to trust myself out before the 
 world is properly aired and dried. 1 am thinking it is less 
 a case of worms than of rheumatism some early birds will be 
 catching;" to which Mr. Mayne merely returned an ungra- 
 cious " Pshaw!" and marched off, leaving his sou to enjoy his 
 breakfast in peace. 
 
 When Dick entered the library on the evening in question, 
 Mr. Mayne's querulous observation as to the noisiness of his 
 entrance convinced him at once that his father was in a very 
 bad humor indeed, and that on this account it behooved him 
 to be exceedingly cool. 
 
 So he kissed his mother, who looked at him a little anx- 
 iously, and then sat down and turned out her work-basket, as 
 he had done Nan's two or three hours ago. 
 
 '* You are late, after all, Dick,'' she said, with a little re- 
 proach in her voice. It was hardly a safe observation, to judge 
 by her husband's cloudy countenance; but the poor thing 
 sometimes felt her evenings a trifle dull when Dick was away. 
 Mr. Mayne would take up his paper, but his eyes soon closed 
 over it; that habit of seeking for the early worm rather dis- 
 posed him to somnolent evenings, during which his wife knitted 
 and felt herself nodding off out of sheer ennui and dullness. 
 These were not the hours she had planned during those years 
 of waiting; she had told herself that Richard would read to 
 her or talk to her as she sat over bar work, that they would 
 have so much to say to each other; but now, as she regarded 
 his sleeping countenance evening after evening, it may be 
 doubted whether matrimony was quite what she expected, 
 since its bliss was so temperate and so strongly infused with 
 drowsiness. 
 
 Dick looked up innocently. " Am I late, mother?" 
 
 " Oil, of course not," returned his father, with a sneer; 
 " it is not quite time to ring for Nicholson to bring our can- 
 dles. Bessie, I think I should like some hot water to-night; 1 
 feel a little chilly." And Bessie rang the bell obediently, 
 and without any surprise in her manner. Mr. Mayne often 
 woke up chilly from his long nap. 
 
 " Are you going to have a ' drap of the cratur?' " asked 
 his son, with alacrity. " Well, I don't mind joining you, and 
 that's the truth, for we have been dawdling about, and I am 
 a trifle chilly myself." 
 ^_" You know I object to spirits for young men,'* returned
 
 $2 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Mr. Mayiie, severely; nevertheless, he pushed the whisky to 
 Dick as soou as he had mixed his own glass, and his sou fol- 
 lowed his example. 
 
 " I am quite of your opinion, father,'" he observed, as he 
 regarded the handsome cut-glass decanter somewhat critic- 
 all v; " but there are exceptions to every rule, and when one 
 l3 chilly—" 
 
 " I wish you would make an exception and stay away from 
 the cottage sometimes," returned Mr. Mayne, with ill-sup- 
 pressed impatience. " It was all very well when you were ali 
 young things together, but it is high time matters should be 
 different." 
 
 Dick executed a low whistle of surprise and dismay. He 
 had no idea his father's irritability had arisen from any definite 
 cause. What a fool he had been to be so late! it might lead 
 to some unpleasant discussion. Well, after all, if his father 
 chose to be so disagreeable it was not his fault; and he was no 
 longer a boy, to be chidden, or made to do this or that against 
 his ow^n will. 
 
 Mr. Mayne was sufficiently shrewd to see that his son was 
 somewhat taken aback by this sudden onslaught, and he was 
 not slow to press his advantage. He had wanted to give Dick 
 a bit of his mind for some time, and after all there is no time 
 like the present. 
 
 " Yes, it v/as all very well when you were a lot of children 
 together," he continued. " Of course, it is hard on you, 
 Dick, having no brothers and sisters to keep you company; 
 your mother and I were always sorry about that for your 
 sake." 
 
 " Oh, don't mention it," interrupted Dick; " on the whole, 
 I am best pleased as it is." 
 
 " But it would have been better for you," returned his fa- 
 ther, sharply; " we should not have had all this fooling and 
 humbug if you had had sisters of your own." 
 
 " Fooling and humbug!" repeated Dick, hotly; " I con- 
 fess, sir, I don't quite understand to what you are referring." 
 He was growing very angry, but bis mother flung herself be- 
 tween the combatants. 
 
 " Don't, my boy, don't; you must not answer your father 
 in that way. Richard, what makes you so hard on him to- 
 night? It must be the gout, Dick; we had better send for 
 Doctor Weatherby in the morning," continued the anxious 
 woman, with tears in her eyes, " for your dear father would 
 never be so cross to you as this unless he were going to be ill." 
 
 " StufE ani^ uonseuse, Bessie! Doctor Weatherby indeed!"
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 23 
 
 but his voice was less wrathful. " "What is it but fooling, I 
 should like to know, for Diok to be daundering his time a^vay 
 with a parcel of girls as he does with these ChallonersI" 
 
 " 1 suppose you were never a young man yourself, sir." 
 
 " Oh, yns, 1 was, my boy," and the corners of Mr. Mayne's 
 mouth relaxed in spite of his efforts to keep serious. " I fell 
 in love with your mother, and stuck to her for seven or eight 
 years; but I did not make believe that I was brother to a lot 
 of pretty girls, and waste all my time dancing attendance on 
 thcai and running about on their errands." 
 
 " You ought to have taken a lesson out of my book,'* re- 
 turned his son, readily. 
 
 *' No; 1 ought to have done no such thing, sir!" shouted 
 back Mr. Mayne, waxing irate again. It could not be denied 
 that Dick could be excessively provoking when he liked. 
 " Don't 1 tell you it is time this sort of thing was stopped? 
 Why, people will begin to talk, and say you are making up to 
 one of theoi; it is not right, Dick; it is not, indeed," with an 
 attempted pathos. 
 
 " 1 don't care that for what people say," returned the 
 young fellow, snapping his finger. " Is it not a pity you are 
 saying all this to me just when I am going away and am not 
 likely to see any of them for the next six months? You are 
 very hard on me to-night, father; and I can't think what it is 
 all about." 
 
 Mr. Mayne was silent a moment, revolving his son's pathetic 
 speech. It was true he had been cross, and had said more 
 than he had meant to say. He had not wished to hinder 
 Dick's innocent enjoyments; but if he were unknowingly pick- 
 ing flowers at the edge of a precipice, was it not his duty as a 
 failier to warn him? 
 
 " I think 1 have been a little hard, my lad," he said, can- 
 didly; " but there, you and your mother know my bark is 
 w irse than my bite. 1 only wanted to warn you; that's all, 
 Dick." 
 
 " Warn me! against what, sir?" asked the young man, 
 quickly. 
 
 " Against falling in love, really, with one of the Challoner 
 girls!" returned Mr. Mayne, trying to evade the fire of Dick's 
 eyes, and blustering a little in consequence. " Why, they 
 have not a penny, one of them; and, if report be true, Mrs. 
 Challoner's nioney is very shakily invested. Paine told me so 
 the other day. He said he should never wonder if a sudden 
 crash came any minute." 
 
 " Is this true, Richard?"
 
 24 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " Paiue declares it is; and think of Dick saddling himself 
 with the support of a whole family!" 
 
 " It strikes me you are taking things very much for grant- 
 ed," returned his son, trying to speak coolly, but flushing like 
 a girl over his words. " I think you might wait, father, un- 
 til I proposed bringing you home a daughter-in-law.*' 
 
 " 1 am only warning you, Dick, that the Challoner connec- 
 tion would be distasteful to me," replied Mr. Mayne, feeling 
 that he had gone a little too far. " If you had brothers and 
 sisters it would not matter half so much; but it would be too 
 hard if my only son were to cross my wishes." 
 
 " Should )^ou disinherit me, father?" observed Dick, cheer- 
 fully. He had recovered his coolness and pluck, and began to 
 feel more equal to the occasion. 
 
 " We should see about that; but I hardly think it would be 
 for your advantage to oppose me too much," returned his fa- 
 ther, with an ominous pucker of his eyebrows, which warned 
 Dick that it was hardly safe, to chaff the old boy too much to- 
 night. 
 
 "I think I will go to bed, Richard," put in poor Mrs. 
 Mayne. She had wisely forbore to mix in the discussion, fear- 
 ing that it would bring upon her the vials of her husband's 
 wrath. Mr. Mayne was as choleric as a Welshman, and had 
 a reserve force of sharp cynical sayings that were somewhat 
 hard to bear. He was disposed to turn upon her on such oc- 
 casions, and to accuse her of spoiling Dick and taking his part 
 against his father; between the two Richards she sometimes 
 had a very bad time indeed. 
 
 Dick lighted his mother's candle, and bade her good-night; 
 but all the same she knew she had not seen the last of him. 
 A few minutes afterward there was a hasty tap at the bedroom 
 door, and Dick thrust in his head. 
 
 " Come in, my dear; I have been expecting you," she said, 
 with a pleased smile. He always came to her when he was 
 ruffled or put out, and brought her ail his grievances; surely 
 this was the very meaning and essence of her motheihood — 
 this healing and comfort that lay in her power of sympathy. 
 
 When he was a little fellow, had she not extracted many a 
 thorn and bound up many a cut finger? and now he was a 
 man, would she be less helpful to him when he wanted a 
 different kind of comfort? 
 
 " Come in, my son," she said, beckoning him to the low 
 chair beside her, into which Dick threw himself with a petu- 
 lant yawn.
 
 :4rOT LIKE OTHER (ilRLS. 26 
 
 '* Mother, what made the pater so hard on me to-night? 
 He cut up as rough as though I had committed sonie crime/' 
 
 " 1 don't thitik he is quite himself to-uight," returned Mrs. 
 Mayue, in her soft, motherly voice. " I fancy he misses you, 
 Dick, and is half jealous of the Challoners for monopolizing 
 you. You are all we have, that's where it is," she finished, 
 stroking the sandy head with her plump hand; but Dick 
 jerked away from her with a little impatience. 
 
 " I think it rather hard that a fellow is to be bullied for do- 
 ing nothing at all," replied Dick, with a touch of sullenuess. 
 " When the pater is in this humor it is no use saying anything 
 to him; but you may as well tell him, mother, that I meai to 
 choose my wife for myself." 
 
 " Oh, my dear, 1 dare not tell him anything of the kind," 
 returned Mrs. Mayne, in an alarmed voice: and then, as she 
 glanced at her son, her terror merged into amusement. There 
 was spmething so absurdly boyish in Dick's appeaiance, such 
 a ludicrous contrast, between the manliness of his speech and 
 his smooth cheek; the little fringe of hirsute orniinient, of 
 which Dick was so proud, was hardly vis ible in the dim light; 
 his youthful figure, more clumsy than graceful, had an un- 
 fledged air about it; nevertheless, the boldness of his words 
 took away her breath. 
 
 " Every man has a right to his own choice in such a mat- 
 ter," continued Dick, loftily. "You may as well tell him, 
 mother, that I intend to select my own wife." 
 
 "My dear, 1 dare not for worlds—" she began; and then 
 she stopped, and laid her hand on his shoulder. " Why do 
 you say this to me? There is plenty of time," she v,ent on, 
 hastily; that is what your father says, and. 1 think he is right. 
 You are too young for this sort of thing yet. You must see 
 the world; you must look about j^ou; you must have plenty of 
 choice," continued the anxious mother. " I shall be hard to 
 please, Dick, for 1 shall think no one good enough for my 
 boy; that is the worst of having only one, and he the best sou 
 that ever lived," finished Mrs. Mayne, with maternal pride in 
 her voice. 
 
 Dick took this effusion very coolly. He was quite used to 
 all this sort of worship; he did not think badly of himself; he 
 was not particularly humble-minded or given to troublesome 
 introspection; on the whole, he thought himself a good fellow, 
 and was not at all surprised that people appreciated him. 
 
 "There are such a lot of cads in the world, oneisaln-ays 
 
 flad to fall in with a ditlerent sort," he would say to himself. 
 [e was quite of his mother's opinion, that an fionest, God-
 
 )26 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 fearing young fellow, who spoke the truth and shamed the 
 devil, who had no special vices but a dislike for early rising, 
 who had tolerable brains, and more than his share of muscle, 
 who was in the Oxford eleven, and who had earned his blue 
 ribbon— that such a' one might be considered to set an ex- 
 ample to his geneiation. 
 
 When his mother told him she would be hard to please, 
 Dick looked a little wicked, and thought of Nan; but the 
 name was not mentioned between them. Nevertheless, Mrs, 
 Mayne felt with unerring maternal instinct that, in spite of 
 his youth, Dick's choice was made, and sighed to herself at 
 the thought of the evil days that were to come. 
 
 Poor woman, she was to have little peace that night! Hard- 
 ly had Dick finished his grumble and sauntered away, before 
 her husband's step was heard in his dressing-room. 
 
 " Bessie," he called out to her, " why do you allow that boy 
 to keep you up so late at night? Do you know that it is 
 eleven, and you are still fully dressed?" 
 
 "Is itsolate, Eiohard?'' 
 
 " Yes, of course/' he snapped; " but that is the care you 
 take of your health; and the way you cosset and spoil that boy 
 is dreadful." 
 
 " I don't think Dick is easily spoiled,*' plucking up a little 
 spirit to answer him. 
 
 " That shows how little you understand boys," returned her 
 husband. Evidently the whisky, though it was the best Glen- 
 livat, had failed to mollify him. It might be dangerous to go 
 too far with Dick, for he had a way of turning around and 
 defending himself that somewhat embarrassed Mr. Mayne, but 
 with his wife there would be no such danger. He would 
 dominate her by his sharp speeches, and reduce her to abject 
 submission in a moment, for Bessie was the meekest of wives. 
 " Take care how you side with him," he continued, in a 
 threatening voice. " He thinks that I am not serious in what 
 1 said just now, and is for carrying it off with a high hand; 
 but I tell you, and you had better tell him, that 1 was never 
 more in earnest in my life. 1 won't have one of those Chal- 
 loner girls for a daughter-in-law!" 
 
 " Oh, Kichard! and Nan is such a sweet girl!" returned his 
 wife, with tears in her eyes. She was awfully jealous of Nan, 
 at times she almost dreaded her; but for her boy's sake she 
 would have taken her now to her heart and defied even her 
 formidable husband. " She is such a pretty creature, too; no 
 one can help loving her." 
 
 Pshaw!" returned her husband; " pretty creature indeed! 
 
 it
 
 NOT LIKE OTHEK GIRLS. 27 
 
 that is just your soft-hearted nonsense. Phillis is ten times 
 prettier, and has iieaps more sense. Why couldn't Dick have 
 taken a fancy to her?" 
 
 " Because I am afraid he cares for the other one/' returned 
 Mrs. Mayne, sadly. She had no wish to deceive her husband, 
 and she knew that the golden apple had rolled to Nan's feet. 
 
 " Stuff and rubbish!" he responded, wrathfully. " What 
 is a boy of his age to know about such things? Tell him from 
 niB to put this nonsense out of his head for the next year or 
 two; there is plenty of time to look out for a wife after that. 
 But I won't have him making up his mind until he has left 
 Oxford." And Mrs. Mayne, knowing that her husband had 
 spoken his last word, thankfully withdrew, feeling that in her 
 heart she secretly agreed with him. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 dick's fete. 
 
 As Mr. Mayne's wrath soon evaporated, and Dick was a 
 sweet-tempered fellow and bore no malice, this slight alterca- 
 tion produced no lasting effect, except that Dick, for the next 
 few clays, hurried home to his dinner, talked a good deal about 
 Switzerland, and never mentioned a Challoner in his father's 
 hearing. 
 
 " We must keep him in a good temper for the 25th," he 
 said to his mother, with a touch of the Mayne shrewdness. 
 
 That day was rapidly approaching, and all sorts of festive 
 preparations were going on at Longmead. Dick himself 
 gravely superintended the rolling of the tennis-ground in the 
 large meadow, and daubed himself plentifully with lime in 
 marking out ihe courts, while Mr. Mayne stood with his hands 
 in the pockets of his shooting-coat watching him. The two 
 were a great deal together just then. Dick rather stuck to 
 his father during one or two mornings; the wily young fellow 
 knew that Nan was closeted with his mother, helping her with 
 all sorts of feminine arrangements, and he was determined to 
 keep them apart. Nan wondered a great deal why Dick did 
 not come to interrupt or tease them as usual, and grew a lit- 
 tle absent over Mrs. Mayne's rambling explanations. When 
 the gong sounded no one asked her to stay to luncheon. Mrs. 
 Mayne saw her put on her hat without uttering a single pro- 
 test:. 
 
 " It is so good of you to help me, dear," she said, taking 
 the girl into her embrace. " You are quite sure people won't 
 expect a sit-down supper?"
 
 28 ISrOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 "Oh, no; the buffet system is best/' returned Nan, de- 
 cidedly. " Half the people will not stay, and you need not 
 make a fuss about the rest. It is an afternoon party, you 
 must remember that; only people who are very intimate will 
 remain for the fun of the thing. Tell "Nicholson to have 
 plenty of ices going; people care most for that sort of refresh- 
 ment. " 
 
 " Yes, dear; I will be sure to remember,'* returned her 
 friend, meekly. 
 
 She was very grateful to Nan for these hints, and was quice 
 willing to follow her guidance in all such matters; but whea 
 Nan proposed once sending for Dick to ask his opinion on 
 some knotty point that baflSed their women's wits, Mrs. 
 Mayne demurred. 
 
 " It is a pity to disturb him; he is with his father; and we 
 can settle these things by ourselves," she replied, not ventur- 
 ing to mar the present tranquillity by sending such a message 
 to Dick. Mr. Mayne would have accompanied his sou, and 
 the consultation would hardly have ended peaceably. " Men 
 have their hobbies. We had better settle all this together, 
 you and 1," she said, hurriedly. 
 
 Nan merely nodded, and cut the Gordian knot through 
 somewhat ruthlessly; but on that occasion she put on her hat 
 before the gong sounded. 
 
 " You must be very busy, for one never has a glimpse of 
 you in the morning," she could not help saying to Dick, as 
 he came in that afternoon to escort them to Fitzroy Lodge. 
 
 " Well, yes, I am tolerably busy," he drawled. "1 am 
 never free to do things in the afternoons " — a fact that Nan 
 felt was unanswerable. 
 
 When Nan and her sisters woke on the morning of the 
 memorable day, the bright sunshine of a cloudless June day 
 set all their fears at rest. If the sun smiled on Dick's fete, 
 all would be well. If Nan's devotions were longer than usual 
 that morning, no one was the wiser; if she added a little 
 clause, calling down a blessing on a certain head, no one would 
 be the poorer for such pure prayers; indeed, it were well if 
 many such were uttered for the young men who go forth 
 morning after. morning into the temptations of life. 
 
 Such prayers might stretch like an invisible shield before 
 the countless foes that environ such a one; fiery darts may be 
 caught upon it; a deadly thrust may be turned away. What 
 if the blessing would never reach the ear of the loved one, who 
 goes out unconscious of sympathy? His guardian angel has
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 29 
 
 heard it, and perchance it has reached the very gate of 
 hfaven. 
 
 Nan came dow^n, smiling and radiant, to find Dick waiting 
 for her in the veranda and chattering to Phillis and Dulce. 
 
 " Why, Dick!" she cried, blushing with surprise and pleas- 
 ure, *' to think of your being here on your birthday morn- 
 
 ing!'' 
 
 " I only came to thank you and the girls for your lovely 
 presents," returned Dick, becoming rather incoherent and red 
 at the sight of Nan's blush. " It was so awfully good of you 
 all to work all those things for me;" for Nan had taken secret 
 measurements in Dick's room, and had embroidered a most 
 exquisite mantel-piece valance, and Phillis and Dulce had 
 worked the corners of a green cloth with wonderful daffodils 
 and bulrushes to cover Dick's shabby table; and Dick's soul 
 had been filled with ravishment at the sight of these gifts. 
 
 Nan would not let him go on, but all the same his happy 
 face delighted her. 
 
 "No; don't thank us, we liked doing it," she returned, 
 rather coolly. " You know we owed you something after all 
 your splendid hospitality, and work is^ never any trouble to 
 us." 
 
 "But 1 never saw anything I liked better," blurted out 
 Dick. "All the fellows will be jealous of me. 1 am sure I 
 don't know what Hamilton will say. It was awfully good of 
 you. Nan, and so it was of the others; and if I don't make it 
 up to you somehow, my name is not Dick;" and he smiled 
 round at them as he spoke. " Fancy putting in all those 
 stitches for mel" he thought to himself. 
 
 " We are so glad you are pleased," returned Nan, with one 
 of her sweet, straightforward looks; " that is what we wanted 
 to give you — a little surprise on your birthday. Now you 
 must telf us about your other presents." And Dick, nothing 
 loath, launched into eloquent descriptions of the siher-fitted 
 dressing-case from his mother, and the gun and thorough-bred 
 colly that had been his father's gifts. 
 
 "He is such a fine fellow; I must show him to you this 
 afternoon," went on Dick, eagerly. " His name is Vigo, and 
 he has such a superb head. Was it not good of the pater? He 
 knew I had a fancy for a colly, and he has been in treat v for 
 one ever so long. Is he not a dear old boy?" cried Dick, 
 r>»-Dturonsly. But he did not tell his friends of the crisp bun- 
 dle of bank-notes with whith Mr. Mayne had enriched his son; 
 9^y, as Dick fingered them lovingly, he wondered what
 
 30 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 pretty foreign tiling he could buy for Nan, and whether her 
 mother would allow her to accept it. 
 
 After this Nan dismissed him somewhat peremptorily; he 
 must go back to his breakfast, and allow tliem to do the 
 same. 
 
 " Mind you come early/' were Dick's last words, as he 
 waved his straw hat to them. How often the memory of that 
 morning recurred to him as he stood solitary and thoughtful, 
 contemplating some grand stretch of Alpine scenery! 
 
 The snow-peaks and blue glaciers melted away before his 
 eyes; iu their place rose unbidden a f)icture framed in green 
 trellis-work, over which roses were climbing. 
 
 Fresh girlish faces smiled back at him; the brightest and 
 kindest of glances met his. " Good-bye Dick; a thousand 
 good wishes from us all." A slim white hand had gathered 
 a rosebud for him; how proudly he had worn it all that day! 
 Stop, he had it still; it lay all crushed and withered in his 
 pocket-book. He had written the date under it; one day he 
 meant to show it to her. Oh, foolish days of youth, so prodi- 
 gal of minor memories and small deeds of gifts, when a with- 
 ered flower can hold the rarest scent, and in a crumpled rose 
 leaf there is a whole volume of ecstatic meaning! Oh, golden 
 days of youth, never to be surpassed! 
 
 Never in the memory of Oldfield had there been a more de- 
 licious day. 
 
 '1 he sky was cloudless, long purple shadows lay under the 
 elm-trees; a concert of bird-music sounded from the shrub- 
 bery; in the green meadows flags were waving, tent draperies 
 fluttering; the house doors stood open, showing a flower- 
 decked hall and vista of cool shadowy rooms. 
 
 Dick, looking bright and trim, wandered restlessly over the 
 place, and Mr. Mayne fidgeted after him; while Mrs. Mayne 
 tat fanning herself under the elm-trees and hoping the band 
 would not be late. 
 
 No, there it was turning in now at the stable entrance, and 
 playing " The girl I left behind me;" and there at the same 
 moment was Nan coming up the lawn in her white gown, 
 closely followed by her mother aud sisters. 
 
 " Are we the first?" she asked, as Dick darted across the 
 grass to meet her. " That is nice; we shall see all the people 
 arrive. How inspiriting that music is, and how beautiful 
 everything looks!" 
 
 "It is awfully jolly of you to be the first," whispered Dick; 
 " and how nice you look, Nan! You always do, you know, 
 bat to-day you are first-rate. Is this a new gown?" casting
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 31 
 
 an approving look over Nau's costume, which was certainly 
 very fresh and pretty. 
 
 " Ob, yes; we have all new dresses in your honor, and we 
 made them ourselves," returned Nan, carelessly. " Mother 
 has got her old silk, but for her it does not so much matter; 
 at least tbat is what she says." 
 
 *' And she is quite right. She is always real splendid, as 
 the Yankees say, whatever she wears," returned Dick, wish- 
 ing secretly that his mother in her new satin dress looked half 
 so well as Mrs. Cballoner in her old one. But it was no use. 
 Mrs. Mayne never set o2 her handsome dresses; with her 
 flushed, good-natured face and homely ways, she showed to 
 marked disadvantage beside Mrs. Challoner's faded beauty. 
 Mrs. Challoner's gown might be antique, but nothing could 
 surpass the quiet grace of her carriage, or the low pleasant 
 modulations of her voice. Her figure was almost as slim as 
 her daughters', and she could easily have passed for their elder 
 sister. 
 
 Lady Fitzroy, who was a Burgoyne by birth — and every one 
 knows that for haughtiness and a certain exclusive intoleration 
 none could match the Burgoynes— always distinguished Mrs. 
 Challoner by the marked attention she paid her. 
 
 *' A very lady-like woman, Percival. Certainly the most 
 lady-like person in the neighborhood," she would say to her 
 husband, who was not quite so exclusive, and always made 
 himself pleasant to his neighbors; and she would ask very gra- 
 ciouslv after her brother-in-law. Sir Francis Challoner. " He 
 is still in India, I suppose?" 
 
 " Oh, yes; he is still in India," Mrs. Challoner would re- 
 ply, rather curtly. She had not the faintest interest in her 
 husband's brother, whom she had never seen more than twice 
 in her life, and who was understood to be small credit to his 
 family. The aforesaid Sir Francis Challoner had been the 
 poorest of English baronets. His property had dwindled 
 down until it consisted simply of a half-ruined residence in the 
 north of England. 
 
 In his young days Sir Francis had been a prodigal, and, like 
 the prodigal in the parable, he had betaken himself into far 
 countries, not to waste his substance, for he had none, but if 
 possible to glean some of the Eastern riches. 
 
 Whether he had been successful or not, Mrs. Challoner 
 hardly knew. That he had married and settled in Calcutta — 
 that he had a son named Harry who had once written to her 
 in round-hand and subscribed himself as her affectionate 
 nephew, Henry Ford Challoner — this she knew; but what
 
 3S NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLi. 
 
 manner of person Lady Challoner might be, or what sort of 
 home her brother-in-law had made for himself, those points 
 were enveloped in mystery. 
 
 " I suppose she is so civ^il to me because of your uncle Fran- 
 cis/' siie used to say to her girls, which was attributing to 
 Lady Fitzroy a degree of snobbishness that was quite unde- 
 served. Lady Fitzroy really liked Mrs. Challoner, and found 
 intercourse with her very pleasant and refreshing. When one 
 is perfectly well-bred there is a subtile charm in harmony of 
 voice and manner. Mrs. Challoner might have dressed in rags 
 if she liked, and the young countess would still have aired her 
 choicest smiles fnr her. 
 
 It was lucky Nan had those few words from Dick, for they 
 fell apart after this, and were separated the greater portion of 
 the afternoon. 
 
 Carriages began to drive in at the gates; groups of well- 
 dressed people thronged the lawn, and were drafted ofE to the 
 field where the band was playing. 
 
 Nan and her sisters had their work cut out for them; they 
 knetv everybody, and they were free of the house. It was 
 they who helped Dick arrange the tennis-matches, who pointed 
 out to the young men of the party which was the tea-tent, 
 and where the ices and claret-cup were to be found. They 
 marshaled the elder ladies into pleasant nooks, where they 
 could be sheltered from the sun and see all that was going on. 
 
 *' No, thank you; I shall not play tennis this afternoon; 
 there are too many of us, and I am so busy," Nan said, dis- 
 missing one after another who came up to her. " If you want 
 a partner, there is Carrie Paine, who is dying for a game." 
 
 Dick, who was passing with Lady Fitzroy on his arm, whom 
 he was hurrying somewhat unceremoniously across the field, 
 threw her a grateful glance as he went by. 
 
 " What a sweet-looking girl that isl" said Lady Fitzroy, 
 graciously, as she panted a little over her exertion. 
 
 "Who? Nan? Yes; isn't she a brick? and the others 
 too?" for Phillis and Dulce were just as self-denying in their 
 labors. As Mr. Mayne said afterward, "They were just 
 everywhere, those Challoners, like a hive of swarming bees;" 
 which, as it was said in a grumbling tone, was ungrateful, to 
 say the least of it. 
 
 Dick worked like a horse too; he looked all the afternoon 
 as though he had a tough job in hand that required the ut- 
 most gravity and dispatch. He was forever hurrying elderly 
 ladies across the field toward the refreshment-tent, where he 
 deposited them, panting and heated, in all sorts of corners.
 
 mr LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 33 
 
 *' Are you quite comfortable? May 1 leave you novv? or 
 shall I wait and take you back again?'' asked Dick, who was 
 eager for a fresh convoy. 
 
 •" No, no; I would rather stay here a little/' returned Mrs. 
 Paine, who was not desirous of another promenade with the 
 hero of the day. " Go and fetch some one else, Dick; I am 
 very well off where I am," exchanging an amused glance with 
 one of her friends, as Dick, hot and breathless, started off on 
 another voyage of discovery. 
 
 Dick's behavior had been simply perfect all the afternoon in 
 his father's eyes; but later on, when the band struck up a set 
 of quadrilles, he committed his first solecism in manners; in- 
 stead of asking Lady Fitzroy to dance with him, he hurried 
 after Nan. 
 
 " This is our dance; come along," he said, taking her un- 
 willing hand; but she held back a moment. 
 
 " Are you sure? Is there not some one else you ought to 
 choose? Lady Fitzroy, for example?" questioned Nan, with 
 admirable forethought. 
 
 " Bother Lady Fitzroy!" exclaimed Dick, ujider his breath; 
 he had had quite enough of that lady. '* Why are you hold- 
 ing back, Nan, in this fashion?" a cloud coming over his face. 
 " Haven't you promised weeks ago to give me the first dance?^' 
 And Nan, seeing the cloud on his face, yielded without an- 
 other word. Dick always managed to have his own way some- 
 how. 
 
 " Dick, Dick I" cried his father, in a voice of agony, as 
 they passed him. 
 
 " AH in good time; coming presently," returned the scape- 
 grace, cheerfully. " Novv, Nan, this is our place. We will 
 have Hamilton and Dulce for our vis-a-vis. What a jolly 
 day! and isn't this first-rate?" exclaimed Dick, rubbing his 
 hands, and feeling as though he were only just beginning to 
 enjoy himself. 
 
 Nan was not quite so easy in her mind. 
 
 " Your father does not look very pleased. I am afraid, 
 after all, you ought to have asked Lady Fitzroy," she said, in 
 a low voice, but Dick turned a deaf ear. He showed her the 
 rose in his button-hole; and when Nan told him it was with- 
 ered, and wanted him to, take it out, he gave her a reproachful 
 look that made her blush. 
 
 They were very happy after this; and, when the dance was 
 over, Dick gave her his arm and carried her off to see Vigo, 
 who was howling a dee^i, mournful bass at the back of the 
 gardener's cottage.
 
 34 KOT LIKE OTHER GIULS. 
 
 Nau made friends with him, and stroked his hlack curly 
 head, aud looked lovingly into his deep, melancholy eyes; and 
 then, as her flowers were fading, they strolled off into the con- 
 servatory, where Dick gathered her a fresh bouquet and thea 
 sat down and watched her arrange it. 
 
 " What clever fingers you have got!" he said, looking at 
 them admiringl}^ as Nan. sorted the flowers in her lap; aud 
 at his unlucky moment they were discovered by Mr. Mayne, 
 who was bringing Lady Fitzroy to see a favorite orchid. 
 
 He shot an angry, suspicious glance at his son. 
 
 " Dick, your mother is asking for you," he said, rather 
 abruptly; but Dick growled something in an under-toue, and 
 did not move. 
 
 Nan gave him a frightened nudge. Why was he so im- 
 prudent? 
 
 " I can not move, because of my flowers; do go, Dick. You 
 must indeed, if your mother wants you;" and she looked at 
 him in such a pleading way that Dick dared not refuse. It 
 was just like his father to come and disturb his first happy 
 moments and to order him oflf to go aud do something dis- 
 agreeable. He had almost a mind to brave it out, aud remain 
 in spite of him; but there was Nan looking at him in a fright- 
 ened, imploring wa}'. 
 
 " Oh, do go, Dick," giving him a little impatient push in 
 her agitation; " if your mother wants you, you must not keep 
 her waiting. " But Nan in her heart knew, as Dick did in 
 his, that the message was only a subterfuge to separate them. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " I AM QUITE SURE OF HIM." 
 
 Nan would willingly have effected her escape too, but she 
 was detained by the flowers that Dick had tossed so lightly 
 into her lap. She was rather dismayed at her position, and 
 her fingers trembled a little over their work. There was a 
 breath — a sudden entering current— of antagonism and preju- 
 dice that daunted her. Lady Fitzroy cast an admiring look 
 at the girl as she sac there with glowing cheeks and downcast 
 lids. 
 
 " How pretty she is!" she said, in alow voice, as Mr. Mayne 
 pointed out his favorite orchid. " She is like her mother; 
 there is just the same quiet style, only I suspect Mrs. Chal- 
 loner was even better lookijig in her time." 
 
 " Humph! yes, 1 suppose so," returned her host, in a dis- 
 satisfied tone. He had not brought Lady Fitzroy there to talk
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 35 
 
 of the Challoner?, but to admire his orchids. Then he shot 
 another glance at l!i'dn between his hulf-closed eyes, and a lit- 
 tle spice of malice flavored his jicxt words. 
 
 " Shall we sit here a moment? Let me see; yon were ask- 
 ing me. Lady Fitzroy, about Dick's prospects. I was talking 
 to his mother about them the other day. I said to her then 
 Dick must settle in life well; he must marry money.*' 
 
 "Indeed?" replied Lady Fitzro}^ somewhat absently; she 
 even indulged in a slight yawn behind her fan. She liked 
 Dick well enough, as every one else did, but she was not partial 
 to his father. 
 
 llovv tiresome it was of Fitzroy to insist so much on their 
 neighborly duties! 
 
 Mr, Mayne was not "one of them," as she would have 
 phrased it; he did not speak their language or lead their life; 
 their manners and customs, their little tricks and turns of 
 thought, were hieroglyphics to him, 
 
 A man who had never had a grandfather— at least a grand- 
 father worth knowing — whose father's hands had dabbled in 
 trade — actually trade — such a one might be a very worthy 
 man,_ an excellent citizen, an exemplary husband and father, 
 but it behooved a woman in her position not to descend too 
 freely to his level. 
 
 " Percival is such a sad Eadical," she would say to herself; 
 " he does not make sufficient distinction between people. 1 
 should wish to be neighborly, but I can not bring myself to be 
 familiar with these Maynes;" which was perhaps the reason 
 why Lady Fitzroy was not as popular at Lougmead and in 
 other places as her good-natured husband, 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" she said, with difficulty repressing another 
 slight yawn behind her fan, but speaking in a fatigued voice; 
 but Mr. Mayne was too intent on his purpose to notice it. 
 
 " If Dick had brothers and sisters it would not matter bo 
 much; but when one has only a single hope— eh. Lady Fitz- 
 roy?— things must be a little different then." 
 
 "He will have plenty of choice," she returned, with an 
 effort at graciousness. " Oldfield is rich in pretty girls " — 
 and she cast another approving glance at poor "Kan; but Mr. 
 Mayne interrupted her almost rudely. 
 
 "Ah, as to that," he returned, with a sneer, " we want no 
 such nonsense for Dick, Here are the facts of the case. Here 
 is an honest, good-tempered young fellow, but with no partic- 
 ular push in him; he has money, you say — yes, but not enough 
 to give him the standing I want him to'have. I am ambitious 
 for Dick. I want him to settle, in life well. Why, he might
 
 36 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 be called to the bar; he might enter Parliament; there is no 
 limit to a man's career nowadays; I will do what I can for him, 
 but he must meet me half-way.'^ 
 
 " You mean," observed Lady Fitzroy, with a little per- 
 plexity in her tone, " that he must look out for an heiress." 
 She was not in the secret, aud she could not understand why 
 her host was treating her to this outburst of confidence. " It 
 was so disagreeaable to be mixed up with this sort of thing," 
 as she told her husband afterward. " I never knew him quite 
 so odious before; and there was that pretty Miss Challoiier 
 sitting near us, and he never let me address a word to her." 
 
 JSIan began to feel she had had enough of it. She started 
 up hastily as Lady Fitzroy said the last words, but the en- 
 trance of seme more young people compelled her to stand in- 
 side a moment, and she heard Mr. Mayne's answer distinctly: 
 " Well, not an heiress exactly; but the girl I have in view for 
 him has a pretty little sum of money, and the connection is 
 all that could be wished; she is nice looking, too, and is a 
 bright, taking little body—" But here Kan made such a 
 resolute eifort to pass, that the rest of the sentence was lost 
 upon her. 
 
 Dick, who was strolling up and down the lawn rather dis- 
 contentedl}^ hurried up to her as she came out. 
 
 *' They are playing a waltz; come, Nan," he said, holding 
 out his hand to her with his usual eagerness; but she shook 
 her head. 
 
 ^.' I can not dance; 1 am too tired: there are others you 
 ought to ask." She spoke a little ungraciously, and Dick's 
 face wore a look of dismay as she walked away from him with 
 quick even footsteps. 
 
 Tired! Nan tired! he had never heard of such a thing. 
 What had put her out? The sweet brightness had died out 
 of her eyes, and her cheeks were flaming. Should he follow 
 her and have it out with her, there and then? But, as he 
 hesitated, young Hamilton came over the grass and linked his 
 arm in his. 
 
 " Come aud introduce me to that girl in blue gauze, or 
 whatever you call that flimsy manufacture. Come along, 
 there's a good fellow," he said, coaxingly; and Dick's oppor- 
 tunity was lost. 
 
 But he was wrong; for once in her life Nan was tired; the 
 poor girl felt a sudden quenching of her bright elasticity that 
 amounted to absolute fatigue. 
 
 She had spoken to Dick sharply; but that was to get rid of 
 Jiim aud to recall him to a sense of his duty. Not for worlds
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 87 
 
 would she be seen dancing with him, or even talking to him, 
 again! 
 
 Sho sat down on a stumiD of a tree in the shrubbery, and 
 wondered wearily what had taken it out of her so much. And 
 then she recalled, sentence by sentence, everything that had 
 passed in the conservatory. 
 
 She had found out quite lately that Mr. Mayne did not ap- 
 prove of her intimacy with Dick. His manner had somewhat 
 changed to her, and several times he had spoken to her in a 
 carping, fault-finding way— little cut-and-dried sentences of 
 elderly wisdom that she had not understood at the time. 
 
 She had not pleased him of late, somehow, and all her little 
 efforts and overtures had been lost upon iiim. Nan had been 
 quite aware of this, but it had not troubled her much: it was 
 a way he had, and he meant nothing by it. Most men had 
 humors that must be respected, and Dick's father had his. 
 So she bore herself very sweetly toward him, treating his 
 caustic remarks as jokes, and laughing pleasantly at tliem, 
 never taking his hints in earnest; he would know better some 
 day, that was all; but she had no idea of any dee23ly laid plan 
 against their happiness. She felt as though some one had 
 struck her hard; she had received a blow that set all her nerves 
 tingling. It was very funny, what he said; it was so droll 
 that it almost made her laugh; and yet her eyes smarted, and 
 her cheeks felt on fire. 
 
 " ' Dick must marjy money.* AVhy must he? — that was 
 so droll. ' Well, not an heiress exactly, but a pretty little 
 sum of money, and a bright, taking little bod}'.' Who was 
 this mysterious person whom he had in view, whose cou- 
 i»ections were so desirable, who was to be Dick's future wife? 
 Dick's future-wife!" repeated Nan, with an odd little quiver 
 of her lip. " And was it not droll, settling it all for him like 
 that?" 
 
 Nan fell into a brown study, and then woke up with a little 
 gasp. It was all clear to her now, all those little cut-and-dried 
 sentences — all those veiled sueeis and innuendoes. 
 
 They were poor — poor as church mice — and Dick must 
 marry money. Mr. Mayne had laid his plans for his son, and 
 was watching their growing intimacy with disapproving eyes. 
 Perhaps " the bright taking little body " might accompany 
 them to Switzerland; perhaps among the mountains Dick svould 
 forget her, and lend a ready acquiescence to his father's plans. 
 Who was she? Had Kan ever seen her? Could she be here 
 this afternoon, this future rival and enemy of her peace? 
 
 " Ah, what nonsense I am thinking!" she exclaimed to her-
 
 38 NOT LIKE OTHER GIELS. 
 
 self, starting up '.vitli a little shame and impatience at her own 
 tlioiights. " What has all this got to do with me? Let them 
 settle it betiveeu them — money-bags and all. Dick is Dick, 
 and, after all, I am not afraid I" And Nan marched back to 
 the company, with her head higher, and a great assumption 
 of cheerfulness, and a little gnawing feeling of discomfort at 
 her heart, to which she would not have owned for worlds. 
 
 Nan was the gayest of the day that evening, but she would 
 not dance agaui with Dick; she sent the poor boy away from 
 her with a decision and peremptoriness that struck him with 
 fresh dismay. 
 
 " You are not tired now. Nan; you have been waltzing 
 ever so long with Cathcart and Hamilton." 
 
 " Never mind about me to-night; you must go and ask 
 Lady Fitzroy. No, I am not cross. Do you think I would 
 be cross to you on your birthday? But all the same I will not 
 have you neglect your duties. Go and ask her this moment, 
 sir!" And Nan smiled in his face in the most bewitching 
 way, and gave a little flutter to her fan. She accepted Mr. 
 Hamilton's invitation to a waltz under Dick's very eyes, and 
 whirled away on his arm, while Dick stood looking at her 
 ruefully. 
 
 J ust at the very last moment Nan's heart relented. 
 
 " Walk down to the gate with us," she whispered, as she 
 passed him on her way to the cloak-room. 
 
 Dick, who was by this time in a somewhat surly humor, 
 made no sort of response; nevertheless. Nan found him out on 
 the gravel path waiting for them, in company with Cathcart 
 and Hamilton. 
 
 Nan shook off the latter rather cleverly, and took Dick's 
 arm, in cheerful unconsciousness of his ill humor. 
 
 " It is so good of you to come with us. I wanted to get 
 you a moment to myself, to congratulate you on the success 
 of the evening. It was admirably managed; every one says 
 so: even Lady Fitzroy was pleased, and her ladyship is a trifle 
 fastidious. Have the band in-doors, and set them to dancing 
 — that is what I said; and it has turned out a complete suc- 
 cess," finished Nan, with a little gush of enthusiasm; but she 
 did not find Dick responsive. 
 
 " Oh, bother the success and all that!" returned that very 
 misguided young man; " it was the slowest affair to me, I as- 
 sure you, anti I am thankful it is over. You have spoiled the 
 eve!u"ng to me, and that is what you have done," grumbled 
 Dick, ill his most ominous voice. 
 
 " I spoiled your evening, you ungrateful boy!" replied Nan,
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 39 
 
 innocently; but she sniiletl to herself in the darkness, and the 
 reproach was sweet to her. They had entered the garden of 
 Glen Cottage by this time, and Dick was fiercely marching 
 her down a side path that led to the kitchen. The hall door 
 stood open. Cathcart and Hamilton were chattering with the 
 girls in the porch, while Mrs. Challoner went inside. They 
 peered curiously into the summer dusk, as Dick's impatient 
 footsteps grated on the gravel path. 
 
 " I spoiled your evening!" repeated Nan, lifting her bright; 
 eyes with the gleam of fun still in them. 
 
 "Yes," blurted out Dick. " Why have yoa kept me at 
 such a distance all the evening? Why would you not dance 
 with me? and you gave Hamilton three waltzes. It was not 
 like you, Nan, to treat me so— and on my birthday, too,'' 
 \vent"o!i the poor fellow, with a pathos that brought another 
 sort of gleam to Nan's eyes, only she still laughed. 
 
 " Ah, you foolish boy!" she said, and gave his coat-sleeve a 
 coaxing little jjat. " I would rather have danced with you 
 than Mr. Hamilton, though he does reverse beautifully, and I 
 never knew any one who waltzed more perfectly." 
 
 " Oh, I do not presume to rival Hamilton," began Dick, 
 hotly, but she silenced him. 
 
 "Listen to me, you foolish Dick. I would have danced with 
 you willingly, but 1 knew my duty better, or rather I knew 
 yours. You were a public man to-day; the eyes of the county 
 were upon you. You had to pay court to the big ladies, and 
 to take no notice of poor little me. I sent you away for your 
 own g;)od, and because I valued youi* duty above my pleasure," 
 continued this heroic young person in a perfectly satisfied tone. 
 
 " And you wanted to dance with me. Nan, and not with 
 that goose of a Hamilton?" in a wheedling voice. 
 
 " Yes, Dick; but he is not a goose for all that: he is more 
 of a swan in my opinion." 
 
 "He is a conceited ass," was the very unexpected reply, 
 which was a little hard on Dick's chum, who was in many ways 
 a most estimable young man and vastly his sujierior. " Why 
 are you laughing, when you know I hate prigs? and Hamilton 
 is about the biggest lever knew." But this did not mend 
 matters, and Nan's laugh still rang merrily in the darkness. 
 
 " What are those two doing?" asked Phillis, trying to peep 
 between the lilac bushes, but failing to discover more than the 
 whit3 glimmer of Nan's shawl. 
 
 Nan's laugh, though it was full of sweet triumph, only ir- 
 ritated Dick; the lord of the evening was still too sore and
 
 40 KOT LIKE OTHEB GIRLS. 
 
 humiliufced by all these rebuffs and repulses to take tbe fun in 
 good part. 
 
 " What is it that amuses you so?'' he asked, rather crossly. 
 " That is the worst of you girls; you are always so ready to 
 make merry at a fellow's expense. You are taking Hamil- 
 ton's part against me. Nan— I, who am your oldest friend, 
 who have always been faithful to you ever since you were a 
 child," continued the young man, with a growing sense of 
 aggravation. 
 
 " Oh, Dick!" and Nan's voice faltered a littlej she was 
 rather touched at this. 
 
 Dick took instant note of the change of key, and went on 
 in the same injured voice: 
 
 '' Why should I look after all the big people and take no 
 notice of you? Have I not made it my first duty to look after 
 you as long as I can remember? Though the whole world 
 were about us, would you not be the first and the principal 
 to mer 
 
 " Don't, Dick," she said, faintly, trying to repress him; 
 " you must not talk in that way, and I must not listen to you; 
 your father would not like it." The words were sweet to her 
 — precious beyond everything — but she must not have him 
 speak them. But Dick, in his angry excitement, was not to 
 be repressed. 
 
 " What does it matter what he likes? This is between 
 you and me, Nan; no one shall meddle between us two." 
 But what imprudent speech Dick was about to add was sud- 
 denly quenched in light-pealing laughter. At this critical 
 moment thpy were met and surrounded; before them was the 
 red glow of Cathcart's cigar, the whiteness of Phillis's gown; 
 behind were two more advancing figures. In another second 
 the young people had joined hands: a dusky ring formed round 
 the startled pair. 
 
 " Fairly caught!" cried Dulce's sunshiny voice; the mis- 
 chievous little monkey had no idea of the sport she was spoil- 
 ing. None of the young people thought of anything but fun; 
 Dick was just Dick, and he and Nan were always together. 
 
 Dick muttered something inaudible under his breath; buC 
 Nan was quite equal to the occasion; she was still palpitating 
 a little with the pleasure Dick's words had given her, but she 
 confronted her tormentors boldly. 
 
 *' You absurd creatures," she said, " to steal a march on us 
 like that! Dick and I were having a quarrel; we were fight- 
 ing so hard that we did not hear you." 
 
 " I enjoy a good fight above everything," exclaimed Catht
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 41 
 
 cart, throwing away his cigar. He was a handsome dark-eyed 
 boy, with no special individuality, except an overweening sense 
 of fun. " What's the odds, Mayne? and who is likely to be 
 the winner?" 
 
 " Oh, ISjan, of course," returned Diok, trying to recover 
 himself. " I am the captive of her spear and of her bow; 
 she is in possession of everything, myself included." 
 
 The rest laughed at Dick's jest, as they thought it; and Mr. 
 Hamilton said, " Bravo, Miss Challoner! we will help to drag 
 him at your chariot-wheels." But Nan changed color in the 
 darkness. 
 
 They went in after this, and the young men took their leave 
 in the porch. Dick's strong grip of the hand conveyed his 
 meaning fully to Nan. " Eemember, 1 meant it all," it seemed 
 to say to her. 
 
 " What did it matter? 1 am quite sure of him. Dick is 
 Dick," thought Nan, as she laid her head happily on the 
 pillow. 
 
 As for Dick, he had a long ordeal before him ere he could 
 make his escape to the smoking- room, where his friends awaited 
 him. Mr. Mayne had a great deal to say to him about the 
 day, and Dick had to listen and try to look interested. 
 
 " I am sure Dick behaved beautifully," observed Mrs. 
 Mayne, when her son and heir had at last lounged off to his 
 companions. 
 
 " Well, yes; he did very well on the whole," was the 
 grudging response; " but I must say those Challoner girls 
 made themselves far too conspicuous for my tastej" but to 
 this his wife prudently made no reply. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ME. TEINDER's visit. 
 
 The next few days passed far too quickly for Nan's pleas- 
 ure, and Dick's last morning arrived. The very next day the 
 Mayues were to start for Switzerland, and Longmead was to 
 stand empty for the remainder of the summer. It was a dreary 
 prospect for Nan, and in spite of her high spirits her courage 
 grew somewhat low. Six months! who could know what might; 
 happen before they met again? Nan was not the least bit 
 superstitious, neither was it her wont to indulge in useless 
 speculations or forebodings; but she could not shake off this 
 morning a strange uncanny feeling that haunted her in spile 
 ol hersuif — a presentiment that things were not going to be
 
 42 NOT LIKE OTEEU GIRLS. 
 
 just as she would have them — that Dick and she would not 
 meet again in exactly the same manner. 
 
 " How silly I am!'" she thought, for the twentieth time, as 
 she brushed out her glossy brown hair and arranged it in her 
 usual simple fashion. 
 
 Nan and her sisters were a little behind the times in some 
 ways; they had never thought fit to curl their hair en gar^on, 
 or to mount a pyramid of tangled curls in imitation of a poodle; 
 no pruning-scissors had touched the light-springing locks that 
 grew so prettily about their temples; in this, as in much else, 
 they were unlike other girls, for they dared to i^ut individuality 
 before fashion, and good taste and a sense of beauty against 
 the specious arguments of the multitude. 
 
 " How silly I am!" again repeated Nan. " What can hap- 
 pen, what should happen, except that I shall have a dull sum- 
 mer, and shall be very glad when Christmas and Dick come 
 together;" and then she shook her little basket of housekeep- 
 ing keys until they jingled merrily, and ran down-stairs with 
 a countenance she meant to keep bright for the rest of the day. 
 
 They were to play tennis at the Paiues' that afternoon, and 
 afterward the three girls were to dine at Longmead. Mrs. 
 Challoner had been invited also; but she had made some ex- 
 cuse, and pleaded for a quiet evening. She was never very ready 
 to accept these invitations; there was nothing in common be- 
 tween her and Mrs. Mayne; and in her heart she agreed with 
 Lady Fitzroy in thinking the master of Longmead odious. 
 
 It was Mr. Mayne who had tendered this parting hospitality 
 to his neighbors, and he chose to be much offentled at Mrs. 
 Challoner's refusal. 
 
 " I think it is very unfriendly of your mother, when we 
 are such old neighbors, and on our last evening, too," he said 
 to Kan, as she entered the drawing-room that evening, bring- 
 ing her mother's excuses wra23ped up in the prettiest words 
 she could find. 
 
 " Mother is not quite well; she does not feel up to the exer- 
 tion of dining out to-night," returned Nan, trying to put a 
 good face on it, but feeling as though things were too much 
 for her this evening. It was bad enough for Mr. Majne to 
 insist on them all coming up to a long formal dinner, and 
 spoiling their chances of a twilight stroll; but it was still 
 worse for her mother to abandon them after this fashion. 
 
 The new novel must have had something to do with this 
 sudden indisposition; but when Mrs. Challoner had wrapped 
 herself up in her white shawl, always a bad sign with her, and 
 had declared herself unfit for any exertion, what could a duti-
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 43 
 
 ful daughter do but deliver her excuses as gracefully as dio 
 coulJ? Nevertheless, Mr. Majne frowued and expredseJ him- 
 self ill pleased. 
 
 " 1 should have thought an effort could have been made ou 
 such an occasion," was his final thrust, as he gave his arm 
 ungraciously to Xau, and conducted her with ominous solemn- 
 ity to the table. 
 
 It was not a festive meal, in spite of all Mrs. Maync's 
 efforts. Dick looked glum. He was separated from Nan by 
 a vast silver epergne, that fully screened her from view. An- 
 other time she would have peeped merrily round at him and 
 given him a sprightly nod or two; but how was ghe to do it 
 wheu Mr. Mayne never relaxed his gloomy muscles, and when 
 he insisted ou keeping up a ceremonious flow of conversation 
 with her on the subjects of the day? 
 
 When Dick tried to strike into their talk, he got so visibly 
 snubbed that he was obliged to take refuge with Phillis. 
 
 " You young fellows never know what you are talking 
 about," observed Mr. Mayne, sharply, when Dick had hazarded 
 a remark about the premier's policy; " you are a Radical one 
 day and a Conservative another. That comes of your debat- 
 ing societies. You take contrary sides, and mix up a balder- 
 dash of ideas, until you don't know whether you are standing 
 ou your head or your heels;" and it was after this that Dick 
 fouud his refuge with Phillis. 
 
 It was little better when they were all in the drav/ing-room 
 together. If Mr. Mayne had invited them there for the pur- 
 pose of keeping them all under his own eyes and making them 
 uncomfortable, he could not have managed better. When 
 Dick suggested a stroll in the garden he said: 
 
 " Pshaw! what nonsense proposing such a thing, when the 
 dews are heavy and the girls will catch their deaths of cold!" 
 
 " We do it every evening of our lives," observed Nan, hard- 
 ily; but even she dared not persevere in the face of this pro- 
 test, though she exchanged a rebellious look with Dick that 
 did him good and put him in a better humor. 
 
 They found their way into the conservatory after that, but 
 were hunted out on pretense of having a little music; at least 
 Nan would have it that it was pretense. 
 
 " Your father does not care much for music, 1 know," she 
 whispered, as she placed herself at the grand piano, while 
 Dick leaned against it and watched her. It was naughty of 
 Nan, but there was no denying that she found Mr. Mayne 
 more aggravating than usual this evening. 
 
 " Come, come, Miss Nancy!" he called out — he always
 
 44 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 called her that when he wished to annoy her, for Nan had a 
 special dislike to her quaint, old-fashioned name; it had been 
 her mother's and grandmother's name; in every generation 
 there had been a Nancy Challoner — " come, corne, Miss Nanny! 
 we can not have you playing at hide-and-seek iti this fashion. 
 We want some music. Give us something rousing, to keep us 
 all awake." And Nan had reluctantly placed herself at the 
 piano. 
 
 She did her little best according to orders, for she dared not 
 offend Dick's father. None of the ChalJoners were accom- 
 plished girls. Dulce sung a little, and so did Nan, but Phillis 
 could not play the simplest piece without bungling; and her 
 uncertain little vvarbiings, which were sweet but hardly true, 
 were reserved for church. 
 
 Dulce sung very prettily, hut she could only manage her 
 own accompaniments or a sprightly waltz. Nan, who did 
 most of the execution of the family, was a very fair performer 
 from a young lady's point of view, and that is not saying 
 much. She always had her piece ready if peo23le wanted lier 
 to play. She sat down without nervousness and rose without 
 haste. She had a choice little repertory of old songs and bal- 
 lads, that she could produce without hesitation from memory 
 — " My mother bids me bind my hair," or " Did your faithful 
 Ariel tly," and such-like old songs, in which there is more 
 melody than in a hundred new ones, and which she sung in a 
 simple, artless fashion that pleased the elder people greatly. 
 Dulce could do more than this, but her voice had never been 
 properly tutored, and she sung her bird-music in bird-fashion, 
 rather wildly and shrilly, with small respect to rule and art, 
 nevertheless making a pleasing noise, as a young foreigner 
 once told her. 
 
 When Nan had exhausted her little stock, Mr. Mayne per- 
 emptorily invited them to a round game; and the rest of (he 
 evening was spent in trying to master the mysteries of a new 
 game, over the involved rules of which Mr. Mayne, as usual, 
 wrangled fiercely with everybody, while Dick shrugged his 
 shoulders and shuffled his cards with such evident ill-humor 
 that Nan hurried her sisters away half an hour before the 
 usual time, in terror of an outbreak. 
 
 It was an utterly disapt)ointing evening; and, to make mat- 
 ters worse, Mr. Mayne actually lighted his cigar and strolled 
 down the garden paths, keeping quite close to Nan, and show- 
 ing such obvious intention of accompanying them to the very 
 gale of the cottage that there could be no thought of any 
 sweet lingerhig in the dusk.
 
 NOT LiKte OtHER GIRLS. 45 
 
 " I will be even with him/' growled Dick, who was in a 
 state of suppressed irritation under this unexpected surveil- 
 lance; and in the darkest part of the road he twitched Nan's 
 sleeve to attract her attention, and whispered, in so Iowa voice 
 that his father could not hear him, " This is not good-b3'e. 
 1 will be round at the cottage to-morrow morning;" and Naa 
 nodded hurriedly, and then turned her head to answer Mr. 
 Mayue's last question. 
 
 If Dick had put all his feelings in his hand-shake, it could 
 not have spoken to Nan more eloquently of the young's man 
 wrath and chagrin and concealed tenderness. Nan shot him 
 one of her swift, straightforward looks in answer. 
 
 " Never mind," it seemed to say; " we shall have to-mor- 
 row;" and then she bade them cheerfully good-night. 
 
 Dorothy met her iu the hall, and put down her chamber 
 candle-stick. 
 
 " Has the mother gone to bed yet, Dorothy?" questioned 
 the young mistress, speaking still with that enforced cheer- 
 falness. 
 
 " No, Miss Nan; she is still there," jerking her head in the 
 direction of the drawing-room. " Mr. Trinder called, and 
 was with her a long time. I thought she seemed a bit poorly 
 when I took in the lamp." 
 
 " Mamsie is never fit for anything when that old ogre has 
 been," broke in Dulce, impatiently. " He always comes and 
 tells her some nightmare tale or other to prevent her sleep- 
 ing. Now we shall not have the new gowns we set our hearts 
 on. Nan." 
 
 " Oh, never mind the gowns," returned Nan, rather wearily. 
 
 What did it matter if they had to wear their old ones when 
 Dick woulil not be there to see them? And Dorothy, who 
 was contemplating her favorite nursling with the privileged 
 tenderness of an old servant, chimed in with the utmost cheer- 
 fulness: 
 
 " It does not matter what she wears; does it. Miss Nan? 
 She looks just as nice in an old gown as a new one; that is 
 what I say of ail my young ladies; dress does not matter a bit 
 to them." 
 
 " How long are you all going to stand chattering with Dor- 
 othy?" interrupted Phillis, in her clear decided voice. " Mo- 
 ther will wonder what conspiracy we are hatching, and why 
 we leave her so long alone.'' And then Dorothy took up her 
 candle-stick, grumbling a little, as she often did, over Miss 
 Phillis's masterful ways, and the girls went laughingly into 
 their mother's presence.
 
 46 l^OT Llr.L viHtU GIRLS. 
 
 Though it vvaa summGr-tiiuG, Mrs. Challoner's easy-ohaiP 
 was dra^Vii up in front of the rug, and she sat wrapped in h^r 
 white shawl, willi her eyes fixed on the pretty painted fire- 
 screen that hid the blackness of the coals. She did not tura 
 her head or move as her daughters entered; indeed, so mo- 
 tionless was lier attitude that Dulce thought she was asleepl 
 :and went on tiptoe round her chair to steal a kiss. But Nam 
 who had caught sight of her mother's face^ put her quickly 
 aside. i 
 
 " Don't, Dulce: mother is not well. What is the matterl 
 manimie darling?" kneeling down and bringing her bright 
 face on a level with her mother's. She would have taken her 
 into her vigorous young arms, but Mrs. Ohalloner almost 
 pushed her away. | 
 
 "Hush, children! Do be quiet. Nan; 1 can not talk to 
 you. I can not answer questions to-night." And then sle 
 shivered, and drew her shawl closer round her, and put aw^y 
 Nan's caressiiig hands, and looked at them all with a faCo 
 that seemed to have grown pinched and old all at once, atid 
 eyes full of misery, 
 
 " Mammie, you must speak to us," returned Nan, not a 
 whit daunted by this rebuff, but horribly frightened all the 
 time. " Of course, Dorothy told us that Mr. Trinder has 
 been here, and of course we know that it is some trouble about 
 money." Then, at the mention of Mr. Triuder's name, Mrs. 
 Challoner shivered again. 
 
 Nan waited a moment for an answer; but, as none came, 
 she went on in a coaxing voice: 
 
 " Don't be afraid to tell us, mother darling; we can all 
 bear a little trouble, I hojae. We have had such happy lives, 
 and we can not go on being happy always," continued the 
 girl, with the painful conviction coming suddenly into her 
 mind that the brightness of these days was over. " Money is 
 very nice, and one can not do without it, I suppose; but as 
 long as we are together, and love each other — " 
 
 Then Mrs. Challoner fixed her heavy eyes on her daughter, 
 and took up the unfinished sentence: 
 
 " Ah, if we could only be together — if I were not to be sep- 
 arated from my children! it is that — that is crushing me!" 
 and then she pressed her dry lips together, and folded her 
 hands with a gesture of despair; " but I know that it must 
 be, for Mr. Trinder has told me everything. It is no use 
 shutting our eyes and struggling on any longer; for we are 
 ruined — ruined!" her voice sinking into indistinctness. 
 
 Nan grew a little pale. If they were ruined, how would it
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 47 
 
 be with her aud Dick^ And then she thought of Mr. Mavne, 
 awl her heart felt faint witliiu her. Xan, who had Dick 
 auded to her perplexities, was hardly equal to the emergency; 
 but it was Philiis who took the domestic helm as it fell from 
 her sister's hand. 
 
 " If we be ruined, mother," she said, briskly, " it is not 
 half so bad as having you ilk Kan, why dou't you rub her 
 lands? she is shivering with cold, or with bad news, or some- 
 tiling. I mean to set Dorothy at defiance, and to light a nice 
 I'ttle fire, in spite of the clean muslin curtains. When one is 
 i'l or unha[)py, there is nothing so soothing as a fire," con- 
 tuued Phillis, as she removed the screen aud kindled the dry 
 wood, not heeding Mrs. Challoner's feeble remonstrances. 
 
 " Don't, Phillis: we shall not be able to afford fires now;'* 
 aad then she became a little hysterical. But Phillis persisted, 
 aid the red glow was soon coaxed into a cheerful blaze. 
 
 " That looks more comfortable. I feel chilly myself; these 
 simmer nights are sometimes deceptive. I wonder what 
 Dorothy will say to us; I mean to ask her to make ns all some 
 tet. ISo, mammie, you are not to interfere; it will do you 
 good, and we don't mean to have you ill if we can help it.'* 
 Aad then she looked meaningly at Ivan, aud withdrew. 
 
 There was no boiling water, of course, and the kitchen fire 
 w&s raked out; aud Dorothy was sitting in solitary state, look- 
 ing very grim. 
 
 •' It is Lime for folks to be in their beds. Miss Phillis," she 
 said, very crossly. " I don't hold with tea myself so iate: it 
 excites people, and keeps them awake." 
 
 '• Mother is not just the thing, and a cup of tea will do her 
 go)d. Don't let us keep you up, Dorothy," replied Phillis, 
 blandly. " I have lighted the drawing-room fire, and I can 
 boil the kettle in there. If mother has got a chill, I would 
 no: answer for the consequences." 
 
 Dorothy grew huffy at the mention of the fire, and would 
 not aid or abet her young lady's " fad," as she called it. 
 
 ■' If you don't want me, I think I will go to bed. Miss Phil- 
 lis. Susan went off a long time ago." And, as Phillis cheer- 
 fully acquiesced in this arrangement, Dorothy decamped with 
 a frown on her brow, and left Phillis mistress of the situation. 
 
 " There, now, 1 have got rid of the cross old thing," she 
 observed, in a tone of relief, as she filled the kettle and ar- 
 ranged, the little tea-tray. 
 
 She carried them both into the room, poising the tray skill- 
 fully in her hand. Xan looked up in a relieved way as she 
 entered. Mrs. Challoner was stretching out her phllied hands
 
 48 NOT LIKE OTHEK GIELS. 
 
 to the blaze. Her face bad lost its pinched unnatural exprei 
 sion; it was as though the presence of her girls fenced her in se 
 curely, and her misfortune grew more shadowy and faded int 
 the background. She drank the tea when it was given t 
 her, and even begged Nan to follow her example. Nan too 
 a little to please her, though she hardly believed its solace' 
 would be great; but Phillis and Dulce drank theirs in a busi- 
 ness-like way, as though they needed support and were nobl 
 ashamed to own it. It was Nan who put down, her cup first^ 
 and leaned her cheek against her mother's hand. 
 
 " Now, mother dear, we want to hear all about it. Does 
 Mr. Trinder say we are really so dreadfully poor?" 
 
 " We have been getting poorer for a long time," returned 
 her mother, mournfully; " but if we only had a little left ua 
 I would not complain. You see, your father would persist 
 in these investments in spite of all Mr. Trinder could say, and 
 now his words have come true." But this vague slatemen 
 did not satisfy Nan; and patiently, and with difiiculty, s,h\ 
 drew from her mother all that the lawyer had told her. I 
 
 Mr. Challoner had been called to the bar in eaily life, biit 
 his career had hardly been a successful one. He had held fevr 
 briefs, and, though he worked hard, and had good capabilities 
 lie had never achieved fortune; and as he lived up to his iiv 
 come, and was rather fond of the good things of this life, \p 
 got through most of his wife's money, and, contrary to tHe 
 advice of older and wiser heads, invested the remainder in tlie 
 business of a connection who only wanted capital to make Iiis 
 fortune, and Mr. Challoner 's too. 
 
 It was a grievous error; and yet, if Mr. Challoner had lived, 
 those few thousands would hardly have been so sorely missed. 
 He was young in his profession, and if he had been sparefl, 
 success would have come to him as to other men; but he was 
 cut oil unexpectedly in the prime of life, and Mrs. Challoner 
 gave up her large house at Kensington, and settled at Glen 
 Cottage with her three daughters, understanding that life was 
 changed for her, and that they should have to be content with 
 small means ami few wants. 
 
 Hitherto they had had sufficient; but of late there had been 
 dark whispers concerning that invested money; things were not 
 quite square and above-board; the integrity of the firm was 
 doubted. Mr. Trinder, almost with tears in his eyes, begged 
 Mr?. Challoner to be prudent and spend less. The crash 
 which he had foreseen, and had vainly tried to avert, had come 
 to-night. Gardiner & Fowler were bankrupt, and their great- 
 est creditor, Mrs. Challoner, was ruined.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 49 
 
 " We can not get our money. Mr. Triuder says we never 
 shall. They have been paying their dividends correctly, keep- 
 ing it up as a sort of blind, he says; but all the capital is eaten 
 away. George Gardiner, too, your father's cousin, Ihe man 
 he trusted above every one — he to defraud the widoiv and the 
 fatherless, to take our money — my children's only portion — 
 and to leave us beggared.'' And Mrs. Challoner, made trag- 
 ical by this great blow, clasped her hands and looked at her 
 girls with two large tears rolling down her face. 
 
 " Mother, are you sure? is it quite as bad as that?" asked 
 Nan, and then she kissed away the tears, and said something 
 rather brokenly about having faith, and trying not to lose 
 courage; then her voice failed her, and they all sat quiet 
 together. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 PHILLIS'S CATECHISM. 
 
 A VEIL of silence fell over the little party. After the first 
 few moments of disma}', conjecture, and exclamation, there 
 did not seem to be much that any one could say. Each girl 
 was busy with her own thoughts and private interpretation of 
 a most sorrowful enigma. What were they to do? How were 
 they to live without separation, and without taking a solitary 
 plunge nito an unknown and most terrifying world? 
 
 Nan's frame of mind was slightly monotonous. What would 
 Dick say, and how would this affect certain vague hopes she 
 had lately cherished? Then she thought of Mr. Mayne, and 
 shivered, and a sense of coldness and remote fears stole over 
 her. 
 
 One could hardly blame her for this sweet dual selfishness 
 that was not selfishness. She was thinking less of herself 
 than of a certain vigorous young life that was becoming 
 strongly intwined with hers. It was all very well to say 
 that Dick was Dick; but what could the most obstinate will 
 of even that most obstinate young man avail against such a 
 miserable combination of adverse influences — " when the stars 
 in their courses fought against Sisera?" And at this juncture 
 of her thoughts she could feel PhilJis's hand folding softly over 
 hers v;ith a most sisterly pressure full of understanding and 
 sympathy. Phillis had no Dick to stand sentinel over her 
 private thougSits; she was free to be alert and vigilant for 
 others. Nevertheless, her forehead was puckered up with 
 hard thinking, and her silence was so very expressive that 
 Dulce sat and looked at her with grave, unsmiling eyes, the in-
 
 50 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 nooerifc child-like look in them growing very pathetic at the 
 speechlessness that had overtaken them. As for Mrs. Chal- 
 loner, she still moaned feebly from time to time, as she 
 stretched, her numb hands toward the comforting warmth. 
 They were fine delicate hands, with the polished look of old 
 ivory, and there were diamond rings on them that twinkled 
 and shone as she moved them in her restlessness. 
 
 " They shall all go; I will keep nothing," she said, regard- 
 ing them planitively; for they were heir-looms, and highly 
 valued as relics of a " wealthy past." " It is not this sort of 
 thing Ihat I mind. I would live on a crust thankfully, if I 
 could only keep my children with me." And she looked 
 round at the blooming faces of her girls with eyes brimming 
 over with maternal fondness. 
 
 Poor Dulce's lips quivered, and she made a horrified gesture. 
 
 " Oh, mamsie, don't talk so! 1 never could bear crusts, 
 unless they were well buttered. I like everything to be nice, 
 and to have plenty of it — plenty of sunshine, and fun, and 
 holiday-making, and friends; and — and now you are talking 
 as though we must starve, and never have anything to wear, 
 and go nowhere, and be miserable forever." And here Dulce 
 broke into actual sobs; for was she not the petted darling? 
 and had she not had a life so gilded by sunshine that she had 
 never seen the dark edges of a single cloud? So that even 
 Nan forgot Dick for a moment, and looked at her young sister 
 pityingly; but Phillis interposed with bracing severity: 
 
 " Don't talk such nonsense, Dulce. Of course we must eat 
 to live, and of course we must have clothes to wear. Aren't 
 Nan and I thinking ourselves into headaches by trying to con- 
 trive how even the crusts you so despise are to be bought?" 
 which was hardly true as far as Nan was concei-ned, for she 
 blushed guiltily over this telling point in Phillis's eloquence. 
 "It only upsets mother to talk like this." And then she 
 touched the coals skillfully, till they spluttered and blazed into 
 fury. " There is the Friary, you know," she continued, look- 
 ing calmly round on them, as though she felt herself full of 
 resources. " If Dulce chooses to make herself miserable about 
 the. crusts, we have, at least, a roof to shelter us." 
 
 " I forgot the Friary," murmured Nan, looking at her sis- 
 ter with admiration; and, though Mrs. Challoner said noth- 
 ing, she started a little as though she had forgotten it too. 
 But Dulce was not to be comforted. 
 
 " That horrid, dismal, poky old cottage!" she rettn-ned, 
 with a shrill rendering of each adjective. " You would have 
 us go and live iu that damp, musty, fusty place?"
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 51 
 
 Phillis gave a succession of quick little nods. 
 
 *' 1 don't think it particularly dismal, or Nan either," she 
 returnea, in her brisk way, Phillis alvva^'s answered for JNan, 
 and was never contradicted. " It is not dear Glen Cottage, 
 of course, but we could not begin munching our crusts here," 
 she continued, with a certain grim humor. Things were 
 apparently at their worst; but at least she — Phillis — the 
 clever one, as she had heard herself called, would do her best 
 to keep the heads of the little family above water. " It is a 
 nice little place enough, if we were only humble enough to see 
 it; and it is not damp, and it is our own," running up the ad- 
 vantages as well as she could. 
 
 "The Friary!" commented her mother, in some surprise; 
 ** to think of that queer old cottage coming into your head! 
 And it so seldom lets. And people say it is dear at forty 
 pounds a year; and it is so dull that they do not care to stay." 
 
 " Never mind all that, mammy," returned Phillis, with a 
 grave, business-like face. " A cottage, rent free, that will 
 hold us, is not to be despised; and Hadleigh is a nice place, 
 and the sea always suits you. There is the house, and the 
 furniture that belongs to us; and we have plenty of clothes for 
 the present. How much did Mr. Trinder think we should 
 have in hand?" 
 
 Then her mother told her, but still mournfully, that they 
 might possibly have about a hundred pounds. *' But there 
 are my rings and that piece of point-lace that Lady Fitzroy 
 admired so — " but Phillis waved away that proposition with 
 an impatient frown. 
 
 " There is plenty of time for that when we have got through 
 all the money. Not that a hundred pounds would last long, 
 with moving, and paying off the servants, and all that sort of 
 thing." 
 
 Then Nan, who had worn all along an expression of admir- 
 ing confideuce in Phillis's resources, originated an idea of her 
 own. 
 
 " The mother might write to uncle Francis, perhaps;" but 
 at this proposition Mrs. Challoner sat upright and looked al- 
 most oliended. " My dear Nan, what a preposterous idea! 
 Your uncle Francis!" 
 
 " Well, mammy, he is our uncle; and 1 am sure he would 
 be sorry if his only brother's children were to starve." 
 
 " You are too young to know any better," returjied Mrs. 
 Challoner, relapsing into alarmed feebleness: " ycu are not 
 able to judge. But I never liked my brother-in-law — never; 
 he was not a good man. He was not a person whom on§
 
 S2 NOT LIKE OTHEE GIRLS. 
 
 could trust/' continued the poor l^dy, trying to soften down 
 certain facts to her innocent young daughters. 
 
 Sir Francis Challoner had been a black sheep — a very black 
 sheep indeed; one who had dyed himself certainly to a most 
 sable hue; and though, for such prodigals, there may be a late 
 repentance and much killing of fatted calves, still Mrs. Chal- 
 loner was right in refusing to intrust herself and her children 
 to the uncertain mercies of such a sinner. 
 
 Now, Nan knew nothing about the sin; but she did think 
 that an uncle who was a baronet threw a certain reflected 
 glory or brightness over them. Sir Francis might be that 
 very suspicious character, a black sheep; he might be landless, 
 with the exception of that ruined tenement in the north; nev- 
 ertheless. Nan loved to know that he was of their kith and 
 kin. It seemed to settle their claims to respectability, and 
 held Mr. Mayne in some degree of awe; and he knew that his 
 own progenitors had not the faintest trace of blue blood, and 
 numbered more aldermen than baronets. 
 
 It would have surprised and grieved Nan, especially just 
 now, if she had known that no such glory remained to her — 
 that Sir Francis Challoner had long filled the cup of his in- 
 iquities, and lay in his wife's tomb in some distant cemetery, 
 leaving a certain red-headed Sir Harry to reign in his stead. 
 
 " I don't think we had better talk any more," observed 
 Phillis, somewhat brusquely; and then she exchanged meaning 
 looks with Nan. The two girls were somewhat dismayed at 
 their mother's wan looks: her feebleness and uncertainty of 
 speech, the very vagueness of her lamentations, filled them 
 with sad forebodings for the future. How were they to leave 
 her, when they commenced that little fight with the world? 
 She bad leaned on them so long that her helplessness had be- 
 come a matter of babit. 
 
 Nan understood her sister's warning glance, and she made 
 no further allusion to Sir Francis; she only rose v/ith assumed 
 briskness, and took her mother in charge. 
 
 " Now I am going to help you to bed, mammy darling,*' 
 she said, cheerfully. " Phillis is quite right; we will not talk 
 any more to-night; we shall want all our strength for to-mor- 
 row. We will Just say our prayers, and try and go to sleep, 
 and hope that things may turn out better than we expect." 
 And, as Mrs, Challoner was too utterly spent to resist this 
 wise counsel, Nan achieved her pious mission with some suc- 
 cess. She sat down by the bedside and leaned her head against 
 her mother's pillow, and soon had the satisfaction of hearing
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 53 
 
 the even breathing that proved that the sleeper had forgOttey 
 her troubles for a little while. 
 
 " Poor dear mother I how exhausted she must havebeea!" 
 thought Nau, as she closed the door softl}'. She was far too 
 anxious aud wide a^<»iie herself to dream of retiring to rest. 
 She was somewhat surprised to find her sisters' room dark and 
 empt}' as she passed. They must be still down-stairs, talking 
 over things in the fire-light; they were as little inclined for 
 sleep as she was. Phillis's carefully decocted tea must have 
 stimulated them to wakefulness. 
 
 The room was si ill bright with fire-light. Dulce was curled 
 up in her mother's chair, and had evidently been indulging in 
 what she called " a good cry." Phillis, somber aud thought- 
 fid, was pacing the roam, with her hands clasped behind her 
 head— a favorite attitude of hers when she was in any per- 
 plexity. She stopped short as Kan regarded her with some 
 astonishment from the threshold. 
 
 " Oh, come in, Kan; it will be such a relief to talk to a 
 sensible person. Dulce is so silly, she does nothing but cr}'. " 
 
 "1 can't help it," returned Dulce, with another sob; 
 " everything is so horrible, aud Piiillis will say such dreadful 
 things." 
 
 "Poor little soul!" said Kan, in a sympathetic voice, sit- 
 ting down on the arm of the chair and stroking Dulce's hair; 
 " it is very hard for her aud for us all," with a pent-up sigh. 
 
 " Of course it is hard," retorted Phillis, confronting them 
 rather impatiently from the hearth-rug; " it is bitterly hard. 
 But it is not worse for Dulce than for the rest of us. Crying 
 will not mend matters, aud it is a sheer waste of tears. As 1 
 tell her, what we have to do now is to make the best of things, 
 and see what is to be done under the circumstances." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," repeated Nan, meekly; but she put her 
 arm round Dulce, and drew her head against her shoulder. 
 The action comforted Dulce, and her tears soon ceased to 
 flow. 
 
 " 1 am thinking about mother," went on Phillis, pondering 
 her words slowly as she spoke; " she does look so ill aud weak. 
 I do not see how we are to leave her." 
 
 Mrs, Challoner's moral helplessness and dread of responsi- 
 bility were so sacred in her daughters' eyes that they rarely 
 alluded to them except in this vague fashion. , For years they 
 had shielded and petted her, and given way to her little fads 
 and fancies, until she had developed into a sort of gentle 
 hypochondriac. 
 
 " Mother can not bear this; we always keep these little
 
 54 KOT LIKE OTHKR GIRLS. 
 
 worries from lier," Nan Lad been accustDnied to say; and tlie' 
 others had followed her example. 
 
 The unspoken thought lay heavy upon them now. How 
 were they to prevent the rough winds of adversity from blow- 
 ing too roughly upon their cherished charge? The roof, and 
 perhaps the crust, might be theirs; but how were they to con- 
 trive that she should not miss her little comforts? They would 
 gladly work; but how, and after what fashion? 
 
 Phillis was the first to plunge into the unwelcome topic, for 
 Nan felt almost as helpless and bewildered as Dulce. 
 
 "We must go into the thing thoroughly," began Piiillis, 
 drawing a chair opposite to her sisters. She was very pale, 
 but her eyes had a certain brightness of determination. She 
 looked too young for that quiet care-worn look that had come 
 so suddenly to her; but one felt she could be equal to any 
 emergency. " We are down-hearted, of course; but we have 
 plenty of time for all that sort of thing. The question is, 
 how are we to live?" 
 
 "Just so." observed Nan, rather dubiously; and Dulce 
 gave a little gasp. 
 
 " There is the Friary standing empty; and there is the 
 furniture, and there will be about fifty pounds, perhaps less, 
 when everything is settled. And we have clothes enough to 
 last some time, and — " here Dulce put her hands together 
 pleadingly, but Phillis looked at her severely, and went on: 
 " Forty or fifty pounds will soon be spent, and then we shall 
 be absolutely penniless; we have no one to help us. Mother 
 will not hear of writing to Uncle Francis; we must work our- 
 selves, or starve." 
 
 " Couldn't we let lodgings?" hazarded Dulce, with quaver- 
 ing voiee; but Phillis smiled grimly. 
 
 " Let lodgings at the Friary! why, it is only big enough to 
 hold us. We might get a larger house in Hadleigh; but no, 
 it would be ruinous to fail, and perhaps we should not make 
 it answer. I can not fancy mother living in the basement 
 story; she would make herself wretched over it. We are too 
 young. I don't think that would answer, Nan; do you?" 
 
 Nan replied faintly that she did not think it would. The 
 mere proposition took her breath away. What would Mr. 
 Mayne say to that? Then she plucked up spirit and went 
 into the question vigorously. 
 
 There were too many lodging-houses in Hadleigh now; it 
 would be a hazardous speculation, and one likely to fail; they 
 had not sufficient furniture for such a purpose, and they dare 
 not use up their little capital too quickly. They were too
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIltLS. 55 
 
 young, too, to carry ont such a thing. Nan did not add 
 " and too pretty," though iihe colored and hesitated here. 
 Their mother could not help them; she was not strong enough 
 for house-work or cooking, iihe thought that plan must be 
 given up. 
 
 " We might be daily governesses, and live at home," sug- 
 gested Dulce, who found a sort of relief in throwing out feelers 
 in every direction. Nan brightened up visibly at this, but 
 Phillis's moody brow did not relax for a moment. 
 
 " That would be nice," acquiesced Nan, " and then mother 
 would not find the day so long if we came home in the even- 
 ing; she could busy herself about the house, and we could 
 leave her little things to do, and she would not find the hours 
 so heavy. 1 like that idea of yours, Dulce; and we are all so 
 fond of children." 
 
 " The idea is as nice as possible," replied Phillis, with an 
 ominous stress on the noun, "if we couli only make it prac- 
 ticable." 
 
 " Phil is going to find fault," pouted Dulce, who knew 
 every inflection of Phillis's voice. 
 
 " Oh, dear, no, nothing of the kind!" she retorted, briskly. 
 *' Nan is quite right; we all dote on children. 1 should dear- 
 ly like to be a governess myself; it would be more play than 
 work; but I am only wondering who would engage us." 
 
 " Who? — oh, anybody!" returned Nan, feeling puzzled by 
 the smothered satire of Phillis's speech. " Of course we are 
 not certificated, and I for one could only leach young chil- 
 dren; but — " here Phillis interrupted her. 
 
 *' Don't think me horrid if I ask you and Dulce some ques- 
 tions, but do — do answer me just as though I were going 
 through the catechism; we are only girls, but we must sift 
 the whole thing thoroughly. Are we fit for governesses? what 
 can you and I and Dulce teach?" 
 
 " Oh, anything!" returned Nan, still more vaguely. 
 
 " My dear Nanny, anything won't do.- Come, I am really 
 in earnest; I mean to catechise you both thoroughl}'." 
 
 " Very well," returned Nan, in a resigned voice; but Dulce 
 looked a little frightened. As for Phillis, she sat erect, with 
 her finger pointed at them in a severely ominous fashion. 
 
 " How about history. Nan? I thought you could never re- 
 member dales; you used to jumble facts in the most marvel- 
 ous manner. I remember your insisting that Anne of Cleves 
 was Louis NIL 's second wife; and you shocked Miss Martin 
 dreadfully by declaring that one of Marlborough's victories 
 was fought at Cressy."
 
 66 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 << 
 
 I never could remember historical facts/' returned Nan, 
 litimbiy. " Dulce always did better than 1; and so did you, 
 Piiillis. When I teach the children I can have the book be- 
 fore me." But Phillis only shook her head at this, and 
 went on: 
 
 " Dulce was a shade better, but 1 don't believe she could 
 lell me the names of the English sovereigns in proper 
 sequence;" but Dulce disdained to answer. " You were bet- 
 ter at arithmetic, Nan. Dulce never got through her rule of 
 three; but you were not very advanced even at that. You 
 write a pretty hand, and you used to talk French very 
 fluently." 
 
 "Oh, Fve forgotten my French!" exclaimed Nan, in a 
 panic-stricken voii^e. " Dulce, don't you remember wc quite 
 settled to talk in French over our work three times a week, 
 and we have alwa3's forgotten it; and we were reading Ma- 
 dame de Sevigne's ' Letters ' together, and. 1 found the book 
 the other day quite covered with dust." 
 
 " I hate French," returned Dulce, rebelliously. " I began 
 German with Phillis and like it much better." 
 
 " True, but we are only beginners," returned the remorse- 
 less Piiillis; " it was very nice, of course, and the ' Tau- 
 genichts ' was delicious; but think how many words in every 
 sentence you hud to hunt out in the dictionary. I am glad 
 you feel so competent, Dulce; but 1 could not teach German 
 myself, or French either. I don't remember enough of the 
 grammar; and 1 do not believe Nan does either, though she 
 used to chatter so to Miss Martin." 
 
 " Did I not say she would pick our idea to pieces?" re- 
 turned Dulce, with tears in her eyes. 
 
 " My dear little sister, don't look so dreadfully pathetic. 1 
 am quite as disheartened and disappointed as you are. Nan 
 says she has forgotten her French, and she will have to teach 
 histoi-y with an open book before her; we none of us draw — 
 no, Dulce, please let me finish our scanty stock of accomplish- 
 ments. 1 only know my notes — for no one cares to hear me 
 lumber through my pieces — and I sing at church. You have 
 the svveetest voice, Dulce, but it is not trained; and I can not 
 compliment you oij your playing. Nan sings and plays very 
 niotiiy, and it is a pleasure to listen to her; but I am afraid 
 she knows little about the theory of music, harmony, and 
 thorough bass; you never did anything in that way, did you, 
 Nan?" 
 
 Nan shook her head sadly. She was too discomfited for 
 speech. Phillis looked at them both thoughtfully; her trouble
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 5^ 
 
 was very real, but slie could not help a triumphant inflection 
 in her voice. 
 
 " Dear Nan, please do not look so unhappy. Dulce/you 
 shall not begin to cry again. Don't you remember what 
 mother was reading to us the other day about the country be- 
 ing flooded with incompetent governesses — half-educated "girls 
 turned loose on the world to earn their living? I can re- 
 member one sentence of that writer, word for word: 'The 
 standard of education is so high at the present day, and the 
 number of certificated reliable teachers so much increased, 
 that we can afford to discourage the crude efforts to teach, or 
 un-teach, our children/ And then he goes on to ask, ' What 
 has become of womanly conscientiousness, when such igno- 
 rance presses forward to assume such sacred responsibilities? 
 Better the competent nurse than the incompetent governess.' 
 ' Why do not these girls,' he asks, ' who, through their own 
 fault or the fault of circumstances, are not sufficiently ad- 
 vanced to educate others — why do tliey not rather discharge 
 the exquisitely feminine duties of the nursery? What an ad- 
 vantage to parents to have their little ones brought into th& 
 earliest contact with refined speech and cultivated manners — 
 their infant ears not inoculated by barbarous English?' " but 
 here Phil lis was arrested in her torrent of reflected wisdom by 
 an impatient exclamation from Dulce. 
 
 " Oh, Nan, do ask her to be quiet! She never stops when 
 she once begins. How can we listen to such rubbish, when 
 we are so wretched? You may talk for hours, Phil, but I 
 never, never will be a nurse!" And Dulce hid her face on 
 Nan's shoulder in such undisguised distress that her sisters had 
 much ado to comfort her. 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 *' WE SHOULD HAVE TO CARRY PARCELS." 
 
 It was hard work to tranquilize Dulce. 
 
 " 1 never, never will be a nurse!" she sobbed out at inter- 
 vals. 
 
 " You little goose, who ever thought of such a thing? Why 
 will you misunderstand me so?" siglied Phillis, almost in de- 
 spair at her sister's impracticability. " I am only trying to 
 prove to you and Nan that we are not fit for governesses." 
 
 " No, indeed; I fear you are right there," replied poor 
 Nan, who had never realized her deficiencies before. They 
 were all bright, taking girls, with plenty to say for them- 
 selves, lady-like and well bred. Who would have thought
 
 58 i^OT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 that, when weigher] in the balance, they would have "been 
 found so wanting? " 1 always knew I was a very stupid per- 
 soif; but you are different — you are so clever, Phil!" 
 
 " Nonsense, Nanny! it is a sort of cleverness for which 
 there is no market. I am fond of reading. I remember 
 things, and do a great deal of thinking; but 1 am destitute of 
 accomplishments; my knowledge of languages is purely super- 
 ficial. We are equal to other girls— just young ladies, and 
 nothing more; but when it comes to earning our bread and 
 butter — " Here Phillis paused, and threw out her hands 
 with a little gesture of despair. 
 
 " But you work so beautifully; and so does Nan," inter- 
 rupted Dulce, who was a little comforted, now she knew Phil- 
 lis had no prospective nurse-maid theory in view. "I am 
 good at it myself," she continued, modestly, feeling tliat, in 
 this case, self-praise was allowable. "We might be compan- 
 ions — some nice old lady who wants her caps made, and re- 
 quires some one to read to her," faltered Dulce, with her 
 child-like pleading look. 
 
 Nan gave her a little hug; but she left the answer to Phillis, 
 who went at once into a brown study, and only woke up after 
 a long interval. 
 
 " I am looking at it all round," she said, when Nan at last 
 pressed for her opinion; " it is not a bad idea. I think it very 
 possible that either you or I, Nan — or both, perhaps— might 
 find something in that line to suit us. There are old ladies 
 everywhere, and some of them are rich and lonely and want 
 companions." 
 
 " You have forgotten me!" exclaimed Dulce, with natural 
 jealousy, and a dislike to be overlooked, inherent in most 
 young people. " And it is 1 who have always made mammy's 
 caps; and you know how Laly Pitzroy praised the last one." 
 
 " Yes, yes; we know all that," returned Phillis, impatient- 
 ly. " You are as clever as possible with your fingers; but one 
 of us must stop with mother, and you are the youngest, Dulce; 
 that is what I meant by looking at it all round, if Nan and 
 1 were away, it would never do for you and mother to live at 
 the Friary. We could not afford a servant, and we should 
 want the forty pounds a year to pay for bare necessaries; for 
 our salary would not be very great. You would have to live 
 in lodgings — two little rooms, that is all; and even then I am 
 afraid you and mother would be dreadfully pinched, for we 
 should have to dress ourselves properly in other people's 
 houses," 
 
 " Oh, Phillis, that would not do at all!" exclaimed Nan, iq
 
 ITOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 59 
 
 a voice of despair. She was very pale by this time; full real- 
 ization of all this trouble was coming to her, as it had come 
 to Phillis. " What shall we do? Who will help us to any de- 
 cision? How are you and I to go away and live luxuriously 
 in other people's houses, and leave mother atid. Dulce piaing 
 in two shabby little rooms, with nothing to do, and perhaps 
 not enough to eat, and mother fretting herself ill, and Dulce 
 losing her bloom? I could not rest; I could not sleep for 
 thinking of it. I would rather take in plain needle-work, and 
 live on dry bread, if we could only be together, and help each 
 other. '' 
 
 " Sa would 1," returned Phillis, in an odd, muffled voice. 
 
 " And I too," rather hesitatingly from Dulce. 
 
 " If we could only live at the Friary, and have Dorothy to 
 do all the rough work," sighed Kan, with a sudden yearning 
 toward even that very shabby ark of refuge; " if we could 
 only be together, and see each other every day, things would 
 not be quite sa dreadful." 
 
 *' 1 am quite of your opinion," was Phillis's curt observa- 
 tion; but there was a sudden gleam in her eyes. 
 
 " 1 have heard of ladies working for fancy-shops; do you 
 think we could do something of that kind?" asked Nan, anx- 
 iously. " Even mother could help us in that; and Dulce does 
 work so beautifully. It is all very well to say we have no ac- 
 complishments," went on ISTan, wilh a pathetic little laugh, 
 '* but you know that no other girls work as we do. We have 
 always made our own dresses. And Lady Fitzroy asked me 
 once who was our dress-maker, because she fitted us so ex- 
 quisitely; and 1 was so proud of telling her that we always did 
 our own, wilh Dorothy co help — " 
 
 " Nan," interrupted Phillis, eagerly, and there was a great 
 softness in her whole mien, and her eyes were glistening — 
 " dear Nan, do you love us all so that you could give up the 
 whole vi^orld for our sakes — for the sake of living together, I 
 mean?" 
 
 Nan hesitated. Did the whole world involve Dick, and 
 could even her love for her sister induce her voluntarily to 
 give him up? Phillis, who was quick-witLed, read the doubt 
 in a moment, and hastened to qualify her words: 
 
 " The outside world, I mean — mere conventional acquaint- 
 ances, not friends. Do you think you could bear to set society 
 at defiance, to submit to be sent to Coventry for our sakes; to 
 do without it, in fact to live in a little world of our own and 
 make ourselves happy in it?" 
 
 " Ah, Phillis, you are so clever, and 1 don't understand
 
 60 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 you/^ faltered Nan. It was not Dick she was to give up, 
 but what could Phillis tuean? " We are all fond of society; 
 we are like other girls, 1 suppose. But if we are to be poor 
 and work for our living, 1 dare say people will give us up." 
 
 " I am not meaning that," returned her sister, earnestly; 
 *' it is something far harder, something far more difficult, 
 something that will be a great sacrifice and cost ne all tre- 
 mendous efforts. But if we are to keep a roof over our heads, 
 if we are to live together in anything like comfort, I don't see 
 what else we can do, unless we go out as companions and 
 leave mother and Dulce in lodgings.'* 
 
 " Oh, no, no; pray don't leave us!" implored Dulce, feel- 
 ing that all her strength and comfort lay near Nan. 
 
 " 1 will not leave you, dear, if 1 can possibly help it," re- 
 turned Nan, gently. " Tell us what you mean, Phillis, for I 
 see you have some sort of plan in your head. There is noth- 
 ing—nothing," she continued, more firmly, " that 1 would 
 not do to make mother and Dulce happy. Speak out; you 
 are half afraid that 1 shall prove a coward, but you shall see." 
 
 " Dear Nan, no; you are as brave as possible. I am rather 
 a coward myself. Yes; 1 have a plan; but you have yourself 
 put it into my head by saying what you did about Lady Fitz- 
 roy." 
 
 " About Lady Fitzroy?" 
 
 " Yes; your telling her about our making our own dresses. 
 Nan, you are right; needle-work is our forte; nothing is a 
 trouble to us. Few girls have such clever fingers, 1 believe; 
 and then you and Dulce have such taste. Mrs. Paine once 
 told me that we were the best-dressed girls in the neighbor- 
 hood, and she wished Carrie looked half as well. 1 am telling 
 you this, not from vanity, but because I do believe we can 
 turn our one talent to account. We should be miserable gov- 
 ernesses; we do not want to separate and seek situations as 
 lady helps or companions; we do not mean to fail in letting 
 lodgings; but if we do not succeed as good dress-makers, never 
 believe me again." 
 
 " Dress-makers!" almost shrieked Dulce. But Nan, who 
 had expressed herself willing to take in plain needle-work, 
 only looked at her sister with mute gravity; her httle world 
 was turned so completely upside down, everything was so un- 
 real, that nothing at this" moment could have surprised her. 
 
 "Dress-makers!" she repeated, vaguely. 
 
 " Yes, yes," replied Phillis, still more eagerly. The in- 
 spiration had come to her in a moment, full-fledged and grown 
 up, like Minerva from the head of J upiter. J ust from those
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 61 
 
 chance words of Nan's she had grasped the whole thing in a 
 monieut. Now, indeed, she felt that she was clever; here at 
 least was something striking and original; she took no notice 
 of Dulce's shocked exclamation; she fixed her eyes solemnly 
 on Nan. " Yes, yes; what does it matter what the outside 
 world says? We are not like other girls; we never were; peo- 
 l)le always said we were so original. Necessity strikes out 
 strange paths sometimes. We could not do such a thing 
 here; no, no, 1 never could submit to that myself," as Nan 
 involuntarily shuddered; "but at lladleigh, where no one 
 knows us, where we shall be among strangers. And then, 
 you see. Miss Monks is dead." 
 
 " Oh, dear! oh, dear! what does she mean?" cried Dulce, 
 despairingly; " and what do we care about Miss Monks, if the 
 creature be dead, or about Miss Anybody, if we have got to 
 do such dreadful things?" 
 
 " My dear," returned Phillis, with compassionate irony, 
 "if we had to depend upon you for ideas — " and here she 
 made an eloquent pause, " Our last tenant for the Friary 
 was Miss Monks, and Miss Monks was a dress-maker; and, 
 though perhaps I ought not to say it, it does seem a direct 
 leading of Providence, putting such a thought into my head." 
 
 " I am afraid Dulce and I are very slow and stupid," re- 
 turned Nan, putting her hair rather wearily from her face; her 
 pretty color had quite faded during the last half hour. " I 
 think if you should tell us plainly exactly what you mean, 
 Phillis, we should be able to understand everything better." 
 
 " My notion is this," began Phillis, slowly; " remember, I 
 have not thought it quite out, but 1 will give you my ideas 
 just as they occur to me. We will not say anything to moth- 
 er just yet, until we have thoroughly digested our plan. You 
 and I, Nan, will run down to the Friary and reconnoiter the 
 place, judge of its capabilities, an'd so forth; and when we 
 come back we will hold a family council." 
 
 " That will be best," agreed Nan, who remembered, with 
 sudden feelings of relief that Dick and his belongings would 
 be safe in thj Engadine by that time. " But, Phillis, do you 
 really and truly believe that we could carry out such a 
 scheme?" 
 
 " Why not?" was the bold answer. "If we can work for 
 ourselves, we can for other people. 1 have a presentiment 
 that we shall achieve a striking success. We will make the 
 old Friary as comfortable as possible," she continued, cheer- 
 fully. " The good folk of lladleigh will be rather surprised 
 when they see our pretty rooms. No horse-hair sofa; uq
 
 62 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 crochet antimacassars or hideuus wax flowers; none of the 
 usual stock-in-trade. Dorothy will manage the house for us; 
 and we will all sit and work together, and mother will help 
 us, and read to us. Aren't you glad, Nan, that we all saved 
 up for that splendid sewing-machine?" 
 
 " I do believe there is something, after all, in what you 
 say," was Nan's response; but Dulce was not so easily won 
 over. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that we' shall put up a brass plate on 
 the door, with ' Challoner, Dress-maker,' on it?" she ob- 
 served, indignantly. A red glow mounted to Nan's forehead; 
 and even Phillis looked disconcerted. 
 
 '" I never thought of that; well, perhaps not. We might 
 . advertise at the Library, or put cards in the shops. 1 do not 
 think mother would ever cross the threshold if she saw a brass 
 plate." 
 
 " No, no; I could not bear that," said Nan, faintly. A 
 dim vision of Diuk standing at the gate, ruefully contemplat- 
 inor thoir name — her name — in juxtaposition with "dress- 
 maker," crossed her mind directly. 
 
 " But we should have to carry parcels, and stand in people's 
 halls, and perhaps fit Mrs. Squalls, the grocer's wife — that fat 
 old thing, you know. How would you like to make a dress 
 for Mrs. Squails, Phil?" asked Dulce, with the malevolent 
 desire of making Phillis as uncomfortable as possible; but 
 Phillis, who had rallied from her momentary discomfiture, 
 was not to be again worsted. 
 
 " Dulce, you talk like a child; you are really a very silly 
 little thing. Do you think any work can degrade us, or that 
 we shall not be as much gentlewomen at Hadleigh as we are 
 here?" 
 
 " But the parcels?" persisted Dulce. 
 
 "1 do not intend to carry any," was the imperturbable re- 
 l)ly. "Dorothy will do that; or we will hire a boy. As for 
 waiting in halls, I don't think any one will ask me to do that, 
 as I should desire to be shown into a room at once; and as for 
 Mrs. Squails, if the poor old woman honors me with her cus- 
 tom, 1 will turn her out a gown that shall be the envy of Had- 
 leigh." 
 
 Dulce did not answer this, but the droop of her lip was pite- 
 ous; it melted Phillis at once, 
 
 " Oh, do cheer up, you silly girl!" she saia, svith a coaxing 
 face. " What is the good of making ourselves more misera- 
 ble than we need? If you prefer the two little rooms with
 
 sot Like other girls. (53 
 
 mother, say so; and Nau and I will look out for old ladies at 
 
 oiice." 
 
 " Xo, no! Oh, pray, don't leave me!" still more pite- 
 ously. 
 
 " Well, what will you have us do? we can not starve; and 
 we don't mean to beg. Pluck up a little spirit, Dulce; see 
 how good Kan is! You have no idea how comfortable we 
 shoiihl be!" she went on, with judicious word-painting. 
 " We should all be together— that is the great thing. Then 
 \V8 could talk over our work; and in the afternoon, when we 
 felt dreary, mother could read some interesting novel to us," 
 a tremendous sigh from Xan at this point. 
 
 What a contrast to the afternoons at Glen Cottage — tennis, 
 and five-o'clock tea, and the company of their young friends! 
 Phillis understood the sigh, and hurried on. 
 
 " It will not be always work. We will have long country 
 walks in the evening; and then there will be the garden and 
 the sea-share. Of course we must have exercise and recrea- 
 tion. 1 am afraid we shall have to do without society, for no 
 one will visit ladies under such circumstances; but I would 
 rather do without people than without each other, and so 
 would Xan." 
 
 " Yes, indeed!" broke in Xan; and now the tears were in 
 lier eyes. 
 
 Dulce grew suddenly ashamed of herself. She got up in a 
 little fiurcy, and kissed them both. 
 
 " 1 was very naughty; but 1 did not mean to be unkincl. 
 1 would rather carry parcels, and stand in halls — yes, and 
 even make gowns for Mrs. Squalls — than lose you both. I 
 mil be good. I will not worry you any more, Phil, with my 
 nonsense; and I will work; you will see how 1 will work," 
 fiuidhed Dulce, breathlessly. 
 
 '" There's a darling!" said Xan; and then she added, in a 
 tired voice: " But it is two o'clock; and Dick is coming this 
 morning to say good-bye; and I want to ask you both particu- 
 larly not to say a word to him about this. Let him go away 
 and enjoy himself, and think we are going on as usual; it 
 would spoil his holiday; and there is always time enough for 
 bad news," went on Xan, with a little tremble of her lip. 
 
 "Dear Xan, we understand," returned Phillis, gently; 
 " and you are right, as you always are. And now to bed — to 
 bed," she continued, in a voice of enforced cheerfulness; and 
 then they kissed each other very quietly and solemnly, and 
 crept up as noiselessly as possible to their rooms. 
 
 Phillis and Dulce shared the same room; but Xan had ^
 
 64 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 little cluuiiber to herself very near her raother^s; a door con- 
 nected the two rooms. Kaii closed this carefully wlien she 
 had ascertaiued that Mrs. Challouer was still sleeping, aud 
 then sat down by the window and looked out into the gray 
 glimmering light that preceded the dawn. 
 
 Sleep! How could she sleep with all these thoughts surging 
 through her mind, aud knowing: that in a few hours Dick 
 would come and say good-bye? And here Nan broke down, and 
 had such a fit of crying as she had not had since her father 
 died— nervous, uncontrollable tears, that it was useless to stem 
 in her tired, overwrought state. 
 
 They exhausted her, and disposed her for sleep. She was 
 so chilled and weary that she was glad to lie down in bed at 
 last aud close her eyes; and she had scarcely done so before 
 drowsiness crept over her, and she knew no more until she 
 found the sunshine flooding her little room, and Dorothy stancl- 
 iug by her bed, asking rather crossly why no one seemed dis- 
 posed'to wake this beautiful morning. 
 
 ", Am I late? Oh, I hope 1 am not late!" exclaimed Kan, 
 springing up in a moment. She dressed herself in quite a 
 flurry, for fear that she should keep any one waiting. It was 
 only at the last moment she remembered the outburst of the 
 previous night, and wondered with some dismay what Dick 
 would think of her pale cheeks and the reddened lines round 
 her eyes, and only hoped that he would not attribute them to 
 his goir'g away. Nau was only just in time, for as she entered 
 the breakfast-room Dick came through the veranda and put in 
 his head at the window. 
 
 " Not at breakfast yet! and where are the others?" he asked, 
 in some surprise, for the Challoners were early people, and 
 very regular in their habits. 
 
 " We sat up rather late last night, talking," returned Nan, 
 giving him her hand without looking at him, and yet Dick 
 showed to advantage this morning in his new tweed traveling- 
 suit. 
 
 " Well, 1 have only got ten minutes. 1 managed to give 
 the pater the slip; he%vill bo coming after me, 1 believe, if 1 
 stay longer. This is first-rate, having you all to myself this 
 last morning. But what's up, Nan? you don't seem quite up to 
 the mark. You are palish, you know, and—" here Dick 
 paused in pained embarrassment. Were those traces of tears? 
 had Nan really been crying? was she sorry about his going 
 away? And now there was an odd lump in Dick's throat. 
 
 Nan understood the pause, and got frightened. 
 
 " It is nothing. I have a slight headache; there was a httle
 
 KOT LIKE OTHEB GIKLS. 65 
 
 domestic worry that wanted putting to rights," stammered 
 Nan; " it worried me, for I am stupid at such things, you 
 know." 
 
 She was explaining herself somewhat lamely, and to no pur- 
 pose, for Dick did not believe her in the least. " Domestic 
 worry!" as though she cared for such rubbish as that; as 
 though any amount could make her cry — her, his bright, 
 high-spirited Xaul Xo; she had been fretting about their 
 long separation, and his father's unkinduess, and. the difficul- 
 ties ahead of them. 
 
 " 1 want you to give me a rose," he said, suddenly, a propos 
 of nothing, as it seemed; but, looking up, Xan caught a wist- 
 ful gleam in his eyes, and hesitated. IVas it not Dick who had 
 told her that anecdote about the queen, or was it Lothair.^ 
 and did not a certain meaning attach to this gift? Dick was 
 forever picking roses for her; but he had never given her one, 
 except with that meaning look on his face. 
 
 " You are hesitating," he said, reproachfully; " and on my 
 last morning, when we shall not see each other for months." 
 And Nan moved toward the veranda slowly, and gathered a 
 crimson one without a word, and put it in his hand. 
 
 " Thank you," he said, quite quietly; but he detained the 
 hand as well as the rose for a moment. " One day I will show 
 you this again, and tell you what it means if you do not know; 
 and then we shall see, ah. Nan, my — " He paused as Phil- 
 lis's step entered the room, and said, hurriedly, in a low voice, 
 " Good-bye; I will not go in again. I don't want to see any 
 of them, only you — only you. Good-bye; take care of your- 
 self for my sake. Nan." And Dick looked at her wistfully, 
 and dropped her hand. 
 
 " Has he gone?" asked Phillis, looking up in surprise as 
 her sister came through the open window; " has he gone with- 
 out finding anything out?' 
 
 " Yes, he has gone, and he does not know anything," re- 
 plied Nan, in a subdued voice, as she seated herself behind the 
 urn. It was over now, and she was ready for anything. 
 " Take care of yourself for my sake. Nan!" — that was ring- 
 ing in her ears; but she had not said a word in reply. Only 
 the rose lay in his hand— her parting gift, and perhaps her 
 parting pledge.
 
 66 ^OT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A LONG DAY. 
 
 Nan never recalled the memory of that " long gray day," 
 as she inwardly termed it, without a shiver of discomfort. 
 
 Never but once m her bright young life had she known such 
 a day, and that was when her dead father lay in the darkened 
 house, and her widowed mother had crept weeping into her 
 arms as to her only remaining refuge; but that stretched so 
 far back into the past that it had grown into a vague remem- 
 brance. 
 
 It was not only Dick that was gone, though the pain of that 
 separation was far greater than she would have believed jjossi- 
 ble, but a moral earthquake had shattered their little world, 
 involving them in utter chaos. 
 
 It was only yesterday that she was singing ballads in the 
 Longmead drawing-room — only yesterday; but to-day every- 
 thing was changed. The sun shone, the birds sung, every one 
 eat and drank and moved about as usual. Nan talked and 
 smiled, and no stranger would have guessed that much was 
 amiss; nevertheless, a weight lay heavy on her spirits, and 
 Nan knew in her secret heart that she could never be again 
 the same light-hearted, easy-going creature that she was yes- 
 terday. 
 
 Later on the sisters confessed to each other that the day 
 had been perfectly interminable; the hours dragged on slowly, 
 the sun seemed as though it never meant to set; and to add 
 to their trouble, their mother looked so ill when she came 
 down-stairs, wrapped in her soft white shawl in spite of the 
 heat, that Nan thought of sending for a doctor, and only re- 
 frained at the remembrance that they had no right to such 
 luxuries now except in cases of necessity. 
 
 Then Dorothy was in one of her impracticable moods, throw- 
 ing cold water on all her young mistress's suggestions, and 
 doing her best to disarrange the domestic machinery. Dor- 
 othy suspected a m5^stery somewhere; her young ladies had sat 
 up half the night, and looked pale and owlish in the morning. 
 If they choose to keep her in the dark and not take her into 
 their confidence, it was their affair; but she meant to show 
 them what she thought of their conduct. So she contradicted 
 and snapped, until Nan told her wearily that she was a dis- 
 agreeable old thing, and left her and Susan to do as they liked. 
 She knew Mr. Trinder was waiting for her in the dining-room,
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 67 
 
 and, as Mrs. Challoner was not well enough to see him, she 
 and PInllis must entertain him. 
 
 He had slept at a friend's house a few miles from Oldfield, 
 and was to lunch at Glen Cottage and take the afternoon train 
 to London. 
 
 He was not sorry when he heard that Mrs. Challoner was 
 too indisposed to receive him. In spite of his polite expres- 
 sions of regret, he had found the poor lady terribly trying on 
 tlie previous evening. 8he was a bad manager, and had mud- 
 dled her affairs, and siie did not seem to understand half of 
 what he told her; and her tears and lamentations when she 
 realized the truth had been too much for the soft-hearted old 
 bachelor, though people did call him a woman-hater. 
 
 " But I never could bear to see a woman cry; it is as bad 
 as watuhing an animal in pain," he half growled as he drew 
 out his red pocket-handkerchief and used it rather noisily. 
 
 It was easier work to explain everything to these two bright, 
 sensible girls. Phillis listened and asked judicious questions; 
 but Nan sat with downcast face, plaiting the table-cloth be- 
 tween her restless fingers, and thinking of Dick at odd in- 
 tervals. 
 
 She took it all in, however, and roused up in earnest whrn 
 Mr. Trinder had finished his explanations, and Phillis began 
 to talk in her turn; she was. actually taking the old lawyer 
 into her confidence, and detailing their scheme in the most 
 business-like way. 
 
 " The mother does not know yet — this is all in confidence; 
 but Nan and I have made up our minds to take this step," 
 finished the young philosopher, calmly. 
 
 " Bless my soul," ejaculated Mr. Trinder — he had given 
 vent to this expression at various intervals, but had not further 
 interrupted her. " Bless my soul! my dear young ladies, I 
 think — excuse me if 1 am too abrupt, but you must be dream- 
 mg. 
 
 Phillis shook her head smilingly; and as Dorothy came into 
 the room that moment to lay the luncheon, she proposed a 
 turn in the garden, and fetched Mr. Trinder's hat herself, and 
 guided him to a side walk, where they could not be seen from 
 the drawing-room windows. Nan followed them, and tried to 
 keep step with Mr. Trinder^s shambling footsteps, as he 
 walked between the girls with a hot, j^erplexed face, and still 
 muttering to himself at intervals. 
 
 " It is all in confidence," repeated Phillis, in the same calm 
 voice. 
 
 *' And you are actually serious? You are not joking?"
 
 68 NOT LIKE OTHEK GIRLS. 
 
 " Do your clients generally joke when they are ruined?" 
 returned Phillis, with natural exasperation. "Do you think 
 Nan and I are in such excellent spirits that we could originate 
 such a piece- of drollery? Excuse me, Mr. Trinder, but I 
 must say I do not think your remark quite well timed.'^ And 
 Phillis turned away with a little dignity. 
 
 " No, no! now you are put out, and no wonder!" returned 
 Mr. Trinder, soothingly; and he stood quite still on the gravel 
 path, and fixed his keen little eyes on the two young creatures 
 before him — Nan, with her pale cheeks and sad eyes, and 
 Phillis, alert, irritated, full of repressed energy. " Dear, 
 dear! what a pity!" groaned the old man; " two such bonny 
 lasses! and to think a little management and listening to my 
 advice would have kept the house over your heads, if only 
 youf mother would have hearkened to me!" 
 
 " It is too late for all that now, Mr. Trinder," replied Phil- 
 lis, impatiently: "isn't it waste of time crying over spilled 
 milk when we must be taking our goods to market? We 
 must make the best of our little commodities," sighed the girl. 
 "If we were only clever and accomplished, we might do bet- 
 ter; but now — '■' and Phillis left her sentence unfinished, 
 which was a way she had, and which people thought very tell- 
 ing. 
 
 "But, my dear young lady, with all your advantages, 
 and — " Here Phillis interrupted him rather brusquely. 
 
 " What advantages? Do you mean we had a governess? 
 Well, we had three, one after the other; and they were none 
 of them likely to turn out first-rate pupils. Oh, we are well 
 enough, compared to other girls: if we had not to earn our 
 own living we should not be so much amiss. But, Nan, why 
 don't you speak? why do you leave me all the hard work? 
 Did you not tell us last night that you were not fit for a gov- 
 erness?" 
 
 Nan felt rather ashamed of her silence after this. It was 
 true that she was leaving all the onus of their plan on Phillis, 
 and it was certainly time for her to come to her rescue. So 
 she quietly but rather shyly indorsed her sister's speech, and 
 assured Mr. Trinder that they had carefully considered the 
 matter from every point of view, and, though it was a very 
 poor prospect and invoked a great deal of work and self-sac- 
 rifice, she. Nan, thought that Phillis was right, and that it 
 was the best — indeed, the only — thing they could do under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 " For myself, 1 prefer it infinitely to letting lodgings," 
 finished Nan: and Phillis looked at her gratefully,
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 69 
 
 Buf. Mr. Trinder was obstinate and had old-fashioned views, 
 and argued the whole thing in his dictatorial masculine way. 
 They sat down to luncheon, and presently sent Dorothy away 
 — a piece of independence that bitterly offended that crabbed 
 but faithful individual — and wrangled busily through the 
 whole of the meal. 
 
 Mr. Trinder never could remember afterward whether it 
 was lamb or mutton he had eaten; he had a vague idea that 
 Dulce had handed him the mint sauce, and that he had de- 
 clined it and helped himself to salad. The doubt disturbed 
 him for the first twenty miles of his homeward journey. 
 " Good gracious! for a man not to know whether he is eating 
 Iamb or mutton!" he soliloquized, as he vainly tried to enjoy 
 his usual nap; " but then I never was so upset in my life. 
 Those pretty creatures, and Challoners, too — bless my soul!" 
 And here the lawyer's cogitations became confused and misty. 
 
 Nan, who had more than once seen tears in the lawyer's 
 shrewd little gray eyes, had been very gentle and tolerant over 
 the old man's irritability; but Phillis had resented his caustic 
 speeches somewhat hotly. Dulce, who was on her best be- 
 havior, was determined not to interfere or say a word to thwart 
 her sisters: she even went so far as to explain to Mr. Trinder 
 that they would not have to carry parcels, as Phillis meant to 
 hire a boy. She had no idea that this magnanimous speech 
 was in a figurative manner the last straw that broke the 
 camel's back. Mr. Trinder pushed back his chair hastily, 
 made some excuse that his train must be due, and beat a re- 
 treat an hour before the time, unable to pursue such a painful 
 subject any longer. 
 
 Nan rose with a sigh of relief as soon as the door closed 
 upon their visitor, and took refuge in the shady drawing-room 
 with her mother, whom she found in a very tearful. Querulous 
 state, requirmg a great deal of soothing. They had decided 
 that no visitors were to be admitted that afternoon. 
 
 " You may say your mistress is indisposed with a bad 
 keadache, Dorothy, and that we are keeping the house quiet," 
 Nan remarked, with a little dignit}', with the remembrance of 
 that late passage at arms. 
 
 " Very well, Miss Nan," returned the old servant. How- 
 ever, she was a little cowed by Nan's manner: such an order 
 had never before been given in the cottage. Mrs. Challoner's 
 headaches were common events in every-day life, and had 
 never been known before to interfere with their afternoon re- 
 ceptions. A little eau de Cologne and extra petting, a 
 stronger cup of tea served up to her in her bedroom, had beep
 
 70 NOT LIKE OTHEE GIRLS. 
 
 the ouly rpmedies; the girls had always had their tennis as 
 usual, and the sound of their voices and laughter had been as 
 music in their mother's ears. 
 
 " Very well, Miss Xan/' was all Dorothy ventured to an- 
 swer; but she withdrew with a face puckered up with anxiety. 
 She took in the tea-tray unbidden at an earlier hour than 
 usual; there were Dulce's favorite hot cakes, and some rounds 
 of delicately buttered toast, " for the young ladies have not 
 eaten above a morsel at luncheon," said JJorothy, in explana- 
 tion to her mistress. 
 
 "Never mind us,^' returned Nan, with a friendly nod at 
 the old woman: " it has been so hot to day." And then she 
 coaxed her mother to eat, and made believe herself to enjoy 
 the repasi wiiile she wondered how many more evenings they 
 should spend in the pretty drawing-room on which they had 
 expended so much labor. 
 
 Nan had countermanded the late dinner, which they all 
 felt would be a pretense and mockery; and, as Mrs. Chulluner's 
 headache refused to yield to the usual remedies, the was obliged 
 to retire to bed as soon as the sun set, and the three girls went 
 out into the garden and walked up and down ihe lawn with 
 their arms interlaced, while Dorothy wati;hed them from the 
 pantry window, and wiped away a tear or two, as she washed 
 up the tea things. 
 
 "Howl should like a long walk!" exclaimed Duice, im- 
 patiently. " It is so narrow and confined here; but it would 
 never do* we should meet people." 
 
 " No, it would neier do," agreed her sisters, feeling a fresh 
 pang that such avoidance was necessary. They had never 
 hidden anything before, and the thought that this mystery lay 
 between them and their friends was exquisitely painful. 
 
 " I feel as though I never cared to see one of them again!" 
 sighed poor N"an, for which speech she was rather sharply re- 
 buked by PhiUis. 
 
 They settled a fair amount of business before they went to 
 bed that night; and when Dorothy brought in the supper-tray, 
 bearing a little covered dish in triumph, which she set down 
 before Nan, Nan looked at her with grave, reproachful eyes, 
 in which there was a great deal of kindness. 
 
 " You should not do this, Dorothv," she said, very gently: 
 " we can not afford such delicacies now." 
 
 " It is your favorite dish. Miss Nan," returned Dorothy, 
 quiteignoring this remark. " Susan has cooked it to a nicety; 
 but it will be spoiled if it is not eaten hot " And she stood 
 over them while Nan dispensed the dainty. " You must egt
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 71 
 
 it while it is hot," she kept saying, as she fidgeted about the 
 room, taking up things and putting them down again. Phil- 
 lis looiced at. Nan with a comical expression of dismay. 
 
 " Dorothy, come here/' she exclaimed, at last, pushing 
 away her plate. " Don't you see that Susan is wasting ail her 
 talents on us, and that we can't eat to-dav?" 
 
 " E^-ei-y one can eat if they try, Miss Pliillis," replied Dor- 
 othy, oracularly. " But a thing like that must be hot, or it 
 is spoiled." 
 
 " Oh, never mind about it being hot," returned Phillis, be- 
 ginning to laugh. She was so tired, and Dorothy was such a 
 droll old thing; and how were even stewed pigeous to be ap- 
 petizing under the circumstances? 
 
 " Oh, you mav laugh," b.gan Dorothy, in an offended 
 tone; but Philiis took hold of her and nearly shook her. 
 
 "Oh, what astu[iid old thing you are! Don't you know 
 what a silly, aggravating old creature you can be when you 
 like.' If I lauo;li It is because everv'hjnu: is so ludicrous and 
 wreti-hed. iSan and Dulce are not hiughmg. " 
 
 " No, indeed," [lut in Dulce; " we are far, far too un- 
 happvl" 
 
 , '■ What is it, Miss Kan?" asked Dorothy, sidling up to her 
 in a coaxing manner. " I am only an old servant, but it was 
 me that put Miss Dnlce in her father's arms — ' the p-etty 
 Iamb,' as he cailed her, and she with a skin like a lily. If 
 there is trouble, you would not keep it from her old nurse, 
 sureh?" 
 
 " No, indeed, Dorothy; we want to tell you," returned 
 Nan. louihid bv' lliis a[)pcal; and then she q.netly recapitu- 
 lated the main p ints that concerned their dithculties — iheir 
 mother's los , their future poverty, the necessity for having 
 Glen Cotlag-e and settling down at the Friary. 
 
 " We shall all have to work," finished Nan, with prudent 
 vagueness, not daring to intrust their plan to Dorothy; " the 
 cottage is small, and, of course, we can onlv keep one serv- 
 ant. " 
 
 " 1 dare say I shall be able to manage if you will help me a 
 little," returned Dorothy, drying her old eyes with the corner 
 of her apron. " Dear, dear! to think of such an affliction 
 coming upon my mistress and the dear young ladies! It is 
 like an earthquake or a flood, or something sudden and unex- 
 pected — Lord deliver us! And to think of my speaking crossly 
 to you. Miss Nan, and you with all this worry on your mind." 
 
 " We will not think of that," returned Nan, soothingly. 
 *' Susan's quarter will be up shortly, and we must get her
 
 ^^ ISOT LIKE OTHER GIKLS. 
 
 away as soon as possible. My great fear is that the work may 
 be too much for you, poor Dorothy; and that — that — we may 
 have to keep you waiting sometimes for your wages,'^ she 
 added, rather hesitatingly, fearing to ofleud Dorothy's touchy 
 temper, and yet determined to put the whole matter clearly 
 before her. 
 
 " 1 don't think we need talk about that," returned Dor- 
 othy, with dignity. " I have not saved up my wages for nine- 
 teen years without having a nest-egg laid up for rainy days. 
 Wages — when I mention the word. Miss Nan/' went on Dor- 
 othy, waxing somewhat irate, " it will be time enough to enter 
 upon that subject. I haven't deserved such a speech; no, that 
 1 haven't," went on Doroth}^, with a sob. " Wages, indeed!" 
 
 " Now, nursey, you sha'n't be cross with Nan," cried Dulce, 
 throwing her arms round the old woman; for, in spite of her 
 eighteen years, she was still Dorothy's special charge. " She's 
 quite right; it may be an unpleasant subject, but we will not 
 have you working for us for nothing." 
 
 " Very well. Miss Dulce," returned Dorothy, in a choked 
 voice, preparing to withdraw; but Nan caught hold of the 
 hard, work-worn hand, and held her fast. 
 
 " Oh, Dorothy, you would not add to our trouble now, when 
 we are so terribly unhap[)y! 1 never meant to hurt your 
 feelings by what 1 said. If you will onl;y go to the Friary and 
 help us to make the dear mother comfortable, 1, for one, will 
 be deeply grateful." 
 
 " And you will not talk of wages?" asked Dorothy, molli- 
 fied by Nan's sweet, pleading tones. 
 
 " Not until we can afford to do so," returned Nan, hastily, 
 feeling that this was a safe compromise, and that they should 
 be eked out somehow. And then, the stewed pigeons being 
 regarded as a failure, Dorothy consented to remove the sup- 
 per-tray, and the long day was declared at an end. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE FRIARY. 
 
 Oldfield was rather mystified by the Challoners' move- 
 ments. There were absolutely three afternoons during which 
 Nan and her sisters were invisible. There was a tennis-party 
 at the Paines' on one of these days, but at the last minute 
 they had excused themselves. Nan's prettily worded note 
 was declared very vague and unsatisfactory, and on the fol- 
 lowing afternoon there was a regular invasion of the cottage—
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS, YS 
 
 Carrie Paine, and two of the Twentyman girJs, and Adelaide 
 Sartoris, aud her young brother Albert. 
 
 They found Dulce alone, looking very sad and forlorn. 
 
 Nan and Phillis had gone down to Hadleigh that morning, 
 she explained in a rather confused way; they were not expected 
 back until the following evening. 
 
 On being pressed by Miss Sartoris as to the reason of this 
 sudden trip, she added, rather awkwardly, that it was on 
 business; her mother was not well — oh, very far from well; 
 and thev had to look at a house that belonged to them, as the 
 tenant had lately died. 
 
 This was all very plausible; but Dulce's manner was so 
 constrained, and she spoke with such hesitation, that Miss 
 Sartoris was convinced that something lay behind. They went 
 out into the garden, however, and chose sides for their game 
 of tennis; and, though Dulce had never played so badly in her 
 life, the fresh air and exercise did her good, and at the end 
 of the afternoon she looked a little less droojDing. 
 
 It was felt to be a failure, however, by the whole party; aud 
 when tea was over, there was no mention of a second game. 
 " No, we will not stay any longer," observed Isabella Twen- 
 tyman, kissing the girl with much affection. " Of course we 
 understand that you will be wanting to sit with your mother." 
 
 " Yes, and if you do not come in to-morrow we shall quite 
 know how it is," added Miss Sartoris, good-naturedly, for 
 which Dulce thanked her and looked relieved. 
 
 She stood at the hall door watching them as they walked 
 down the village street, swinging their rackets and talking 
 merrily. 
 
 " What happy girls!" she thought, with a sigh. Miss Sar- 
 toris was an heiress, and the Twentyraaus were rich, and every 
 one knew that Carrie and Sophy Paine would have money. 
 " None of them will have to work," said poor Dulce, sorrow- 
 fully to herself: " they can go on playing tennis and driving 
 and riding and dancing as long as they like." And then she 
 went up to her mother's room with lagging footsteps and a 
 cloudy brow. 
 
 " You may depend upon it there is something amiss with 
 those Challoners," said Miss Sartoris, as soon as they were out 
 of sight of the cottage; " no one has seen anything of them 
 for the last three or four days, and I never saw Duloe so unlike 
 herself." 
 
 " Oh, 1 hope not," returned Carrie, gravely, who hadheaid 
 enough from her father to guess that there was pecuniary em^ 
 barrassment at the bottom. " Poor little thing, she did seeoj
 
 74: NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 rather sabdaed. How many people do you expect to muster 
 to-inon'057, Adelaide?" and theuMiss Sartoris understood that 
 the subject was to be changed. 
 
 While Dulce was trying to entertain her friends. Nan and 
 Phillis were reeonnoitering the Friary. 
 
 They had taken an early train to London, and had contrived 
 to reach Hadleigh a little before three. They went first to 
 Beach House — a small unpretending house on the Parade, kept 
 by a certain Mrs. Mozley, with whom they had once lodged 
 after Dulce had the measles. 
 
 The good woman received them with the utmost cordiality. 
 Her place was pretty nearly filled, she told them proudly; the 
 drawing-room had been taken for three months, and an elderly 
 couple were in the dining-room. 
 
 " But there is a bedroom I could let you have for one 
 night/' finished Mrs. Mozley, " and there is the little side 
 parlor where you could have your tea and breakfast." And 
 when Nan had thanked her, and suggested the addition of 
 chops to their evening meal, they left their modest luggage 
 and set out for the Friary. 
 
 Phillis would have gone direct to their destination, but Nan 
 pleaded for one turn on the Parade. She wanted a glimpse of 
 the sea, and it was such a beautiful afternoon. 
 
 The tide was out, and the long black break-waters were un- 
 covereil; the sun was shining on the wet shingle and narrow 
 strip of yellow sand. The si^a looked blue and unruffled, with 
 little sparkles and gleams of light, and white sails e'liminered 
 on the horizon. Some boatmen wwe dragging a boat down 
 the beach; it grated noisily over the pebbles, A merry party 
 were about to embark — a tall mini in a straw hat, and two 
 boys in knickerbockers. Their sisters were watching them. 
 " Oh, Reggie, do be careful!" Nan heard one of the girls say, 
 as he waded knee-deep into the water. 
 
 " Come, Nan, we ought not to dawdle like this!" ex- 
 clainieJ Phillis, impatienily; and they went on quickly, past 
 the long row of old-fashioned white houses with the green be- 
 fore them, and I hat sweet Sussex border of so'^t feathery tama- 
 risk, and then past the ciicket-tield, and down to the white- 
 wa.-hed cottages of tiie Preventive Station; and then they 
 tuned back and walked toward the Steyne, and after that 
 Nail decla:ed herself salistied. 
 
 There were plenty of p-'ople on the Parade, and most of 
 them looked after the two girls as they [)assed. Nan's sweet 
 bloom and graceful caaiage always attracted notice; and Phil-
 
 IfOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 75 
 
 lis, although she generally suffered from cotiiparisoii with her 
 sister, was still very uncamaioii looking. 
 
 " I should like to know who those young ladies are," ob- 
 served a militarj'-looking man with a white mustache, who 
 was standing at the Library door waiting for his daughter to 
 make some purchases. " Look at them, Elizabeth; one of 
 them is such a pretty girl, and they walk so well.^' 
 
 " Dear father, I suppose they are only some new-comers; 
 we shall see their names down in the visitors' list by and by;" 
 and Miss Middleton smiled as she took her father's arm, for 
 she was slightly lame. She knew strangers always interested 
 him, and that he would make it his business for the next few 
 days to find out everything about them. 
 
 " Did you see that nice-looking woman?" asked Phillis, 
 when they had passed. " She was quite young, only her hair 
 was gray: fancy, a gray-haired girl!" 
 
 *' Oh, she must be older than she looks," returned Nan, 
 indifferently. 
 
 She was not looking at people; she was far too busily en- 
 gaged identifying each well-remembered spot. 
 
 There was the shabby little cottage, where she and her 
 mother had once stayed after an illness of Mrs. Challoner's. 
 What odd little rooms they had occupied, looking over a strip 
 of garden-ground full of marigolds! " Marigolds-all-in-a-row 
 Cottage," she had named it in her home letters. It was 
 nearly opposite the White House where Mrs. Oheyne lived. 
 Nan remembered her — a handsome, sad-looking woman, who 
 always wore black, and drove out in such handsome carriages. 
 
 "Always alone; how sad!" Nan thought; and she won- 
 dered as thev walked past the low stone walls with grassy 
 mounds sloping from them, and a belt of shrubbery shutting 
 out views of the house, whether Mrs. Cheyne lived there still. 
 
 They hud reached a quiet country corner now; there was a 
 clump of trees, guarded by posts and chains; a white house 
 stood far back. There were two or three other houses, and a 
 cottage dotted down here and there. The road looked shady 
 and inviting. Nan began to look about her more cheerfully. 
 
 " 1 am glad it is so quiet, and so far away from the town, 
 and that our neighbors will not be able to overlook us." 
 
 " I was just thinking of that as a disad /antage," returned 
 Phillis, with placid opposition. " It is a pity, under the cir- 
 cumstances, that we are not nearer the town." And after 
 that Nan held her peace. 
 
 They were passing tin old-fashioned house with a green door 
 in the wall., when it suddenly opened, and a tall,giave-looking
 
 ^6 HOT LIKE OTHER GlRtS. 
 
 young man, in clerical attire, came out quickly upon them, 
 and then drew back to let them pass. 
 
 " I suppose that is the new vicar?'^ whispered Phillis, when 
 they had gone a few steps. " You know poor old Doctor Mus- 
 grave is dead, and most likely that is his successor.'^ 
 
 " I forgot that was the vicarage,^' returned Nan. But 
 happily she did not turn round to look at it again; if she had 
 done so, she would have seen the young clergyman still stand- 
 ing by the green door watching them. " It is a shabby, dull 
 old house in front; but I remember that when mother and 
 I returned Mrs. Musgrave's call we were shown into such s, 
 dear old-fashioned drawing-room, with windows looking out ou 
 such a pleasant garden. I quite fell in love with it." 
 
 " Wei!, we shall be near neighbors," observed Phillis, some- 
 what shortly, as she paused before another green door, set in 
 a long blank wall; " for here we are at the Friary, and I had 
 better just run over the way and get the key from Mrs. 
 Crump.'* 
 
 Nan nodded, and then stood like an image of patience 
 before the shabby green door. Would it open and lot them 
 into a new, untried life? What sort of fading hopes, of dim 
 regrets, would be left outside when they crossed the tnreshold? 
 They thought of the empty rooms, not yet swept and gar- 
 nished, made her shiver; the upper windgws looked blankly at 
 her, like blind, unrecognizing eyes. She'^was quite glad when 
 Phillis joined her again, swinging the key on her little finger, 
 and iiumming a tune in forced cheerfulness. 
 
 " VVhat a dull, shut-in place! 1 think the name of Friai-y 
 suits it exactly,' ' observed Nan, disconsolately, as they went 
 up the little flagged path bordered with lilac bushes. " it 
 feels like a miniature convent or prison: we might have a 
 grating in the door, and answer all outsiders through it." 
 
 " Nonsense!" returned Phillis, who was determined to take 
 a bright view of things. " Don't go into the house just yet; 
 I want to see the garden." And she led the way down a 
 gloomy side-path, with undipped box and yews, that made it 
 dark and decidedly damp. This brought them to a little lawn, 
 with tall, rank grass that might have been mown for hay, a'ld 
 some side-beds full of old-fashioned flowers, such as lupins 
 and monkshood, pinks and small pansies; a dreary little 
 greenhouse, with a few empty flower-pots and a turned-up 
 box, was iu one corner, and an attempt at a rocKcry, with a 
 periwinkle climbing over it, and an unaesirabie num!)er of 
 oyster-shells. 
 
 An old medlar-tree, verj wa/p«cj and guaned, was at the
 
 HOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. *i7 
 
 bottom of the lawn, and beyond this a small kitchen-garden, 
 with iibundance of gooseberry and currant bushes, and vast 
 resources in the shape of mint, marjoram, and lavender. 
 
 '* Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a wretched little jjiace after our 
 dear old Glen Cottage garden!" And, in spite of her good 
 resolutions, Kan's eyes grew misty. 
 
 " Com23arisous are odious,*' retorted Phillis, briskly. " We 
 have just to make the best of things — and I don't deny they 
 are horrid — and put all the rest away, between lavender, on 
 the shelves of our memor}-." And she smiled grimly as she 
 picked one of the gray spiky flowers. 
 
 And then, as they walked round the weedy paths, she 
 pointed out how different it would look when the lawn was 
 mown, and all the weeds and oyster-shells removed, and the 
 box and yews clipped, and a little paint put on the greenhouse. 
 
 " And look at that splendid passion flower, growing like a 
 weed over the back of the cottage," she remarked, with a 
 wave of her hand: "it only wants training and nailing up. 
 Poor Miss Monks has neglected the garden shamefully; but 
 then she was always ailing." 
 
 They went into the cottage after this. The entry was 
 rather small and dark. The kitchen came first; it was a 
 tolerable-sized apartment, with two windows looking out on 
 the lilacs and the green door and the blank wall. 
 
 " I am afraid Dorothy will find it a little dull," Nan ob- 
 served, rather ruefully. And again she thought the name of 
 Friary was well given to this grewsome cottage; but she 
 cheered up when Phillis opened cupboards and showed her a 
 light little scullery, and thought that perhaps they could make 
 it comfortable for Dorothy. 
 
 The other two rooms looked upon the garden; one had 
 three windows, and was really a very pleasant parlor. 
 
 " This must be our work-room," began Phillis, solemnly, 
 as she stood in the center of the empty room, looking round 
 her with bright knowing glances. " Oh, what an ugly paper, 
 Nan! but we can easily put up a prettier one. The smaller 
 room must be where we live and take our meals; it is not 
 quite so cheerful as this. It is so nice having this side- win- 
 dow; it will give us more light, and we shall be able to see 
 who comes in at the door." 
 
 " Yes, that is an advantage," assented Nan. She was 
 agreeably surprised to find such a good-sized room in the cot- 
 tage; it was decidedly low, and the windows were not plate 
 glass, but she thought that on summer mornings they might
 
 ^8 NOT LIKE OTHER GIEtS. 
 
 sit there very comfortably lookiug out at the lawn and tt^ 
 medlar- tree. 
 
 " We shall be glad of these cupboards," she suggested, 
 after a pause, while Phillis took out sundry pieces of tape from 
 her pocket and commenced making measurements in a busi- 
 ness-like manner. " Our work will make such a litter, and I 
 should like things to be as tidy as possible. 1 am thinking,' 
 she continued, " we might have mother's great carved ward- 
 robe in the recess behind the door. It is really a magnificent 
 piece of furniture, and in a work-room it would not be so out 
 of place; we could hang up the finished and unfinished dresses 
 in it out of the dust. And we could have the little drawing- 
 room chiffonier between the windows for our pieces, and odds 
 and ends in the cupboards. It is a pity our table is round; 
 but perhaps it will look all the more comfortable. The sew- 
 ing-machine must be in the side-window," added Nan, who 
 was quite in her element now, for she loved all housewifely 
 arrangements; "and mother's easy-chair and little table must 
 stand by the fire-place. My davenport will be useful for 
 papers and accounts." 
 
 *' It is really a very convenient room," returned Phillis, in 
 a satisfied voice, when they had exhausted its capabilities; 
 and, though the second parlor was small and dull in com- 
 parison, even Nan dropped no disparaging word. 
 
 Both of them agreed it would do very well. There was a 
 place for the large roomy couch that their mother so much 
 atJected, and their favorite chairs and knickknacks would 
 soon make it look cozy; and after this they went upstairs 
 hand in hand. 
 
 There were only four bedrooms, and two of these were not 
 large; the most cheerful one was, of course, allotted to their 
 mother, and the next in size must be for Phillis and Dulce. 
 Nan was to have a small one next to her mother. 
 
 The evening was drawing on by the time they had finished 
 their measurements and left the cottage. Nan, who was tired 
 and wanted her tea, was for hurrying on to Beach House; but 
 Phillis insisted on calling at the Library. She wanted to put 
 some questions to Miss Milner. To-morrow they would have 
 the paper-hanger, and look out for a gardener, and there was 
 Mrs. Crump to interview about cleaning down the cottage. 
 
 " Oh, very well," returned Nan, wearily, and she followed 
 Phillis into the shop, where good-natured, bustling Miss Mil- 
 ner came to them at once. 
 
 Phillis put the question to her in a low voice, for (here were 
 other customers exchanging books over the counter. The
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 79 
 
 same young clergj'mun they had before noticed had just 
 bought a local paper, and was waiting evidently for a young 
 lady who was turning over some magazines quite close to 
 them. 
 
 " Do we know of a good dress-maker in the place?'' re- 
 peated Miss Milner, in her loud, cheerful voice, very much to 
 Nan's discomtort, for the clerg}'man looked up from his paper 
 at once. " Miss Monks was a tolerable fit, but, jDOor thing! 
 she died a few weeks ago; and Mrs. Slasher, who lives over 
 Viner's, the haberdasher's, can not hold a caudle to her. Miss 
 Masham, there " — pointing to a smart ringleted young per- 
 son, evidently her assistant — "had her gown ruined by her; 
 hadn't you. Miss Masham?" 
 
 Miss Masham simpered, but her reply was inaudible; but 
 the young lady who was standing near them suddenly turned 
 round. 
 
 " There is Mrs. Langley, wdio lives just by. I shall be very 
 happy to give these ladies her address, for she is a widow with 
 little children, and I am anxious to procure her work " — and 
 then she looked at Xan and hesitated — " that is, if you are not 
 very particular," she added, with sudden embarrassment, for 
 even in her morning-dress there was a certain style about Xan 
 that distinguished her from other jDeople. 
 
 "Thank you. Miss Drummond," returned Miss Milner, 
 gratefully. " Shall 1 write down the address for you, 
 ma am.'' 
 
 " Yes — no — thank you very much, but perhaps it does not 
 matter," returned Kan, hurriedly, feeling awkward for the 
 first time in her life. But Phillis, who realized all the humor 
 of the situation, interposed: 
 
 " The address will do us no harm, and we may as well have 
 it, although we should not trouble Mrs. Langley. 1 will call 
 in again. Miss Mduer, to-morrow morning, and then 1 will 
 explain what it is we really want. We are in a hurry now," 
 continued Phillis, loftily, turnuig away with a dignified in- 
 clination of her head toward the officious stranger. 
 
 Phillis was not prepossessed in her favor. She was a dark, 
 wiry little person, not exactly plain, but svith an odd, comical 
 face; and she was dressed so dowdily and with such utter dis- 
 regard of taste that Phillis instinctively felt Mrs. Langley was 
 not to be dreaded. 
 
 " What a queer little body! Do you think she belongs to 
 him?" she asked Xau, as they walked rapidly touaiu Beach 
 House. 
 
 What in the world made you strike in after that fash- 
 
 ii.
 
 80 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 ion?" demanded the yoniig man, as he and his companion 
 followed more slotv'Iy in the strangers' footsteps. " That is 
 just your way, Mattie, interfering aud meddling in other folks' 
 affairs. Why can not you mind your own business some- 
 times/' he continued, irritably, " instead of putting your foot 
 into other people's?" 
 
 " You are as cross as two sticks this afternoon, Archie," 
 returned his sister, composedly. She had a sharp little peck- 
 ing voice that seemed to match her, somehow; for she was not 
 unlike a bright-eyed bird, and had quick pouncing move- 
 ments. " Wait a moment; my braid has got torn, and is 
 dragging." 
 
 " 1 wish you would think a little more of my position, and 
 take greater pains with your appearance," returned her broth- 
 er, in an annoyed voice. " What would Grace say to see what 
 a fright you make of yourself? It is a sin and a shame for a 
 woman to be untidy or careless in her dress; it is unfemiuine! 
 it is unlady-like!" hurling each separate epithet at her. 
 
 Perhaps Miss Drummond was used to these compliments, 
 for she merely pinned her braid without seeming the least put 
 out. 
 
 " 1 think I am a little shabby,'* she remarked, tranquilly, 
 as they at last walked on. " Perhaps Mrs. Laugley had bet- 
 ter make me a dress too," with a laugh, for, in spite of her 
 sharp voice, she was an even-tempered little body; but this 
 last remark only added fuel to his wrath. 
 
 " You really have less sense than a child. The idea of 
 recommending a person like Mrs. Langley to those young 
 ladies — a woman who works for Miss Masiiam!" 
 
 " They were very plainly dressed, Archie,*' returned poor 
 Mattie, who felt this last snub acutely; for, if there was one 
 thing upon which she prided herself, it was her good sense. 
 " They had dark print dresses — not as good as the one I have 
 on — and nothing could be quieter." 
 
 *' Oh, you absurd little goose!" exclaimed her brother, and 
 he burst into a laugh, for the drollery of the comparison re- 
 stored him to instant good humor. " If you can not see the 
 difference between that frumpish gown of yours, with its little 
 bobtails and fringes, and those pretty dresses before us, 1 
 must say you are as blind as a bat, Mattie." 
 
 " Oh, never mind my gown," returned Mattie, with a sigh. 
 
 She had had these home-thrusts to meet and parry nearly 
 every day ever since she had come to keep house for this 
 fastidious brother. She was a very active, bustling little per- 
 son, who had done a great deal of tough work in her day; but
 
 ITOT LIKE OTHER GlRLS. ?1 
 
 she never could be marie to see that unless a woman add the 
 graces of life to the cardinal virtues she is, comparative!', 
 speaking, a failure in the eyes of the ether sex. 
 
 So, though Mattie was a frugal housekeeper, and worked 
 from moriiiiig to night in his service — the veriest little drudge 
 that was ever seen — she was a perpetual eyesore to her broth- 
 er, who loved feminine grace and repose — whose tastes were 
 fastidious and somewhat arbitrary. And so it was poor Mat- 
 tie had more censure than praise, and wrote home piteous let- 
 ters complaining that nothing she did seemed to satisfy Archie, 
 and that her mother had made a great mistake in sending her, 
 and not Grace, to preside over his bachelor establishment. 
 
 " Oh, Philiis, how shall we have courage to publish our 
 plan?" exclaimed Nan, when they were at last discussing the 
 much-needed tea and chops in the little parlor at Beach 
 House. 
 
 The window was wide open. The returning tide was com- 
 ing in with a pleasant ripple and wash over the shingle. The 
 Parade was nearly empty; but some children's voices sounded 
 from the green space before the houses. The brown sail of a 
 fishing craft dipped into the horizon. It was so cool, so quiet, 
 so restful; but Nan's eyes were weary, and she put the ques- 
 tion wistfully. 
 
 Philiis looked into the tea-pot to gain a moment's reprieve; 
 the corners of her mouth had an odd pucker in them. 
 
 " I never said it was not hard," she burst out at last. *' I 
 felt like a fool myself while 1 was speaking to Miss Milner; 
 but then that clergyman was peeping at us between the folds 
 of his paper. He seemed a nice-looking, gentlemanly sort of 
 man. Do you think that queer little lady in the plaid dress 
 could be his wife? Oh, no; 1 remember Miss Milner addressed 
 her as Miss Drummond. Then she must be his sister; bpw 
 odd!" 
 
 " Why should it be odd?" remarked Nan, absently, who 
 had not particularly noticed them. 
 
 " Oh, she was such a dowdy little thing, not a bit nice look- 
 ing, and he was quite handsome, and looked rather distin- 
 guished. You know 1 alR'ays take stock of people, and make 
 up my mind about them at once. And then we are to be such 
 close neighbors." 
 
 " I don't suppose we shall see much of them," was Nan's 
 somewhat depressed reply; and then, as they had finished 
 their tea, they placed themselves at the open window, and be- 
 gan to talk about the business of next day; and, in discussing 
 cupboards and new papers. Nan forgot her fatigue, and grew
 
 83 NOT LIKE OTIILK GIKLS. 
 
 £0 interested that it was quite late before they thought of re- 
 tiriug to rest. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "tell us all about it, nan." 
 
 Nan ov^erslept herself, and was rather late the next morn- 
 ing; but as she entered the parlor, with an exclamation of 
 penitence for her tardiness, she found her little speech was 
 addressed to the empty walls. A moment after, a shadow 
 crossed the window, and Phillis came in. 
 
 She went up to Nan and i^issed her, and there was a gleam 
 of fun in her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, you lazy girl!" she said; "leaving me all the hard 
 work to do. Do you know, 1 have been around to the 
 Library, and have had it all out with Miss Milner; and in the 
 Steyne 1 met the clergyman again, and — would you believe it, 
 he looked quite disap[)ointec] because you were not there?" 
 
 " Nonsense!" returned Nan, sharply. She never liked this 
 sort of joking speeches; they seemed treasonable to Dick. 
 
 " Oh, but he did," persisted Phillis, who was a little excited 
 and reckless after her morning's work. " He threw me a 
 disparaging glance, which said, as plainly as possible, ' Why 
 are you not the other one?' That comes from having a sister 
 handsomer tlian one's self." 
 
 " Oh, Phillis! when people always think you so nice, and 
 when you are so clever!" 
 
 Phillis got up and executed a little courtesy in the prettiest 
 way, and then she sunk down upon her chair in pretended ex- 
 haustion. 
 
 " What T have been through! But I have come out of it 
 alive. Confess, now, there's a dear, that you could not have 
 done it!" 
 
 " No, indeed," with an alarmed air. " Do you really 
 mean to say that you actually told Miss Milner what we meant 
 to do?" 
 
 " I told her everything. There, sit down and begin your 
 breakfast, Nan, or we shall never be readj\ I found her alone 
 in the shop. Thank goodness, that Miss Mawham was not 
 there. I have taken a dislike to that simpering young person, 
 and would rather make a dress for Mrs. Squalls any day than 
 for her. I told her the truth, without a bit of disguise. 
 Would you believe it, the good creature actually cried about 
 it! she quite upset me, too. ' Such young ladies! dear, dear! 
 one dow not often see such,' she kept saying over aud over
 
 ifOT LIKE OTHER GIRLg. 88 
 
 again. And then she put oub her hand and stroked my dress, 
 and said, ' Sach a beautiful fit, too; and to think you have 
 made it yourself! such a clever young lady! Oh, dear! what 
 ever will Mr. Drummond and Miss Mattie say?' Stupid old 
 thing! as though we cared what he said!'* 
 
 " Oh, Phillis! and she cried over it?'* 
 
 " She did indeed. I am not exaggerating. Two big round 
 tears rolled dosvn her cheeks. I could have kissed her for 
 them. And then she made me sit down in the little room be- 
 hind the shop, where she was having her breakfast, and poured 
 me out a cup of tea, and — " But here Nan interrupted her, 
 and there was a trace of anxiety in her manner. 
 
 "Poured' you out a cup of tea! Miss Milner! And you 
 drank it?" 
 
 "Of course I drank it; it was very good, and 1 was 
 thirsty.'* 
 
 But here Nan pounced upon her unexpectedly, and dragged 
 her to the window. 
 
 "Your fun is only make-believe; there is no true ring 
 about it. Let me see your eyes. Oh, Phil, Phil! I thought 
 so! You hat'e been crying, too!" 
 
 Phillis looked a little taken aback. Nan was too sharp for 
 her. She tried to shake herself free a little pettishly. 
 
 " Well, if I choose to make a fool of myself for once in my 
 life, you need not be silly about it; the old thing was so up- 
 setting, and— and it was so hard to get it out." Phillis would 
 not have told for worlds how utterly she had broken down 
 over that task of hers; how the stranger's sympathy had 
 touched so painful a chord that, before she kuevv what she 
 was doing, she had laid her head down on the counter and was 
 crying like a baby — all the more that she had so bravely pent 
 up her feeli^igs all these days that she might not dishearten 
 her sisters. 
 
 But, as Nan petted and praised her, she did tell hew good 
 Miss Milner had been to her. 
 
 " Fancy a fat old thing like that having such fine feelings,*' 
 she said, with an attempt to recover her spriglitliness. " She 
 was as good as a mother to me — made me sit in the easy- 
 chair, and brought me some elder-flower water to bathe my 
 eyes, and tried to cheer me up by saying that we should have 
 plenty of work. She has promised not to tell any one just 
 yet about us; but when we are really in the Friary she will 
 speak to people and recommend us; and " — here Phillis gave 
 a little laugh — " we are to make up a new black silk for her 
 that her brother has just sent her. Oh, dear, what will moth-
 
 84 HOT LIKE OTHER Gltltig. 
 
 er say to us, Nan?" And Phillis looked at her in an alarmed, 
 beseeching way, as though in sore need of comfort. 
 
 Nan looked grave; but there was no hesitation in her an- 
 swer. 
 
 " I am afraid it is too late to think of that now, Phil; it 
 has to be done, and we must just go through with it/' 
 
 " You are right, Nanny darling, we must just go through 
 with it," agreed Phillis; and. then they went on with their. 
 nntinished breakfast, and after that the business of the day 
 began. 
 
 It was late in the evening when they reached home. Dulce, 
 who was at the gate looking out for them, nearly smothered 
 them with kisses. 
 
 " Oh, you dear things; how glad 1 am to get you back," 
 she said, holding them both. " Have you really only been 
 away since yesterday morning? It seems a week at least." 
 
 "You ridiculous child! as though we believe that! But 
 how is mother?" 
 
 " Oh, pretty well; but she will be better now j'ou are back. 
 Do you know," eying them both very gravely, " I think it 
 was a wise thing of you to go away like that? It has shown me 
 that mother and I could not do without you at all; we should 
 have pined away in those lodgings; it has quite reconciled me 
 to the plan," finished Dulce, in a loud whisper that reached 
 her mother's ears. 
 
 " What plan? What are you talking about, Dulce? and 
 why do you keep your sisters standing in the hall?" asked 
 Mrs. Challoner, a little irritably. But her brief nervousness 
 vanished at the sight of their faces; she wanted nothing more, 
 she told herself, but to see them round her and hear their 
 voices. 
 
 She grew quite cheerful when Phillis told her about the new 
 papers, and how Mrs. Crump was to clean down the cottage^ 
 and how Crump had promised to mow the grass and paint the 
 greenhouse, and Jack and Bobbie were to weed the garden 
 paths. 
 
 "It is a perfect wilderness now, mother; you never saw 
 such a place." 
 
 " Never mind, so that it will hold us, and that we shall all 
 be together," she returned, with a smile. " But Dulce talked 
 of some plan; you must let me hear it, my dears; you roust 
 not keep me in the dark about anything. 1 know we shall all 
 have to work," continued the poor lady; "but if we be all 
 together, if you will promise not to leave me, I think I could 
 bear anything."
 
 Not LIKE OTHER GIRLS. gSl 
 
 " Are we to tell her?" motioned Nau with her lips to 
 Phillis; and as Philjis nodded, " Yes/' Xan gently av} quiet- 
 ly began unfolding their plan. 
 
 But, with all her care and all Phillis's iDromptings, the 
 revelation was a great shock to Mrs. Challoner; in her weak- 
 ened state she seemed hardly able to bear it. 
 
 Dulce repented bitterly her incautious whisper when she 
 saw her sisters' tired faces, and their fruitless attempts to 
 soften the effects of such a blow. For a little while Mrs. 
 Challoner seemed on the brink of despair; she would not 
 listen; she abandoned herself to lamentations; she became so 
 hysterical at last that Dorothy was summoned from the kitchen 
 and taken into confidence. 
 
 " Mother, you are breaking our hearts," Nan said, at last. 
 She was kneeling at her feet, chafing her hands, and Phillis 
 was fanning her; but she pushed them both away from her 
 with weak violence. 
 
 "It is I whose heart is breaking! AYhy must I live to see 
 such things? Dorothy, do you know my daughters are going 
 to be dress-makers? — my daughters, who are Challoners — who 
 have been delicately nurtured— who might hold up their heads 
 with any one?" 
 
 "Dorothy, hold your tongue!" exclaimed Phillis, per- 
 emptorily. " You are not to speak; this is for us to decide, 
 and no one else. Mammy, you are making Nan look quite 
 pale; she is dreadfully tired, and so am 1. Why need we de- 
 cide anything to-night? Every one is upset and excited, and 
 when that is the case one can never arrive at any proper con- 
 clusion. Let us talk about it to-morrow, when we are rested." 
 An 3, though Mrs. Challoner would not allow herself to be 
 comforted, Nan's fatigue and paleness were so visible to her 
 maternal eyes that they were more eloquent than Phillis's 
 words. 
 
 " I must not think only of myself. Yes, yes, I will do as 
 you wish. There will be time enough for this sort of talk to- 
 morrow. Dorothy, will you help me? The young ladies are 
 tired; they have had a long journey. No, my dear, no," as 
 Dulce pressed forward; "I would rather have Dorothy." 
 And, as the old servant gave them a warning glance, they 
 were obliged to let her have her way. 
 
 " Mammy has never been like this before," pouted Dulce, 
 when they were left alone. " She drives us away from her 
 as though we had done something purposely to vex her." 
 
 " It is becaus(3 she can not bear the sight of us to-night," 
 returned Phillis, solemnly. " It is worse for her than for usj
 
 86 NOT LlKt; OTITKR GIRLg. 
 
 a mother feels things for her children more tlian for herself; 
 it is nature, that is whvkt it is," she finished, philosophically; 
 "but she will be better to-morrow/' Aud after this the 
 miserable little conclave broke up. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner passed a sleepless night, and her pillow was 
 sown with thorns. To think of the Challoners falling so low 
 as this! To think of her pretty Nan, her clever, bright 
 Phillis, her pet Dulce coming to this. " Oh, the pity of it!" 
 she cried, in the dark hours, when vitality runs lowest, and 
 thoughts seem to flow involuntarily toward a dark center. 
 
 But with the morning came sunshine, and her girls' faces — 
 a little graver than usual, perhaps, but still full of youth and 
 the brightness of energy; and the sluggish nightmare of yes- 
 terday's grief began to fade a little. 
 
 " Now, mammy, you are not going to be naughty to-day?" 
 was Dulce's morning salutation as she seated herself on the 
 bed. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner smiled faintly. 
 
 *' Was I very naughty last night, Dulce?" 
 
 "Oh, as bad as possible. You pushed poor Nan and 
 Phillis away, and would not let any one come near you but 
 that cross old Dorothy, and you never bade us good-night; but 
 if you promise to be good, I will forgive you and make it up," 
 finished Dulce, with those light butterfly kisses to which she 
 was addicted. 
 
 " Now, chatter-box, it is my turn," interrupted Phillis; aud 
 then she began a carefully concocted little speech, very care- 
 fully drawn out to suit her mother's sensitive peculiarities. 
 
 81ie went over the old ground patiently point bv point. 
 Mrs. Challoner shuddered at the idea of letting lodgings. 
 
 " I knew you ivould agree with us," returned Phillis, with 
 a convincing nod; and then she went on to the next clause. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner argued a great deal about the governess 
 schem3. Sbe was quite angry with Phillis, and seemed to 
 suffer a great deal of self-reproach when the girl sjooke of 
 their defeetive education and lack of accomplislimeuts. Nan 
 had to come to her sister's rescue; but the mother was slow 
 to yield the point. 
 
 " 1 don't know what you mean. My girls are not different 
 from other girls. What would your jDOor father say if he 
 were alive? It is cruel to say this to me, when I stinted my- 
 self to give you every possible advantage, and I paid Miss 
 Mai'liu eightv pounds a year^' she concluded, tearfully, feel- 
 ing as though she were the victim of a fraud. 
 
 Wi'' was far more easdy convinced that going out as com-
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 87 
 
 panions would be impracticable under the circumstances. 
 " Ob, no, tbat '.vill never do!''' she cried, when the two little 
 rooms with J3ulce were proposed; and after this Phillis found 
 her task less difficult. She talked ber mother over at last to 
 reluctant acquiescence. " I never knew how I came to con- 
 sent," she said, afterward, "but they were too much for 
 me." 
 
 " We can not starve. I suppose I must give in to you,^' 
 she said, at last; " but I shall never hold up my head again.'* 
 And she really believed what she said. 
 
 " Motner, you must trust us," replied Phillis, touched by 
 this victory she had won. " Do you know what I said to 
 Dulce? Work can not degrade us. Though we are dress- 
 makers, we are still Clialloners. Nothing can make us lose 
 our dignity und self-respect as gentlewomen." 
 
 " Other people will not recognize it," returned her mother, 
 with a sigh. " You will lose caste. No one will visit you. 
 Among your equals you will be treated as inferiors. It is this 
 that bows me to the earth with shame," 
 
 " Mother, how can you talk so?" cried Nan, in a clear, in- 
 dignant voice. " Wliat does it matter if people do not visit 
 us? We must have a world of our own, and be suthcient for 
 ourselves, if we can only keep together. Is not that what you 
 have said to us over and over again? Well, we shall be to- 
 gether, we shall have each other. What does the outside 
 world matter to us after all?" 
 
 " Oh, you are young; you do not know what complications 
 may arise," replied Mrs. Challoner, with the gloomy fore- 
 thought of middle age. She thought she knew the world bet- 
 ter than they, but iu reality she was almost as guileless and 
 ignorant as her daughters. " Until you begin, you do not 
 know the difficulties that will beset you," she went on. 
 
 But, notwithstanding this foreboding si)eech, she was some- 
 what comforted by Nan's words, " they would be together I" 
 Well, if Providence chose to inflict this humiliation aiid afflic- 
 tive dispensation on her, it could be borne as long as she had 
 her children around her. 
 
 Nan made one more speech — a somewhat stern one for her: 
 " Our trouble will bo a furnace to try our friends. We 
 shall know the true from the false. Oidy those who are really 
 worth the name will be faithful to us." 
 
 Nan was thinking of Dick; but her mother misunderstood 
 her, and grew alarmed. 
 
 " You will not tell the Paiues and the other people about
 
 88 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 here what you intend to do, surely? I could not bear that! 
 no, indeed, I could not bear that!'' 
 
 "Do not be afraid, dear mother," returned Nan, sadly; 
 " we are far too great cowards to do such a thing, and, after 
 all, there is no need to put ourselves to needless pain. If the 
 Maynes were here we might not be able to keep it from them, 
 perhaps, and so I am thankful they are away." 
 
 Nan said this quite calmly, though her mother fixed her 
 eyes upon her in a most tenderly mournful fashion. She had 
 quite forgotten their Longmead neighbors, but now, as Nan 
 recalled them to her mind, she remembered Mr. Mayne, and 
 her look had become compassionate. 
 
 '* It will be all over with those poor children." she thought 
 to herself: " the father will never allow it — never; and I can 
 not wonder at him." And then her heart softened to the mem- 
 ory of Dick, whom she had never thought good enough for Nan, 
 for she remembered now with a sore pang that her pride was 
 laid low in the dust, and that she could not hope now that her 
 daughters would make splendid matches; even Dick would be 
 above theui, though his father had been in trade, and though 
 he had no grandfather worth mentioning. 
 
 A few days after their return from Iladleigh, there was an- 
 other long business interview with Mr. Tiinder, in which 
 evervthing was settled. A tenant had already been found for 
 the cottage. A young couple, on the e^e of their marriage, 
 who had long been looking for a suitable house in the neigh- 
 borhood, had closed at once with Mr. Trinder's offer, and had 
 taken the lease off their hands. The gentleman was a cousin 
 of the Paines, and, partly for the convenience of the in-coming 
 tenants, and partly because the Challoners wished to move as 
 soon as possible, there was only a delay of a few weeks before 
 the actual flitting. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the dismay of the neigh- 
 borhood when the news was circulated. 
 
 Immediately after their return from Hadleigh, Nan and 
 Phillis took coutisel together, and, summoning up their cour- 
 age, went from one to another of their friends and quietly an- 
 nounced their approaching departure. 
 
 " Mother has had losses, and we are now dreadfully poor, 
 and we are going to leave Glen Cottage and go down to a 
 small house we have at Hadleigh," said Nan, who by virtue 
 of an additional year of age was spokeswoman on this occa- 
 sion. She had fully rehearsed this little speech, which she 
 intended to say at every house in due rotation. " We will 
 not disguise the truth; we will let people know that we are
 
 ifOT LIKE OtHER GltlLS. h^ 
 
 poor, and then they will not expect impossibilities/' she said> 
 as they walked down the shady road toward the Paines' house 
 — for the Paines were their most intimate friends and had a 
 claim to the first confidence. 
 
 " I think that will be sufficient; no one has any right to 
 know more/' she continued, decidedly, fully determined that 
 no amount of coaxing and cross-examination should wring from 
 her one unnecessary word. 
 
 But she little knew how difficult it would be to keep their 
 own counsel. The Paines were not alone: they very seldom 
 were. " Adelaide Sartoris was there, and the younger Miss 
 Twentyman, and a young widow, a Mrs. Forbes, who was a 
 distant connection of Mrs. Paine. 
 
 !Nan was convinced that they had all been talking about 
 them, for there was rather an embarrassed pause as she and 
 Phillis entered the room. Carrie looked a little confused as 
 she greeted them. 
 
 Nan sat down by Mrs. Paine, who was rather deaf, and in 
 due time made her little speech. She was rather pale with 
 the effort, and her voice faltered a little, but every word was 
 heard at -the other end of the room. 
 
 " Leave Glen Cottage, my dear? I can't have heard you 
 rightly. 1 am very deaf to-day — very. I think I must have 
 caught cold." And Mrs. Paine turned a mild face of per- 
 plexity on Nan; but, before she could reiterate her words, 
 Carrie was on the footstool at her feet, and Miss Sartoris, with 
 a grave look of concern on her handsome features was stand- 
 ing beside her: 
 
 " Oh, Nan! tell us all about it! Of course we saw some- 
 thing was the matter. Dulce was so strange that afternoon; 
 and you have all been keeping yourselves invisible for ever 
 so long." 
 
 " There is very little to tell," returned Nan, trying to speak 
 cheerfully. " Mother has had bad news. Mr. Gardiner is 
 bankrupt, and all our invested money is gone. Of course we 
 could not go on living at Glen Cottage. There is some talk, 
 Carrie, of your cousin, Mr. Ibbetson, coming to look at it: it 
 will be nice for us if he could take the lease off our hands, and 
 then we should go down to the Friary." 
 
 " How 1 shall hate to see Ralph there — not but what it 
 will suit him and Louisa well enough, I dare say. But never 
 mind him: I want to know all about yourselves," continued 
 Carrie, affectionately. " This is dreadful. Nan! 1 can hardly 
 believe it. What are we to do without you.^ and where is the
 
 90 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Friary? and what is it like? and what will yon do with your- 
 selves when you get there?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, that is what we want to know," agreed Miss 
 Sartoris, putting her delicately gloved hand on Nan's shoulder; 
 and then Sophy Paine joined the little group, and Mrs. Forbes 
 and Miss Twentyman left off talking to Phillis, and began 
 listening with all their might. Now it was that Nan began 
 to foresee difficulties. 
 
 " The Friary is very small," she went on, " but it will just 
 hold us and Dorothy. Dorothy is coming with us, of course. 
 She is old, but she works better than some of the young ones. 
 She is a faithful creature — " 
 
 But Canie inlerru[)teil her impatiently. 
 
 " But, Nan, what will you do with yourselves? Hadleigh 
 is a nice place, I believe. Mamma, we must all go down 
 the -e next summer, and stay there — you shall come with us, 
 Adelaide — and then we shall be able to cheer these poor things 
 up; and Nan, you and Phillis must come and stay with us. 
 We don't mean to give you up like this. What does it mat- 
 ter about being poor? We are all old friends together. 
 You shall give us tea at the Friary; and I dare say there are 
 tennis-sf rounds at Hadleigh, and we will have nice times to- 
 gether. " 
 
 " Of course we will come and see you," added Miss Sartoris, 
 with a friendly pressure of Nan's shoulder; but the poor girl 
 only colored up and looked embarrassed, and then it was that 
 Phillis, who was watching her ojjportunity, struck in: » 
 
 "'You are all very good; but, Carrie, I don't believe you 
 understand Nan one bit. When people lose their money they 
 have to work. We shall all have to put our shoulder to the 
 wheel. We would give you tea, of course, but as for paying 
 visits and playing tennis, it is only idle girls like yourselves 
 who have time for that sort of thing. It will be work and not 
 play, 1 fear, with us." 
 
 '"' Oh, Phillis!" exclaimed poor Carrie, with tears in her eyes, 
 and Mijs Sartoris looked horriQed, for she had West Indian 
 blood in her veins, and was by nature somewhat indolent and 
 pleasure-loving. 
 
 " Do you mean you will have to be governesses?" she asked, 
 with a touch of disnniy u\ her voice. 
 
 "We shall have to work," returned Phillis, vaguely. 
 " When we are settled at the Friary we must look round us 
 and do the best we can." This was felt to be vague by the 
 whole party; but Pliillis's manner was so bold and well assured 
 that no one suspected that anything lay beyond the margin of
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 91 
 
 her speech. They had not made up their minds, perhaps; Sh* 
 Francis Challoner would assist tlitm; or there were other 
 sources of help: they must more into the new house first, and. 
 then see what was to be done. It was so plausible, so sensible, 
 that every one was deceived. 
 
 ", Of course you can not decide in such a hurry; you must 
 have so much to do just now,"' observed Carrie. " You must 
 write and tell us all your plans, Phillis, and if there be anything 
 we can do to help you. Mamma, we might have Mrs. Chal- 
 loner here whde the cottage is dismantled. Do spare her to 
 us. Nan, and we will take such care of her!" And they were 
 still discussing this point, and trying to overrule Kan's objec- 
 tions — who knew nothing would induce their mother to leave 
 them — when other visitors were announced, and in the con- 
 fusion they were allowed to make their escape. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " LADDIR '^ PUTS IST AN APPEARANCE. 
 
 " I THINK we have managed that as well as possible!" ex- 
 claimed Phillis, when they found themselves outside the gates. 
 " What a good thing Adelaide and Mrs. Forbes and Lily were 
 there! Now we need only call at those three houses to say 
 good-bye. How hot you look, NanI and how they all hemmed 
 you in! I was obliged to come to your rescue, you were so 
 beset; but I think I have put them otf the scent." 
 
 '* Yes, for the present; but think, Phil, if Carrie really 
 carries out her intention, and all the Paine tribe and Adelaide 
 Come down to Hadleigh next summer! No wonder I am hot; 
 the bare idea suffocates me." 
 
 " Something may turn up before then; it is no good looking 
 so far ahead," was the philosophical rejoinder. " Adelaide is 
 rather formidable, certainly, and, in spite of her good nature, 
 one does not feel at home with her. There is a flavor of 
 money about her, I think; she dresses, talks, and lives in such 
 a gilded way one finds her heavy; but she may get married 
 before then. Mr. Dalrymple certainly seemed to mean it 
 when he was down here last winter, and he will be a good 
 match for her. Here we are at Fifzroy Square. I wonder 
 what sort of humor her ladyship will be in?" 
 
 Lady Fitzroy received them very g aciously. She had just 
 been indulgnig in a slight dis[)ute wiih her husband, and the 
 interruption was a welcome to both of them; besides, she was 
 always gracious to the Challouers,
 
 93 NOT LIKE OTPIER GIRLS. 
 
 *' You have just come in time, for we were boring each 
 other dreadfully," she said, in her pretty languid way, lidd- 
 ing out a hand to each of them. " Percival, will you ring the 
 bell, please? 1 can not think why Thorpe does not bring up 
 the tea ' as usual '?" 
 
 Lord Fitzroy obeyed his wife's behest, and then he turned 
 with a relieved air to his old friend Phillis. She was the 
 clever one; and though some people called her quiet, that was 
 because they did not draw her out, or she had no sympathy 
 with them. He had always found her decidedly amusing and 
 "agreeable in the days of his bachelorhood. 
 
 He had married the beauty of a season, but the beauty was 
 not without her little crotchets and tempers; and, though he 
 was both fond aud proud of his wife, he found Phillis's talk 
 a relief this afternoon. 
 
 Bat Phillis was a little disfraUe on this occasion; she wanted 
 to hear what Nan was saying in a low voice across the room, 
 and Thorpe and his subordinate were setting the tea-table, and 
 Lord Fitzroy would place himself just before her. 
 
 " Now look here. Miss Challoner," he was saying, '* I want 
 to tell you all about it;" but here Thorpe left the room, and 
 Lady Fitzroy interrupted them: 
 
 " Oh, Percival, what a pity! Do you hear- -we are going to 
 lose our nicest neighbors? Dear little Glen Cottage is to be 
 empty in a week or so!" 
 
 "Mr. Ealph Ibbetson vv^ill decide to take it, 1 think; and 
 he and Miss Blake are to be married on the si'cteenth of next 
 month," returned Nan, softly. 
 
 " Ibbetson at Glen Cottage! that red-head ?,d fellow! My 
 dear Miss Challoner, what sacrilege — what desecration! 
 What do you mean by forsaking us in this fashion? Are ynu 
 all going to be married? Has Sir Francis died and left you a 
 fortune? In the name of all that is mysterious, what is the 
 meaning of this?" 
 
 " If you will let a person speak, Percival," returned his 
 wife, with dignity, " you shall have an answer;" and then 
 she looked up in his handsome, good-natured face, and her 
 manner softened insensibly. " Poor dear Mrs. Challoner has 
 had losses! Some one has played her false, and they are 
 obliged to leave Glen Cottage. But Hadleigh is a nice place," 
 she went on, turning to Nan; " it is very select.' ' 
 
 " Where did you say, Evelyn?" inquired her husband, ea- 
 gerly. " Hadleigh, in Sussex? Oh, that is a snug little place; 
 no Toms aud Harries go down there on a nine-hours' trip. I 
 was there mjseif once^ with the Shannontous. Perhaps Ladj
 
 NOT LIKE OTHEU GIRLS. S8 
 
 Pitzioyand I may rim down one day and have a look at you," 
 he continued, with a friendly look at Phillis. It was only 
 one of his good-natured speeches, but his wife took umbrage 
 at it. 
 
 " The sea never agrees with me. I thought you knew that, 
 Percival!" rather reproachfully; "but I dare say we shall 
 often see you here," she went on, fearing Nan would think 
 her ungracious. " You and the Paines are so intimate that 
 they are sure to have you for weeks together; it is so pleasant 
 revisiting an old neighborhootl, is it not? I know I always 
 ieel that with regard to iNuneaton.^' 
 
 " Nuneaton never suits my constitution. I thought you 
 would have remembered that, Evelyn," returned her husband, 
 gravely; and then they both laughed. Lord Fitzroy was not 
 without a sense of humor, and often restored amity by a jok- 
 ing word after this fashion, and then the conversation pro- 
 ceeded more smoothly. 
 
 Nan and Phillis felt far more at their ease here than they 
 had felt at the Paines'. There were no awkward questions 
 asked: Lady Fitzroy was far too well bred for that. If she 
 wondered at all how the Challoners were to live after they had 
 lost their money, she kept such remarks for her husband's 
 private ear. 
 
 " Those girls ought to marry well," observed Lord Fitzroy 
 when he found himself alone again with his wife. " Miss 
 Challoner is as pretty a creature as one need see, but Miss 
 Phillis has the most in her." 
 
 " How are they to meet people if they are going to hury 
 themselves in a little sea-side place?" she returned, regret- 
 fully. " Shall I put on my habit now, Percy? do you think 
 it will be cool enough for our ride?" 
 
 " Yes, run along, my pet, and don't keep me too long 
 waiting." Nevertheless, Lord Fitzroy did not object when his 
 wife made room for him a moment beside her on the couch, 
 while she made it up to him for her cross speeches, as she told 
 him. 
 
 " There, little mother, it is all done!" exclaimed Phillis, in 
 a tone of triumph, as later on in the afternoon they returned 
 to the cottage; but, in spite of her bravado, both the girls 
 looked terribly jaded, and Nan especially seemed out of spirits; 
 but then they had been round the Longmead garden, and had 
 gathered some flowers in the conservatory, and this alone 
 would have been depressing vrork for Nan. 
 
 From that time they lived in a perpetual whirl, a bustle of 
 activity that grew greater, and not less, from day to day.
 
 94 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Mrs. ChalloiiPr liad quietly but decidedly refused the Paines' 
 iiivitaUDii. Nun was right; iiotliing would have induced her 
 to leave her girls in their trouble: she made light of their dis- 
 comfort, fo'got her invalid airs, and persisted in fatiguing 
 herself to an alarming extent, 
 
 " You must let me do things; I should be wretched to sit 
 with my hands before me, and not help you," she said, with 
 tears in her eyes, and when they appealed in desperation to 
 Dorotliy, she took her mistress's side: 
 
 " Working hurts less than worrying. Don't you be fretting 
 about the mistress too much, or watching her too closely. It 
 will do her no harm, take my word for it." And Dorothy 
 was right. 
 
 But there was one piece of work that Nan set her mother 
 to do before they left (he cottage. 
 
 " Mother," she said to her one day when they were alone 
 together, " Mrs. Mayne will be wondering why you do not an- 
 swer her letter. I think you had better write, and tell her a 
 little about things. We must not put it ofE any longer, or she 
 will be hurt with us." And Mrs. Challoner very reluctantly 
 set about her unpleasant task. 
 
 But, after all, it was Nan who furnished the greater part of 
 the composition. Mrs. Challoner was rather verbose and de- 
 scriptive in her style. Nan cut down her sentences ruthlessly, 
 and so pruned and simplified the whole epistle that her moth- 
 er failed to trace her own handiwork; and at the last she added 
 a postscript to her own pretty handwriting. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner was rather dissatisfied with the whole thing. 
 " You have said so little. Nan! Mrs. Mayne will be quite 
 affronted at our reticence." 
 
 " What is the use of harrowing people's feelings?" was 
 Nan's response. 
 
 It was quite true she had dwelt as little as possible on their 
 troubles. 
 
 The few opening sentences had related solely to their friends* 
 affairs. 
 
 " You will be sorry to hear," Mrs. Challoner wrote after 
 this, " that 1 have met with some severe losses. 1 dare say 
 Mr. Mayne will remember that my poor husband invested our 
 little income in the busines of his cousin Mark Gardiner. "We 
 have just heard the unwelcome news that Gardiner & Fowler 
 have failed for a large amount. Under these circumstances, 
 we think it more prudent to leave Glen Cottage as soon as 
 possible, and settle at Madleigh, where we have a small house 
 belonging to us called the Friary, Fortunately for us, Mr,
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 95 
 
 Trinder has found us a tenant, who will take the remahider 
 of the lease off our hands. Do you remember Mr. Ralph Ib- 
 betson, the Paiues' cousin, that rather heavy-looking young 
 man, with reddish hair, who was engaged to that pretty Miss 
 Blake — well, he has taken Glen Cottage; and 1 hope you 
 will find them nice neighbors. Tell Dick he must not be too 
 sorry to miss his old friends; but of course you will understand 
 this is a sad break to us. Settling down in a new place is 
 never very pleasant; and, as my girls will have to help them- 
 selves, and wo shall all have to learn to do without things, it 
 will be somewhat of a discipline to us; but as long as we are 
 together, we all feel such difficulties can be easily b;;rne. 
 
 " Tell Mr. Mayne that, if 1 had foreseen how things were 
 to turn out, 1 would have conquered my indisposition, and 
 not have forfeited my last evening at Longmead.^^ 
 
 And in the postscript Nan wrote hurriedly: 
 
 " You must not be too sorry for us, dear Mrs. Mayne, for 
 mother is as brave as possible, and we are all determined, to 
 make the best of things. 
 
 " Of course it is very sad leaving dear Glen Cottage, where 
 we have spent such happy days; but though the Friary is 
 small, we shall make it very comfortable. Tell Dick the gar- 
 den is a perfect wilderness at present, and that there are no 
 roses — only a splendid passion flower that covers the whole 
 back of the house. '^ 
 
 Nan never knew why she wrote this. Was it to remind him 
 vaguely that the time of roses was over, and that from this 
 day things would be different with them? 
 
 Nan was quite satisfied when she had dispatched this letter. 
 It told just enough, and not too much. It sorely perplexed 
 and troubled Dick; and yet neither he nor his father had the 
 least idea how things really were with the Chal loners. 
 
 " Didn't I tell you so, Bessie?" exclaimed Mr. Mayne, al- 
 most in a voice of triumph, as he struck his hand upon the 
 letter. " Paine was right when he spoke of a shaky invest- 
 ment. That comes of women pretending to understand busi- 
 ness. A pretty mess they seem to have made of it!" 
 
 " Mother," said poor Dick, coming up to her when he found 
 himself alone with her for a moment. " I don't understand 
 this letter. I can not read between the lines, somehow, and 
 yet there seems something more than meets the eye." 
 
 " I am sure it is bad enough." returned Mrs. Mavne, who 
 had been quietly crying ovtr Nan's postsci-ipt. "Think of 
 them leaving Glen Cottage, and of these poor dear girls hav- 
 ing to make themselves useful!"
 
 06 iTOT LIKE OTHER GI11L& 
 
 " It is just that that bothers me so," replied Dick, with a 
 frowning brow. " The letter tells us so little; it is so con- 
 strained in tone; as though they were keeping something from 
 us. Of course they have something to live upon, but I am 
 afraid ic is very little." 
 
 "Very likely they will only have one servant^ ust Dor- 
 othy, and no one else; and the girls will have to help in the 
 house," returned his mother, thoughtfully. " That will 
 not do them any harm, Dick; it always improves girls to make 
 them useful. 1 dare say the Friary is a very small place, and 
 then I am sure, with a little help, Dorothy will do very well." 
 
 " But, mother," pleaded Dick, who was somewhat com- 
 forted by this sensible view of the matter, *' do write to Nan 
 or Philiis, and beg of them to give us fuller particulars." 
 And, though Mrs. Mayne promised she would do so, and kept 
 her word, Dick was not satisfied, but sat down and scrawled 
 a long letter to Mrs. Challoner, so incoherent in its expressions 
 of sympathy and regret that it quite mystified her; but Nan 
 thought it perfect, and took possession of it, and read it every 
 day, until it got quite thin and worn. One sentence especially 
 pleased her. " I don't intend ever to cross the threshold of the 
 cottage again," wrote Dick; "in fact, Oldfield will be hate- 
 ful without you all. Of course I shall run down to Hadleigh 
 at Christmas, and look you up, and see for myself what sort 
 of a place the Friary is. Tell Nan I will get her jots of roses for 
 her garden, so she need not trouble about that; and give them 
 my love, and tell them how awfully sorry 1 am about it all." 
 
 Poor Dick! the news of his friends' misfortune took off the 
 edge of his enjoyment for a long time. Thanks to Nan's un- 
 selfishness, he did not in the least realize the true state of 
 affairs; nevertheless, his honest heart washeavy at the thought 
 of the empty cottage, and he was quite right in saying Old- 
 field had grown suddenly hateful to him, and, though he kept 
 these thoughts to himself as much as possible, Mr, Mayne saw 
 that his sou was depressed and ill at ease, and sent him away 
 to the Swiss Tyrol, with a gay party of young people, hoping 
 a few weeks' change would put the Challoners out of his 
 head. Meanwhile, Nan and her sisters worked busily, and 
 their friends crowded round them, helping or hindering, ac- 
 cording to their nature. 
 
 On the last afternoon there was a regular invasion of the 
 cottage. The drawing-room carpet was up, and the room 
 was full of packing-cases. Carrie Paine had taken possession 
 of one, and her sister Sophy and Lily Twentymau had a 
 turned-up box between them. Miss Sartoris and Gussie Scobell
 
 NOT LIRA OTHEK GIRLS. 97 
 
 had wicker chairs. Dorothy had just brought in tea, and 
 placed before Nan a heterogeneous assemblage of kitchen cupa 
 and saucers, mugs, and odds and ends of crockery, when Lady 
 I'itzroy entered m her habit, accompanied by her sister, the 
 Honorable Maud Burgoyne, both of whom seemed to enjoy 
 the picMiic excessively. 
 
 " Do let me have the mug," implored Miss Burgoyne: she 
 was a pretty little brunette with a nez retrousse. " 1 have 
 never drunk out of one since my nursery days. How cool it 
 is, after the sunny roads! 1 think carpets ought to be abol- 
 ished in the summer. When I have a house of my own, Eve- 
 lyn, I mean to have Indian matting and nothing else in warm 
 weather." 
 
 " I am very fond of Indian matting," returned her sister, 
 sipping her tea contentedly. " Fitzroy hoi)ed to have looked 
 in this afternoon, Mrs. Challoner, to say good-bye, but [here 
 is an assault-at-arms at the Albert Hall, and he is taking my 
 young brother Algernon to see it. He is quite inconsolable 
 at the thought of losing such pleasant neighbors, and sent all 
 sorts of pretty messages,'^ finished Lady Fitzroy, graciously. 
 
 " Here is Edgar," exclaimed Carrie Paine; " he told us 
 that he meant to put in an appearance; but I am afraid the 
 poor boy will find himself de iruj) among so many ladies." 
 
 Edgar nasihe youngest Paine — a tall Eton boy, who looked 
 as though he would soon be too big for jackets, and an 
 especial friend of Kan's. 
 
 " How good of you to come and say good-bye. Gar!" she 
 said, summoning him to her side, as the boy looked round 
 him bluihing and half terrified. " What have you got there 
 under your jacket?" 
 
 " It is the puppy 1 promised you," returned Edgar, eagerly; 
 *' don't yon know — Kell's puppy'* Father said I might have 
 it." And he deposited a fat black retriever puppy at Kan's 
 feet. The little beast made a clumsy rush at her, and then 
 rolled over on its back. Kan took it up in high delight, and 
 showed it to her mother. 
 
 "Isn't it good of Gar, mother? and when we all wanted a 
 dog so! We have never had a pet since poor old Juno died; 
 and this will be such a splendid fellow when he grows up. 
 Look at his head and curly black paws; and what a dear 
 solemn face he has got!" 
 
 " 1 am glad you like him," replied Edgar, who was now 
 perfectly at his ease. " We have christened him ' Laddie.' He 
 is the handsomest puppy of the lot, and our man Jake says he 
 is perfectly healthy." And then, as Kan cut him some cake.
 
 98 ' NOT LIKE OTHEB GIRLS. 
 
 he proceeded to enlighten her on the treatment of this valu- 
 able animal. 
 
 The arrival of " Laddie ** made quite a diversion, and, when 
 the good-byes vs^ere all said, Nan took the little animal in her 
 arms and went with Phillis for the last time to gather flowers 
 in the Longmead garden, and when the twilight came on the 
 three girls went slowly through the village, bidding farewell to 
 their old haunts. 
 
 It was all very sad, and nobody slept much that night in 
 the cottage. Nan's tears were shed very quietly, but they fell 
 thick and fast. 
 
 " Oh, Dick, it is hard — hard!" thought the poor girl, bury- 
 ing her face in the pillow; " but I have not let you know the 
 day, so you will not be thinking of us. I would not pain you 
 for worlds, Dick, not more than I can help." And then she 
 dried her eyes aud told herself that she must be brave for all 
 their sakes to-morrow; but, for all her good resolutions, sleep 
 would not come to her any more than it did to Phillis, who lay 
 open-eyed and miserable until morning. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 **I MUST HAVE GRACE." 
 
 When" the Reverend Archibald Drummond was nominated 
 to the living of Hadleigh in Sussex, it was at once understood 
 by his family that he had achieved a decided success in life. 
 
 Hadleigh until very recently had been a perpetual curacy, 
 and the perpetual curate in charge had lived in the large, 
 shabby house with the green door on the Braidwood Road, as 
 it was called. There had been some talk of a new vicarage, 
 but as yet the first brick had not been laid, the building com- 
 mittee had fallen out on the question of the site, a?jd nothing 
 had been definitely arranged; there was a good deal of talk, 
 too, about the church restoration, but at the present moment 
 nothing had been done. 
 
 Mr. Drummond had not been disturbed in his mind by the 
 delay of the building committee in the matter of the new 
 vicarage, but on the topic of the church restoration he had 
 been heard to say very bitter things — far too bitter, it was 
 thought, to proceed from the lips of such a new-comer. It is 
 not always wise to be outspoken, and when Mr. Drumn-j^nd 
 expressed himself a little too frankly on the ugliness of the 
 sacred edifice, which until lately had been a chapel-of-ease, he 
 )iad caused a great deal of disBatisfactiou iu the minds of his
 
 K6t like other girls. 9& 
 
 hearers; but when the young vicar, still strongly imbued with 
 the beauties of Oxford architecture, had looked round blankly 
 on the great square pews and galleries, and then at the wooden 
 pulpit, and the Ten Commandments that adorned the east 
 end, he was not quite so sure in his mind that his position was 
 as enviable as that of other men. 
 
 Church architecture was his hobby, and, if the truth must 
 be told, he was a little " High " in his views; without attach- 
 ing himself to the Ultra-Ritualistic party, he was still strongly 
 impregnated with many of their ideas; he preferred Gregorian 
 to Anglican chants, and would have had no objection to in- 
 cense if his diocese could have been brought to appreciate it 
 too. 
 
 An oriiate service was decidedly to his taste. It was, there- 
 fore, a severe mortification when he found himself compelled 
 to minister Sunday after Sunday in a building that was ugly 
 enough for a conventicle, and to listen to the florid voices of 
 a mixed choir, instead of the orderly array of men and boys 
 in white surplices to which he had been accustomed. If he 
 had been combative by nature — one who loved to gird his 
 armor about him and to plunge into every sort of nicUe—\\Q 
 would have rejoiced after a fashion at the thought of the 
 work cut out for him, of bringing order and beauty out of 
 this chaos; but he was by nature too impatient. He would 
 have condemned and destroyed instead of trying to renovate. 
 
 " Why not build a new church at once?" he said, with a 
 certain youthful intolerance that made people angry. " Never 
 mind the vicarage; the old house will last my time; but a 
 place like this — a rising place — ought to have a church worthy 
 of it. It will be money thrown away to restore this one,'' 
 finished the young vicar, looking round him with sorely 
 troubled eyes; and it was this outspoken frankness that had 
 lost him popularity at first. 
 
 But, if the nQ\y vicar had secret cause for discontent, in the 
 Drummond family there was nothing but the sweetness of 
 triumph. 
 
 " Archie has never given me a moment's trouble from his 
 birth," his proud mother was wont to declare; and it must 
 .be owned that the young man had done very fairly for him- 
 self. 
 
 There had been plenty of anxiety in the Drummond house- 
 hold while Archibald was enjoying his first Oxford term. 
 Things had come to a climax: his father, who was a Leeds 
 manufacturer, had failed most utterly, and to a large amount. 
 Tbe firm of Drummomi & D.ummoud, ouce known as a most
 
 iOd iSrOf LIKE OTHER GlRtg. 
 
 respectable and reliable firm, had come suddenly, but not un- 
 expectedly, to the ground; and Archibald Drummond the elder 
 had been compelled to accept a managership in the very firm 
 that, by competition and under- selling, had helped to ruin 
 him. 
 
 It was a heavy trial to a man of Mr. Drumniond's proud 
 temperament; but he went through with it in a tough, dogged 
 way that excited his wife's admiration. True, his bread was 
 bitter to him for a long time, and the sweetness of life, as he 
 told himself, was over for him; but he had a large family to 
 maintaai, sons and daughters growing up around him, and 
 the youngest was not yet six months old; under such circum- 
 stances a mnn may be induced to put his pride in his pocket. 
 
 " Your father has grown quite gray, and has begun to 
 stoop. It makes my heart quite ache to see him sometimes,'^ 
 Mrs. Drummond wrote to her eldest son; " but he never says 
 a word to any'of us. He just goes through with it day after 
 day." 
 
 At that time Arcliie was her great comfort. He had begun 
 to make his own way early in life, understanding from the 
 first that his parents could do very little for him. He had 
 worked well at school, and had succeeded in obtaining one or 
 two scholarships. When his university life commenced, and 
 the household at Leeds became sti-aitened in their circum- 
 stances, he determined not to encumber them with his pres- 
 ence. 
 
 He soon became known in his college as a reading-man and 
 a steady worker; he was fortunate, too, in obtaining pupils 
 for the long vacation. By and by he became a fellow and 
 tutor of his college, and before he was e'ght-and-twenty the 
 living of Harlleigh was offered to him. It was not at all a rich 
 living — not being worth more than three hundred a year — and 
 some of his Oxford friends would have dissuaded him from 
 accepting it; but Archibald Drummond was not of thtir opin- 
 ion. Oxford did not suit his constitution; he was never well 
 tnere. Sussex air, and especially the sea-side, would give him 
 just the tone he required. He liked the big, old-fashioned 
 house that would be allotted to him. He coukl take pupils 
 and add to his income in that way; at present he had liis fel- 
 lowship. It was only in the event of his marriage that his in- 
 come might not be found sutficient. At the present moment 
 he had no matrimonial intentions; there was only one thing 
 on which ho was d^-termined, an.l that was, that Grace must 
 live With him and keep his house. 
 
 Grace was the sister next to him in age. Mattie — or Ma-
 
 ^OT LIKE OTHER GtRLS. lOl 
 
 iilda, as her mother often called her — was the eldest of the 
 family, and was two years older than Archibald. Between 
 him and Grace there were two brothers, Fred and Clyde, and 
 beyond Grace a string of girls, ending in Dottie, who was not 
 yet ten. Archibald used to forget their ages and mix them 
 up in the most helpless way; he was never quite sure if Isabel 
 were eighteen or twenty, or whether Clara or Susie came nest. 
 He once forgot Laura altogether, and was only reminded of 
 her existence by the shock of surprise at seeing the awkward* 
 looking, ungainly girl standing before him, looking shyly up 
 in his face. 
 
 Archibald was never quite alive to the blessing of having 
 seven sisters, none of them with any pretension to beauty, un- 
 less it were Grace, though he was obliged to confess on his last 
 visit to Leeds that Isabel was certainly passable looking. He 
 tried to take a proper amount of interest in them, and be 
 serenely unconscious of their want of grace and polish; but 
 the effort was too manifest, and neither Clara nor Susie nor 
 Laura regarded their grave elder brother with any lively de- 
 gree of atfeotion. Mrs. Drummond was a somewhat stern and 
 exacting mother, but sbe was never so difficult to please as 
 when her eldest son was at home. 
 
 " Home is never so comfortable when Archie is in it," Susie 
 would grumble to her favorite confidante, Grace. "Every 
 one is obliged to be on their best behavior; and yet mother 
 finds fault from morning to night. Dottie is crying now be- 
 cause sbe has been scolded for coming down to tea in a dirty 
 pinafore.'' 
 
 " Oh, hush, Susie dear! you ought not to say such things," 
 returned Grace, in her quiet voice. 
 
 Poor Grace! these visits of Archie were her only pleasures. 
 iThe brother and sister were devoted to each other. In 
 Archie's eyes not one of the others was to be compared to her; 
 .and in this he was perfectly right. 
 
 Grace Drummond was a tall, sweet-looking girl of two-and- 
 twenty — not pretty, except in her brother's opinion, but pos- 
 sessing a soft, fair comeliness that made her pleasant to look 
 upon. In voice and manner she was extremely quiet — almost 
 grave; and only those who lived with her had any idea of the 
 repressed strength and energy of her character, and the almost 
 masculine clearness of intellect that lay under the soft ex- 
 terior. One side of her nature was hidden from every one but 
 her brother, and to him only revealed by intermittent flashes, 
 ;and that was the passionate absorption of her affection in 
 ,Jiim. To her parents she was dutiful and submissive, but
 
 10^ irOT LIKE OTHER GIEL^. 
 
 wheu she grew up the yoke of her mother's will was felt to be 
 oppressive. Her father's nature was more in sympathy with 
 her own; but even with him she was reticent. She was good 
 to ail her brothers and sisters, and especially devoted to Dot- 
 tie; but her affection for them was so strongly pervaded by 
 anxiety and the overweight of responsibility that its pains 
 overbalanced its pleasures. She loved them, and toiled in 
 their service from morning to night; but as yet she had not 
 felt herself rewarded by any decided success. But in Archie 
 her pride was equal to her love; she was critical, and her 
 standard was somewhat high, but he satisfied her. What 
 other people recognized as faults, she regarded as the merest 
 blemishes. Without being absolutely faultless, which was of 
 course impossible in a creature of flesh and blood, he was still 
 as near perfection, she thought, as he could be. Perhaps her 
 affection for him blinded her somewhat, and cast a sort of lov- 
 ing glamour over her eyes; for it must be owned that Archi- 
 bald was by no means extraordinary in either goodness or 
 cleverness. From a boy she had watched his career with daz- 
 zled eyes, rejoicing in every stroke of success that came to him 
 as though it were her own. Her own life was dull and labori- 
 ous, spent in the overcrowded house in Lowder otreet, but the 
 forgot it in following his. Now and then bright days came to 
 her — few in number, but absolutely golden, when this dearly 
 loved brother came on a brief visit — wheu they had !?natches 
 of delicious talk in the empty school-room at the top of the 
 house, or he took her out with him for a long, quiet walk. 
 
 Mrs. Drummond always made some dry, sarcastic remark 
 when they came in, for she was secretly jealous of Archie's 
 affection f ^r Grace. Hers was rather a monopolizing nature, 
 and she would willingly have had the first share in her son's 
 affections. It somewhat displeased her to see him so wrapped 
 up in the one sister to the exclusion of all the others, as she 
 told him. 
 
 " 1 think you might have asked Matilda or Isabel to ac- 
 company you. The poor girls never see anything of you, 
 Archie," she would say plaintively to her son. But to Grace 
 she would speak somewhat sharply, bidding her fulfill some 
 neglected duty, which another could as well have performed, 
 and making her at once understand by her manner that sho 
 was to blame in leaving Mattie at home. 
 
 " Mother," Archibald said to her one day, when she had 
 spoken with unusual severity, and the poor girl had retreated 
 from the room, feeling as though she had been convicted of 
 selfishness, " we must settle the matter about which I SDok©
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 108 
 
 to you last night. I have been thinking about it eyer since. 
 Mattie wiJl not do at all. 1 must have Grace!" 
 
 Mrs. Drunimoud looked up from her meiidiug, and her thin 
 lips settled into a hard line that they always took when her 
 mind was made up on a disagreeable subject. She had a pina- 
 fore belonging to Dottie in her hand; there was a jagged rent 
 in it, and she sighed impatiently as she put it down; though 
 ghe was not a woman who shirked any of her maternal duties, 
 she had often been heard to say that her work was never done, 
 and that her mending-basket was never empty. 
 
 *' But if I can not spare Grace," she said, ralher shortly, as 
 she meditated another lecture to the delinquent DoUie. 
 
 "But, mnther, you must spare her!" returned her son, 
 eagerly, leaning his elbow on the mantel-piece, and watching 
 her rapid manipulations with apparent interest. " Look here; 
 1 am quite in earnest. I have set my heart on having Grace. 
 She is just the one to manage a clergyman's household. She 
 would be my right hand in the parish." 
 
 " She is our right hand too, Archie; but I suppose we are 
 to cut it off, that it may benefit you and your parish." 
 
 Mrs. Drummond seldom spoke so sharply to her eldest son; 
 but this request of his was grievous to her. 
 
 " 1 think Grace ought to be considered, too, in the mat- 
 ter,^' he returned, somewhat sullenly. " She works harder 
 than any paid governess, and gets small thanks for her 
 trouble." 
 
 " She does her duty," returned Mrs. Drummond, coldly — 
 she very seldnm praised any of her children — " but not more 
 than'Mattie does hers. You are prejudiced strongly against 
 your sister, Archie; you are not fair to her in any way. Mat- 
 tie is a capital little housekeeper. She is economical, and full 
 of clever contrivances. It is not as though I a^ked you to try 
 Isabel. She is well enough, too, in her way, but a little 
 fligbty, and rather too pretty, perhaps—" but here a laugh 
 from Archie grated on her ear. 
 
 " Too pretty! what an absurd idea! The girl is passable 
 looking, and I will not deny that she has improved lately; 
 but, mother, there is not one of the girls that can be called 
 pretty except Grace." 
 
 Mrs. Drummond winced at her son's outspoken words. The 
 plainness of her daughters was a sore subject. 
 
 She had never understood whv her girls were so ordinary 
 looking. She had been a handsome girl in her time, and was 
 still a fine-looking woman. Her husband, too, had had a fair 
 ^mouut of good looks, and, though he stooped, was still ad'
 
 104 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 mirable in her eyes. The boys, too, were thorouglily fine fel- 
 lows. Fred wus decideilly handsome, and so was Clyde; and 
 as for her favorite Arcliie, Mrs. Drururuoad glanced up at 
 him as he stood beside her. 
 
 He certainly looked a model young clergyman. His feat- 
 ures were good, but the lower part of his face was quite hidden^ 
 by the fair mustache and the soft silky beard. Ho had- 
 thoughtful gray eyes, which could look as severe as hers some- 
 times; and, though his shoulders were somewhat too sloping, 
 there could be no fault found with his figure. He was as nice 
 looking as possible, she thought, and no mother could have 
 been better satisfied. But why, with the exception of Grace 
 and Isabel, were her girls so deficient in outward graces? It 
 could not be denied that they were very ordinary girls. Laura 
 was overgrown and freckled, and had red hair; Susie was 
 sickly looking, and so short-sighted that they feared she would 
 have to take to spectacles; and Clara was stolid and heavy 
 looking, one of those thick-set girls that dress never seems to» 
 improve. Dottie had a funny little face; but one could not 
 judge of her yet. And Mattie — Mrs. Drummond sighed again 
 as she thought of her eldest daughter — Mattie was thirty; and 
 her mother felt she would never marry. It was not that she 
 was so absolutely plain — people who liked her said Mattie had 
 a nice face; but she was so abrupt, so uncouth in her awk- 
 wardness, such a stranger to the minor morals of life, that it 
 would be a wonder indeed if she could find favor in any man's 
 eyes. 
 
 " I do think you are too hard on your sisters," returned 
 Mrs. Drumniond, stung by her son's remark. " Isabel 4vas 
 very much admired at her " st party last week. Mrs. Coch-- 
 rane told me so, and so did Miss Blair." She could have add^ 
 ed that her maternal interest had been strongly stirred by the 
 mention of a certain Mr. Ellis Burton, who she had under- 
 stood had paid a great deal of attention that evenii]g to Isa- 
 bel, and who was the eldest son of a wealthy manufacturer in 
 Leeds. But Mrs. Drummond had some good old-fashioned 
 notions, and one of these was never to speak on such delicate 
 subjects as the matrimonial prospects of her daughters; in~ 
 deed, she often thanked Heaven she was not a match-making 
 mother — which was as well, under the circumstances. 
 
 " Well, well, we are not talking about Isabel," returned hei*' 
 son, impatiently. *' The question is about Grace, mother. I 
 really do wish very much that you and my father would, 
 stretch a point for me here. 1 want her more than I cait 
 say."
 
 K6T LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 105 
 
 *' But, Archie, you must be reasonable. Just think a mo^ 
 tneut. Your father can not afford to send the girls to school, 
 or to pay for a good finishing governess. We iiave given 
 Grace every advantage; and just as she is mailing herself 
 really useful to me in the school-room, you want to deprive 
 me of her services."' 
 
 " You know I offered to pay for Clara's schooling," re- 
 turned her son, reproachfully. " She is more than sixteen, is 
 she not? Surely Mattie could teach the others?" 
 
 But Mrs. Druinmond's clear, concisd voice interrupted him. 
 
 " Archie, how can you talk such nonsense? You k?iow poor 
 Mattie was never good at book-learning. She would hardly 
 do for Dottie. Ask Grace, if you doubt my word.'* 
 
 " Of course I do not doubt it, mother," in rather an ag- 
 gravated voice, for he felt he was having the worst of the 
 argument. 
 
 " Then why do you not beh'eve me when I tell you the thing 
 you ask is impossible?" replied his mother, more calmly. "1 
 am sorry for you if you are disappointed, Archie; but you un- 
 dervalue Mattie — you do indeed. She will make you a nice 
 little housekeeper, and though she is not clever, she is so 
 amiable that nothing ever puis her out; and visiting the poor 
 and sick-nursing are nmre in her line than in Grace's. Mrs. 
 Blair finds her invaluable. She wanted her for one of her dis- 
 trict visitors, and I said she had too much to do at home." 
 
 Archie shrugged his shoulders. Mrs. Bhiir was the wife of 
 the vicar of All Saints', where the Drummonds attended, and 
 from a hoy she had been his pet aversion. She was a bustling, 
 managing woman, and of course Mattie was just to her taste. 
 He did not see much use in continuing the conversation; with 
 all his affection for his mother — and she was better loved by 
 her sons than by her daughters — he knew her to be as im- 
 movable as a rock when she had once made up her mind. He 
 thought at first of appealing to his father on Grace's behalf, 
 but abandoned this notion after a few minutes' reflection. 
 His father wasdecidtdand firm in all matters relating to busi- 
 ness, but for majiy years past he had abandoned the domestic 
 reins to his wife's capable hands. Perhaps he had proved her 
 worth and prudence; perhaps he thought the management of 
 seven daughters too much for any man. Anyhow, he inter- 
 fered less and less as the years went on; and if at any time he 
 differed from his wife, she could always talk him over, as her 
 son v/ell knew. 
 
 When the subject had been first mooted in the household, 
 he had said a word or two to his father, and had found him
 
 106 NOT LIKE OTHER OlRtS. 
 
 very reluct.ant to entertain the idea of parting with Grace. 
 She was his favorite daughter, and he thought how he should 
 miss her when he came home weary and jaded at night. 
 
 " I don't think it will do at all/* he had said, in an unde- 
 cided, dissatisfied tone. " Won't one of the other girls serve 
 your turn? There's Mattie, or tliat little monkey Isabel, she 
 is as pert and lively as possible. But Grace; why, she is 
 every one's right hand. What would the mother or the young 
 ones do without her?" 
 
 No; it was no use appealing to his father, Archie thought, 
 and miglit only make mischief in the house. He and Grace 
 must make up their mind to a few more years' separation. 
 He turned away after his motlier's last speech, and finally 
 left the room without saying another word. There was a 
 cloud on his face, and Mrs. Drummond saw that he was much 
 displeased; but, though she sighed again as she took up a 
 pair of Clyde's socks and inspected them carefully, there was 
 no change in her resolution that Mattie, and not Grace, should 
 go to the vicarage for the year's visit; that was all Archie had 
 asked. 
 
 There are mothers and mothers in this world — some who are 
 capable of sacrificing their children to Moloch, who will barter 
 their own flesh and blood in return for some barren heritage 
 or other. There are those who will exact from those depend- 
 ent on them heavy tithes of daily patience and uncomplaining 
 drudgery; while others, who are " mothers indeed," give all, 
 asking for nothing in return. 
 
 Mrs. Drummond was a good woman. She had many virt- 
 ues and few faults. She was lady-like, industrious and self- 
 denying in her own personal comforts, an exemplary wife, and 
 a tolerant mistress; but she was better understood by her sons 
 than by her daughters. 
 
 Her maternal instincts were very strong, and no mother had 
 more delighted in her nursery than she had in hers. As long 
 as there was a baby in the house the tenderness of her love 
 was apparent enough. She wore herself out tending her in- 
 fants, and no one ever heard her say a harsh word in her 
 nursery. 
 
 But as her children grew up, there was much clashing of 
 wills in the household. Her sous did not fear her in the least; 
 hut with her daughters it was otherwise. They felt the moth- 
 er's strong will repressive; it threatened to dwarf their in- 
 dividuality and cramp that free growth that is so necessarj' to 
 young thuigs. 
 
 Dottie, who, by virtue of being the last baby, had had more
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 107 
 
 than her fair auioutifc of petting, was only just beginning to 
 learn her lesson of uii^uestioniiig obedience; aiiJ, as she A'as 
 somewhat spoiled, the lesson was a hard one. But Laura and 
 Susie and Clara had nol yet found out tliat tlieir mother loved 
 thi'm and wished to be their friend; they were timid and re- 
 served with her, and took all their troubles to Grace. Even 
 Mattie, who was her first-born, and who was old enough to be 
 her mother's companion, quailed and blushed like a child un- 
 der the dry caustic sijeeches at which Clyde and Fred only 
 laughed. 
 
 '* Ton don't understand the mother. Her bark is worse 
 than her bite," Clyde would say to his sister, somefiines. 
 " She is an a^vfuily clever woman, and it riles her to see her- 
 self surrounded by such a set of ninnies. Now, don't sulk, 
 Bi^lle. You know Mattie's a duffer compared to Grace; aren't 
 you. Matt?" 
 
 At which truism poor Mattie would hang her head. 
 
 " Yes, Clyde; I know I am dreadfully stupid oometimes, 
 and that makes mother angry." 
 
 Mrs. JJrummond often complained bitterly of her daughters' 
 want of confidence in her, butshenes'er blamed herself for tiie 
 barrier that seemed between them. She was forever asserting 
 maternal authority, when such questions might have been 
 safely laid to rest between her and her grown-up daughters. 
 Mrs. Challoner's oneness of sympathy wiih her girls, Ijer lax 
 discipline, her perfect equality, would have t^hocked a wonjan 
 of Mrs. Drummond's caliber. She would not have tolerated 
 or understood it for a moment. 
 
 " My girls must do as I wish," was a very ordinary spfech 
 in her mouth. " I always do as mv girls wi^h," Mrs. Chal- 
 loner would have said. And indeed the two mothers were ut- 
 terly dissimilar; but it may be doubted whether the Challoner 
 household, was not far happier than the family in Loftder 
 Street, 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 *' YOF CAN DARE TO TELL ME THESE THINGs!'* 
 
 Archibald Druio»ond had left his mother's presence with 
 a cloud on his brow. He had plenty of filial affection for her, 
 but it was not the first time that he had found her too much 
 for him. She had often angered him before by her treatment 
 of Grace, but he had told himself that she was his mother, 
 that a man could have but one, and so he had brought himself 
 to forgive her. But this time she had set herself against the
 
 108 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 cherished plan of years. He had always looked forward to the 
 time when he could have Grace to live with him; they had 
 made all sorts of schemes together, and all their talk had con- 
 centrated itself toward this point; the disappointment would 
 place a sort of blaukness before them; they would t)e working 
 separately, far away from each other, and the distance would 
 not be bridged for years. 
 
 fle stood for a moment in the dark, narrow hall, thinking 
 intently over all this, and then he went slowly upstairs. He 
 knew where he should find Grace. His mother had paid an 
 unwonted visit to the school-room during their walk, and on 
 their return had expressed herself with some degree of sharp- 
 ness on the disorder she had found there. Grace would be 
 busily engaged in putting everything to rights. It was Clara's 
 business, but she had gone out, and had, as usual, forgotten 
 all about it. Grace had taken the blame upon herself, of 
 course; she was always shielding her younger sisters. 
 
 Everything was done when he entered the room, and Grace 
 was sitting by the window, with her hands folded in her lap, 
 indulging in a few minutes' rare idleness. She looked up 
 eagerly as her brother made his appearance. 
 
 The school-room was a large, bare-looking room at the top 
 of the house, with two narrow windows looking out over a 
 lively prospect of roofs and chimney-pots. Mrs. Drummond 
 had done her utmost to give it an air of comfort, but it was, 
 on the whole, a dull, uncomfortable apartment, in spite of 
 the faded Turkey carpet, and the curtains that had once been 
 so handsome, but had now merged into unwholesome neutral 
 tints. 
 
 Laura, who was the wit of the family, had nicknamed it the 
 Hospital, for it seemed to be a receptacle for all the maimed 
 and rickety chairs of the household, footstools in a dilapidated 
 condition, and odd pieces of lumber that had no other place. 
 Archibald regarded it with a troubled gaze; somehow, its 
 dinginess had never before so impressed him; and then as he 
 looked at his sister the frown deepened on his face. 
 
 " Well, Archie?" 
 
 *' Oh, Grace, it is no use! I have talked myself hoarse: 
 but the mother is dead against it; one might as well try to 
 move a rock. We shall have to make up our minds to bear 
 our disappointment as well as we can." 
 
 "I knew it was hopeless from the first,'' returned Grace, 
 slowly; but, as she spoke, a sort of dimness and paleness crept 
 over her face, belying her words. 
 
 Ihe was young, ,aud in youth hope never dies. Beyond th©
 
 SrOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 109 
 
 gray daily horizon there is always a possible gleam, a new tq- 
 morrow; youth abounds in infinite surprises, in probabilities 
 which are as large as they are vague. Grace told herself that 
 she never hoped much from Archie's mission; yet when he 
 came to her with his ill success plainly stamped upon his 
 countenance, the dying out of her dream was biller to her. 
 
 " 1 knew it was hopeless from the first,^' had been her an- 
 swer, and then bre&tn for further words failed her, and she 
 sat motionless, with her hands clasped tightly together, while 
 Archie placed himself on the window-seat beside her, and 
 looked out ruefully at the opposite chimneys. 
 
 " Well, it was all over, this dearly cherished scheme of 
 theirs; she must go on now with the dull routine of daily 
 duties, she must stoop her neck afresh to the yoke she had 
 long found so galling; this school-room must be her world, she 
 must not hope any longer for wider vistas, for more expansive 
 horizons, for tasks that should be more congenial to her, for 
 all that was now made impossible. 
 
 Mattie, not she, must go and keep Archie's house, and here 
 for a moment she closed her eyes, the pain was so bitter; she 
 thought of the old vicarage, of the garden where she and 
 Archie were to have worked, of the shabby old study where he 
 meant to write his sermons, while she was to sit beside him 
 with her book or needle-work, of the evem'ngs when he had 
 promised to read to her, of the walks they were to have taken 
 together, of all the dear delightful plans they had made. 
 
 And now her mother had said them nay; it was Mattie who 
 was to be his housekeeper, wtio would sit opposite to him and 
 pour out his coffee, who would mend his socks and do all the 
 thousand and one things that a woman delights in doing for 
 the mankind dependent on her for comfort. 
 
 Mattie would visit his poor people, and teach in the schools, 
 entertain his friends and listen to his voiae every Sunday; 
 here tears slowly gathered under the closed eyelids. Yes, 
 Mattie would do all that, but she would not be his chosen 
 friend and companion; there would be no long charming talks 
 for her in the study or the sunny garden; he would be as 
 lonely, poor fellow, in his way as she would be in hers, and for 
 this her mother was to blame. 
 
 " Well, Gracie, haven't you a word to say?" asked her 
 brother, at last, surprised at her long silence. 
 
 " No, Archie; it does not bear talking about," she returned, 
 so passionately that he turned round to look at her. " I must 
 not even think of it. I must try and shut it all out of my
 
 no KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 mini3, or I shall be no good to any one. But it is hard- 
 hard!" with a quiver of her lip. 
 
 " I call it a shame for my father and mother to sacrifice you 
 in this way!" he burst out, moved to bitter indignation at 
 the sight of her trouble. " 1 shall tell my father whatl tlduk 
 about it pretty plainly!" 
 
 But this speech recalled Grace to her senses: 
 
 " Oh, no, dear! you must do no such thing; promise me 
 you will not. It would be no good at all; aud it would only 
 make mother so angry. You know he always thinks- as she 
 does about things, so it would be of no use. I supp ise "-- 
 with an im[)atient sigh—" that I ought to feel myself compli- 
 mented at knowing I can not be spared. Some girls would be 
 proud to feel themselves their mother's right hand; bu"- to me 
 it does not seem niucli of a privilege." 
 
 " Don't talk in that way, Grace; it makes me miser'^ble to 
 hoar you. I am more sorry for you than 1 am for iiyself, 
 and yet 1 am sorry for myself too. If it were not tb'dt my 
 mother would be too deeply offended, I would refuse tc have 
 Mattie at all. We never have got on well together. She is a 
 good little thing in her way, but her awkwardness ant' left- 
 handed ways will worry me incessantly. And then we ha^e not 
 an idea in common—" but here Grace generously interp )sed. 
 
 " Poor old fellow! as though 1 did not know all that, but 
 you must not vent it on poor Mattie. She is not to blaice for 
 our disappointment. She would gladly give it up to me f she 
 could. I know she will do her utmost to please you, A.chie, 
 and she is so good and amiable that you must overlooii her 
 little failings and make the best of her." 
 
 "It will be rather difficult work, 1 am afraid," ret u-ned 
 her brother, grinil}'. "I shall always be drawing invilious 
 comparisons l)etweea you both, aud thinking what you v\ould 
 do in her place." 
 
 "All the same you must try and be good to her for my 
 sake, for 1 am very fond of Mattie," she returned, gently; but 
 she could not help feeling gratified at the assurance that he 
 would miss her. And then she put her hand on his coa"- 
 sleevb, and stroked it, a favorite caress with her. " It doed 
 not bear talking about, does it, Archie.'^ It only makes it feel 
 worse. I think it must be meant as a discipline for me, be- 
 cause I am so wicked, and that it would not do at all for me 
 to be too happy." And here she pressed his arm, aud looked 
 up in his face, with an attempt at a smile. 
 
 " No, you are right; talking only makes it worse," he re- 
 turned, hurriedly; and then La i.iuoped — for he was a tail
 
 Hot LIKE OTHER GIHLS. 11^ 
 
 man— and kissed her pu the forehead just between her eyeS;, 
 and then walked to the door, whistling a light air. 
 
 Grace did not think him at all abrupt in thus breaking oflL 
 the conversation. She had caught his meaning in a moment, 
 and knew the whole business was so painful to him that he did 
 not care to dwell on it. When the tea-bell rang, she prepared 
 herself at once to accompany him down-stairs. 
 
 It was Archibald's last evening at home, and all the family 
 were gathered round the long tea-table. Since Mr. Drum- 
 mond's misfortunes late dinners had been relinquished, and 
 more homely habits prevailed in the household. Mrs. Drum- 
 moiid had, indeed, apologized to her son more than once for 
 the simplicity of their mode of life. 
 
 " You are accustomed to a late dinner, Archie. 1 wish 1 
 could have managed it for you; but your father objects to 
 any alteration being made in our usual habits.^* 
 
 " He is quite right; and I should have been much distressed 
 if you had thought such alteration necessary," returned her 
 sou, very much surprised at this reference to his father. For 
 Mrs. Drummoud rarely consulted her husband on such mat- 
 ters. In this case, however, she had done so, and Mr. Drum- 
 mond had been unusually testy — indeed, affronted — at such a 
 question being put to him. 
 
 " 1 don't know what you mean, Isabella," he had replied; 
 ".but I suppose what is good enough for me is good enough 
 for Archie." And then Mrs. Drummoud knew she had made 
 a mistake, for her husband had felt bitterly the loss of his late 
 dinner. So Archie tried to fall in with the habits of his fam- 
 ily, and to enjoy the large plum or seed cake that invariably 
 garnished the tea-table; and, though he eat but sparingly of 
 the supper, which always gave him indigestion, Grace was his 
 only confiJante in the matter. Mr. Drummond, indeed, 
 looked at his son rather sharply once or twice, as though he 
 suspected him of fastidiousness. " I can not compliment you 
 on your appetite," he would say, as he helped himself to cold 
 meat; " but perhaps our home fare is not so templing as Ox- 
 ford living?" 
 
 " 1 always say your meat is unusually good," returned 
 Archibald, amicably. " If there be any fault, it is in my ap- 
 petite; but that Had leigh air will soon set right." But, though 
 he answered his father after this tolerant fashion, he always 
 added, in a mental aside, that nine-o'clock suppers were cer- 
 tainly barbarous institutions, and peculiarly deleterious to the 
 constitution of an Oxford fellow. 
 
 Mrs. Drummoud looked at them both somewhat keenly as
 
 112 NOT LIKE OTHER GTHLSi. 
 
 they entered. In spite of her resolution, she was secretly un- 
 comfortable at the thought that Archie was displeased with 
 her; her daughter's vexation was a burden that could be more 
 easily borne; but her maternal heart yearned for some token 
 that her boy was not estranged from her. But no such con- 
 solation was to be vouchsafed to her. She had kept his usual 
 place vacant beside her; Archie showed no intention of taking 
 it. He placed himself by his father, and began talking to 
 him of a change of ministry that was impending, and which 
 would overthrow the Conservative party. Mrs. Drummond, 
 who was one of those women who can never be made to take 
 any interest in politics, was reduced to the necessity of talking 
 to Mattie iu an undertone, for the other boys never put in an 
 appearance at this meal; but as she talked she took stock of 
 Grace's pale, abstracted looks, as she sat with her plate before 
 her, not pretending to eat, and taking no notice of Susie and 
 Laura, who chatted busily across her. 
 
 It was not a festive meal; on the contrary, there was an un- 
 usual air of restraint over the whole party. The younger mem- 
 bers felt instinctively that there was something amiss. Archie 
 looked decidedly glum; and there was an expression on the 
 mother's face that they were not slow to interpret. No one 
 could hear what it was she was saying to Mattie that made her 
 look so red and nervous all at once; but presently she ad- 
 dressed herself abruptly to her husband: 
 
 " It is all settled, father. I have arranged with Archie that 
 Matilda should go down to Hadleigh next month. ^* 
 
 Archie stroked his beard, but did not look up or make any 
 remark, though poor Mattie looked at him beseecliiugly across 
 the table, as though imploring a word. His mother would 
 carry her point; but he would not pretend for a moment that 
 he was otherwise than displeased, or that Mattie would be 
 welcome. 
 
 His silence attracted Mr. Drummond's attention: 
 
 " Oh, what, you have settled it, you say? 1 hope you are 
 satisfied, Archie, and properly grateful to your mother for 
 sparing Mattie. She is to go for a year. Well, it will be a 
 grand change for her. I should not be surprised if you were 
 to pick up a husband, Miss Mattie;" for Mr. Drummond was 
 a man who, in spite of his cares, was not without his joke; 
 but, as usual, it was instantly frowned down by his wife. 
 
 " I wonder at you, father, talking such nonsense before the 
 children. Why are you giggling, Laura? It is very un- 
 seemly and ill-behavi'd. I hope no daughter of mine has 
 such uumaiJenly notions. Mattie is going to Hadleigh to be
 
 ifOt LIKE OTHER GIRtg* ll^ 
 
 a comfort to her brother, and to keep his house as a clergy- 
 man's hojse ought to be kept." 
 
 *' Aud you are satisfied, Archie?" asked Mr. Drummond, 
 not quite pleased at his wrife's reprimand^ aud struck auen^ by 
 his son's silence. 
 
 " I consider these questions somewhat unnecessary. You 
 know my wishes, sir, on the subject, and my mother also," 
 was the somewhat uncompromising remark; " but it appears 
 that they are not to be met in this instance. 1 hope Mattie 
 will be comfortable and not miss her sisters;" but he did not 
 look at the poor girl, and the tears came into her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, Archie, I am so sorry! I never meant — " she stam- 
 mered: but hei mother interrupted her: 
 
 " There is no occasion for you to be sorry about anything; 
 you had far better be silent, Mattie. But you have no tact. 
 Father, if you have finished your tea, I suppose you and Archie 
 are going out." And then Archie rose from the table, and 
 follosved his father out of the room. 
 
 It was Isabel's business to put Dottie to bed. The other 
 girls had to prepare their lessons for the next day, and went 
 up to the scho>l-room. Mattie made some excuse, and went 
 With them, and Mrs. Drummond and Grace were le't alone. 
 
 Grace had some delicate work to finish, and she placed her- 
 self by the lamp. Her mother had returned to her mending- 
 basket; but as the door closed upon Mattie, she cleared her 
 throat, and looked at her daughter. 
 
 *' Grace, 1 must say I am surprised at you!" 
 
 " Why, mother?" But Grace did not look up from the task 
 she was running with such fine even stitches. 
 
 " I am more than surprised!" continued .Mrs. Drummond, 
 severely. " I am disappointed to see in what a bad spirit you 
 have received my decision. Idid not think a daughter of mine 
 would have been so blind to her sense of duty!" 
 
 " I have said nothing to make you think that." 
 
 " No, you have said nothing, but looks can be eloquent 
 sometimes. I am not speaking of Arnhie, though I can see 
 he is put out too, for he is a man, and men are not always 
 reasonable; but that you should place yourself in such silent 
 opposition to my wishes, it is that that shocks me." 
 
 There was an ominous sparkle in Grace's gray eyes, and then 
 she deliberately put down her work on the table. She had. 
 hoped that her mother would have been contented with her 
 victory, and not have spoken to her on the subject. But if 
 she were so attacked, she would at least defend herself. 
 
 " You have no right to speak to me in this way, motherl"
 
 114 irOT LIKE OTHEtl GIRLS. 
 
 " No right, Grace?" Mrs. Drummoiid could liardly believe 
 her ears. Never oiice had a daugliter of hers questioned her 
 right to anything. 
 
 ' No; for ] liuvesaid nothing to bring all this upon me. I 
 have been perfectly quiet, and have tried to bear the bitterness 
 ef my lisuppointment as well as 1 could. No one is answer- 
 able for their looks, and 1, at least, will not plead guilty on 
 that score. '^ 
 
 " Giace, you are answering me very improperly.'* 
 
 " I can not say that I think so, mother. I would have been 
 silent, if you had permitted such silence; but when you drive 
 me to speech, 1 must say what 1 feel to be the truth — that ] 
 have lol been well treated in this matter." 
 
 *' Grace!" And Mrs, Drummond paused in awful silences 
 Neve, before had a recusant daughter braved her to her face* 
 
 " I have not been well treated," continued Grace, firmly, 
 *' in a thing that concerns me more than any one else. I havty 
 not even been consulted. You have arranged it all, mother, 
 withoil. reference to me or my feelings. Perhaps 1 ojght to 
 be gri'teful for being spared so painful a decision; but I think 
 such a. .lecision should have been permitted to me.'" 
 
 " 'V 0!\ can dare to tell me such things to my veiy face!" 
 
 "Wh/ should I not tell them?" returned G /ace, meeting 
 her notinr's angry glance unflinchingly. "It seems tome 
 that one thould speak the truth to one's movher. You have 
 treated mt like a child; and I have a right to feel sore and in- 
 digniut. Why did you not put the whole thing before me, 
 and tell me that you and my father did not see how you 
 coul I ispare me? Do you really believe that J should have 
 been s.^ wanting in my sense of duty as to follow my own 
 pleamie?" 
 
 '* Gr.ice, I insist upon your silence! I will not discuss the 
 matuer with yon." 
 
 " If you insist upon silence, you must be obeyed, mother; 
 but it is y m who havf raised the question between us. But 
 when yo.i { ttack me unjusily, I must defend myself." 
 
 "Youa.-e forgetting yourself strangely. Your words are 
 most lisrespectful and unbecoming in a daughter. You t.ell 
 me to my face tliat I am unjust — I, your mother — because I 
 have b.>en co'.npelled to thwart your wishes." 
 
 " No. It 0' -not because of that!" returned Grace, in a voice 
 of passicn.'te pain; " why will you misunderstand me so? but 
 because ycu have no faith in me. You treat me like a child. 
 You dispute ray privilege to decide in a matter that concerna 
 ms own hjppiuess. You bid me work for you, and you give
 
 KTOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 115 
 
 me no wage — not awed of praise; and because I remojiserate 
 for once iu my life, you insist on my silence/' 
 
 " It seems that 1 am lot to be obeyed/' 
 
 " Oh, yes; you will bt obeyed, mother. After to-night I 
 will not open my lips tr offend you again. If I have said 
 more than I ought to hav ) said as a daughter, I will ask your 
 pardon now; but I can uol take back one of my words. They 
 are true — true!" 
 
 " I must say your apology is tardy, Grace." 
 
 " Nevertheless, it is an apology; for, though you have hurt 
 me, 1 must not forget y.ui are my mother. I know my life 
 will be harder after this, »jecause of what 1 have said; and yet 
 I would not take back o>ie of my words!" 
 
 "lam more displeas<;d with you than I can say," returned 
 her mother, taking up her neglected work; and her mouth 
 looked stern and harl. 
 
 Never had her aspect been so forbidding, and yet never 
 had her daughter beared her less. 
 
 " Then, if you are displeased with me I will go away,'' re- 
 plied Grace, moving from her seat with gentle dignity. " I 
 wish you had not cumpelied me to speak, mother, and then I 
 should not have offended you: but as it is there is no help for 
 it." And then she gathered up her work and walked slowly 
 out of the room. 
 
 Mrs. Drummond sat moodily in the empty room that had 
 somehow never seemed so empty before. Her attitude was as 
 rigid and uncompromising as usual; but there was a perplexed 
 frown on her brow. For the first time in her life one of her 
 girls had dared to assert her own will and to speak the truth to 
 her, and she was utterly nonplused. It was not too much to 
 say that she had received a blow. Her justice and sense of 
 fairness had been questioned — her very maternal authority 
 impugned — and that by one of her own children! Mattie, who 
 was eight years older, would not have ventured to cross her 
 mother's will. Grace had so dared, and she was bitterly angry 
 with her. And yet she had never so admired her before. 
 
 How honestly and bravely she had battled for her rights! 
 her gray eyes had shone with fire, her pale cheeks had glowed 
 with the passion of her words; for once iu her hfe the girl had 
 looked superbly handsome. 
 
 "You have no faith in me; you treat me like a child." 
 
 Well, she was right; it was no child, it was a proud woman 
 who was flinging those hard words at her. For the first time 
 Mrs. Drummond recognized the possibility of a will as strong 
 as her own. In spite of all her authority^ Grace had been a.
 
 116 NOT LIKE OTHER GIELS, 
 
 match for her mother: Mrs. Drummoad knew this, and it 
 added fuel to her bitterness. 
 
 " I know^ mv i fe will be harder for what I have said." Ah, 
 Grace was right there; it would be long before her mother 
 would forgive her for all those words, true as they were; and 
 yet in her heart she had never so feared and admired her 
 daughter. Grace went up to her own room, where Dottie was 
 asleep in a little bed very near her sister's: it was dark and 
 somewhat cold, but the atmosphere was less frigid than the 
 parlor down-stairs. Grace's frame was trembling with the 
 force of her emotion; her face was burning and her hands 
 cold. It was restful and soothing to put down her aching 
 head on the hard window-ledge and close her eyes and 
 think out the pain! It seemed hours before Isabel came to 
 summon her to supper, but she made an excuse that she was 
 not hungry, and refused to go down-stairs. 
 
 " But you eat nothing at tea, and your head is aching!" 
 persisted Isabel, who was a brieht, good-natured girl, and, in 
 spite of Archie's strictures, decidedly pretty. " Do let me bring 
 you something. Mother will not know it." 
 
 But Grace refused; she could not eat, and the sight of food 
 would distress her. 
 
 " Why not go to bed at once, then?" suggested Isabel — 
 which was certainly sensible counsel. But Grace demurred to 
 this; she knew Archie would be up presently to say good- 
 night to her: so, when Isabel had gone, she lighted the candle, 
 shading it carefully from Dottie's eyes, and then she bathed 
 her hot face, and smoothed her hair, and took up her work 
 again. 
 
 Archie found her quite calm and busy, but he was not so 
 easily deceived. 
 
 *' Now, Gracie, you have got one of your headaches: it is 
 the disappointment and the bother, and my going away to- 
 morrow. Poor little Gracie!" 
 
 *' Oh, Archie, I feel as though I shall never miss you so 
 much!" exclaimed the poor girl, throwing down her work and 
 clinging to him. " When shall I see your dear face again — 
 uot until Christmas?" 
 
 " And not then, I expect. I shall most likely run down 
 some time in January, and then I shall try hard to take you 
 back with me, just for a visit. Mattie will be dull, and want- 
 ing to see some of you, and I will uot have, one of the others 
 until you have been." 
 
 " I don't believe mother will spare me evtn for that," re- 
 tained Grace, with a -sudden couviction that her mother's
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 117 
 
 memory was retentive, and that she would be punished in that 
 way for her sins of this evening; " but promise me, Archie, 
 that you will come, if it be only for a few days/* 
 
 " Oh, 1 will promise you that. I can not last longer with- 
 out seeing you, Grace!" And he stroked her soft hair as she 
 still clung to him. The next day Archibald bade his family 
 good-bye; his manner had not changed toward his mother, 
 and Mrs. Drummond thought his kiss decidedly cold. 
 
 " You will be good to Mattie, and try to make the poor girl 
 happy; you will do at least as much as this," she said, detain^ 
 ing him as he was turning from her to seek Grace. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I will be good to her,"* he returned, indifEerently, 
 " but 1 can not promise that she will not find her life dull.*' 
 And then he took Grace in his arms, and whispered to her to 
 be patient, and that all would be well one day; and Mrs. 
 Drummond, though she did not hear the whisper, saw the 
 embrace and the long, lingering look between the brother and 
 sister, and pressed her thin lips together and went back to her 
 parlor and mending-basket, feeling herself an unhappy mother, 
 whose love was not requited by'her children, and disposed to 
 be harder than ever toward Grace, who had inflicted this pain 
 on her. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A VAN IN THE BRAIDWOOD ROAD. 
 
 One bright July morning, Mattie Drummond walked 
 rapidly up the Braidwood Eoad, and, unlatching the green 
 door in the wall, let herself into the large square hall of the 
 vicarage. This morning it looked invitingly cool, with its 
 summer matting and big wicker-work chairs; but Mattie was 
 in too great haste to linger; she only stopped to disencumber 
 herself of the various parcels with which she was laden, and 
 then she knocked at the door of her brother's study, and 
 without waiting for the reluctant "Come in** that always 
 answered her hasty raj), burst in upon him. 
 
 It was now three months since Mattie had entered upon her 
 new duties, and it must be confessed that Archie's house- 
 keeper had ralher a hard time of it- As far as actual man- 
 agement went, Mattie fully justified her mother's eulogiums; 
 in her household arrangements she was orderly and methodical 
 — far more so than Grace would have been in her place; the 
 meals were always punctual and well served, the domestic 
 machinery worked well and smoothly. Archie never had to
 
 118 NOT LIKE OTHEIL GIRLS. 
 
 complain of a missing button or a frayed wristband. Never- 
 theless, Matlie's presence at the vicerage was felt by her brother 
 as a sore burden. There was nothing in eotutnon between 
 them, nothing that he cared to discuss with her, or on which 
 he wished to know her opinion: he was naturally a frank, out- 
 spoken man, one that demanded sympathy from those belong- 
 ing to him; but wiih Mattie lie was reticent, alid, as far as pos- 
 sible, restrained in speech. 
 
 One reason for this might be that Mattie, with all her virt- 
 ues — and she was really a most estimable little person — ^was 
 sadly deficient in tact. She never knew when she was tread- 
 ing on other people's pet prejudices. She could not be made 
 to understand that her presence was not always wanted, and 
 that it was as well to keep silence sometimes. 
 
 She would intrude her advice when it was not needed, in her 
 good-natured way; she had always interfered with everything 
 and everybody. " Meddlesome Mattie " they had called her 
 at home. 
 
 She was so wonderfully elastic, too, in her temperament, that 
 nothing long depressed her. She took all her brother's snub- 
 biugs in excellent part: if he scolded her at dinner-time, and 
 made the ready tears come to her eyes — for it was not the least 
 of Mattie's sins that she cried easily and on every possible 
 occasion — she had forgotten it by tea-time, and would chatter 
 to him as happily as ever. 
 
 She v/as just one of those persevering people who seem 
 bound to be snubbed: one can not help it. It was as natural 
 to scold Mattie as it was to praise other people; and yet it was 
 impossible not to like the little woman, though she had no fine 
 feelings, as Archie said, and was not tliinskinned, Grace al- 
 ways spoke a good word for her; she was very kind to Mattie 
 in her way— though it must be owned that she showed her 
 small respect as an elder sister. None of her brothers and 
 sisters respected Mattie in the least; they laughed at her and 
 took liberties with her, presuming largely on her good nature. 
 " It is only Mattie; nobody cares what she thinks," as Clyde 
 would often say. " Matt the Muddier," as Frederick named 
 her. 
 
 " I wonder what Mattie would say if any one ever fell in 
 love with her?" Grace once observed in fun to Arcbie. " Do 
 you know, I think she would be all her life thanking her hus- 
 band for the unexpected honor he had done her, and trying 
 to prove to him that he had not made such a great mistake, 
 after all." 
 
 " Mattie's husband! He must be an odd sort of person, I
 
 HOT LIES OTHER GIRLS. Il9 
 
 should think." And then Archie laughed, in not the politest 
 manner. Certainly Mattie was not appreciated by her family. 
 She was not looking her best this morning when she went into 
 her brother's study. She wore the offending plaid dress — a 
 particularly large black-and-white check that he thought espe- 
 cially ugly. Her hat-trimmings were frayed, and the straw 
 itself was burned brown by the sun, and her hair was ill ar- 
 ranged and rough, for she never wasted much time on her own 
 person, and, to crown the whole, she looked flushed and heated. 
 
 Archie, who was sitting at his writing-table in severely cut 
 ecclesiasticaJ garments, looking as trim and well-appointed a 
 young clergyman as one might wish to see, might be forgiven 
 for ihe tone of ill-suppi-essed irritation with which he said: 
 
 " Oh, Mattie! what a figure you look! I am positively 
 ashamed that any one should see you. That hat is only fit to 
 frighten the birds." 
 
 " Oh, it will do very well for the mornings," returned Mat- 
 tie, perfectly undisturbed at these compliments. " Nobody 
 looks at me, so what does it matter?" But this remark, 
 which she made in all simplicity, only irritated him more. 
 
 " If you have no proper pride, you might at least consider 
 my feelings. Do you think a man in my position likes his 
 sister to go about like an old beggar-woman? You are 
 enough to try any one's patience, Mattie; you are, indeed!" 
 
 " Oh, never mind me and my things," returned Mattie, 
 coaxingly; "and don't go on writing just yet," for Archie 
 had taken up his pen again with a great show of being busy. 
 " I want to tell you something that I know will interest you. 
 There are some new people come to the Friary." 
 
 " What on earth do you mean? what Friary? I am sure I 
 never heard of such a place." 
 
 " Dear me, Archie, how cross you are this morning!" ob- 
 served Mattie, in a cheerful voice, as she fidgeted the papers 
 on the table. " Why, the Friary is that shabby little cottage 
 just above us— not a stone's-throw from this house." 
 
 " Indeed! Well, 1 can not say I am much interested in the 
 movements of my neighbors. 1 am not a gossip like you, 
 Mattie!" — another fling at poor Mattie. " 1 wish you would 
 leave those papers alone. You know I never allow my things 
 to be tidied, as you call it, and I am really very busy just 
 now. I am in the middle of accounts, and I have to write to 
 Grace, and — " 
 
 " Well, I thought you would like to know." And Mattie 
 looked rather crestfallen and disappointed. "You talked so 
 much about those young ladies some weeks ago, and seemed
 
 1^6 irOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 'quite sorry not to see them again; and now — " but here 
 Archie's indifference vanished, and he looked up eage'-]y. 
 
 " What young ladies? Not those in Milner's Library, who 
 asked about the dress-maker?" 
 
 *' The very same," returned his sister, delighted at this 
 change of manner. *' Oh, I have so much to tell you that I 
 must sit down," planting herself comfortably on the arm of 
 an easy-chair near him. Another time Archie would have re- 
 buked her for her unlady-like attitude, and told her, proba- 
 bly, that Grace never did such things; but now his interest 
 was so excited that he let it pass for once. He even suffered 
 her to take off her old hat and deposit it unreproved on the 
 top of his cherished papers. " I was over at Crump's this 
 morning, to speak to Bobbie about weeding the garden, when 
 1 was surprised to see a railway van unloading furniture at the 
 Friary.*' 
 
 " What an absurd name!" sotto voce from Archie; but he 
 offered no further check to Mattie's gossip. 
 
 " I asked Mrs. Crump, as a matter of course, the name of 
 the new people; and she said it was Challoner. There were a 
 mother and three daughters, she believed. She had seen two 
 of them — pretty, nice-spoken young creatures, and quite 
 ]adies. They had been down before to see the cottage and to 
 have it done up. It looks quite a different place already — 
 nicely painted, and the shrubs trimmed. The door was open, 
 and as I stood at Mrs. Crump's window, peeping between her 
 geraniums, I saw such a respectable, gray-haired woman, like 
 an upper serv^ant, carrying something into the house; and a 
 moment after one of those young ladies we saw in the Library 
 — not the pretty one, but the otlier — came to the door and 
 spoke to the men." 
 
 " Are you sure you did not make a mistake, Mattie?" asked 
 her brother, incredulously. " You are very short-sighted; 
 perhaps you did not see correctly. How can those stylish- 
 looking girls live in such a shabby place? I can hardly believe 
 it possible. " 
 
 *' Oh, it was the same, I am positive about that. She was 
 in the same cambric dress you admired. 1 could see distinct- 
 ly. I watched her for a long time, and then the pretty one 
 came out and Joined her. She is pretty, Archie; she has such 
 a lovely complexion." 
 
 " But are they poor? — they don't look so. What on earth 
 can it mean?" he asked, in a perplexed voice; but Mattie only 
 shook her head and went on: 
 
 We must find out all about them by and by. They are 
 
 <<
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 12l 
 
 worth knowing, I am sure of that. Poor? — well, they can 
 not be rich, certainly, to live in the Friary; but they are geU' 
 tlepeople; one cuu see that in a moment." 
 
 " Of course! who doubted it?" was the somewhat impatient 
 answer. 
 
 " Well, but that is not all," went on Mattie, too delighted 
 with her brother's interest to try to curtail her story. " Of 
 course I could not stand lung watching them, so I did my 
 errand and camo away; and theu 1 met Miss Middleton, and 
 we walked down to the Library together to change those 
 books. Miss Milner was talking to some ladies when we first 
 went in, and, as Miss Masham was not in the shop, we had to 
 wait our turn, so I had a good look at them. The elder one 
 was such a pretty, aristocratic-looking woman — a little too 
 languid, perhaps, for my taste; and the younger one was a 
 little like Isabel, only nicer looking. I shouldn't have stared 
 at them so much— at least, I am afraid 1 stared," went on 
 Mattie, forgetting for the moment how often she had been 
 taken to task for this very thing — " but something Miss Mil- 
 ner said attracted my attention. ' 1 am not to send it to the 
 Friary, then, ma'am?' ' Well, no,' the lady returned, rather 
 hesitatingly. She had such a nice voice and manner, Archie. 
 ' My youngest daughter and I are at Bsach House at present. 
 1 am rather an invalid, and the bustle would be too much for 
 me. Dulce, we had better have these things sent to Beach 
 House.' And then the young lady standing by her said, ' Oh, 
 yes, mother; we shall want them this evening.' And theu 
 they went out." 
 
 " There is a third sister, then?" observed Archie, not pre- 
 tending to disguise his interest in Mattie's recital. 
 
 " Yes, there is a third one; she 's certainly a little like Isa- 
 bel; she has a dimple like hers, and is of the same height. I 
 asked Miss Milner, when they were out of hearing, if their 
 name was Challoner, and if they were the new people who 
 were coming to live at the empty cottage on the Braid wood 
 Eoad. I thought she did not seem much disposed to give me 
 information. Yes, their name was Challoner, and thty had. 
 taken the Friary; but they were quite strangers in the town,, 
 and no one knew anything about them. And then Miss Mid- 
 dleton chimed in; she said her father had noticed the young; 
 ladies some weeks ago, and had called her attention to them. 
 They were very pretty girls, and had quite taken his fancy; ho 
 had not forgotten them, and had spoken of them that very 
 morning. She supposed Mrs. Challoner must be a widow, ancj 
 not verj well ofE; did Mics Milner know? Would ^ou believe
 
 123 NOT LIKE OTHEE GIRLS. 
 
 it, Archie? Miss Milner got quite red and looked confused. 
 You know how she enjoys a bit of gossip generally; but the 
 questions seemed to trouble her. ' They were not at all well 
 off, she knew that, but nicer young ladies she had never seen, 
 or wished to see; and she hoped every one wouIg be kind to 
 them, and not forget they were real born ladies, in spite of — ' 
 And here the old thing got more confused than ever, and came 
 to a full stop, and begged to know how she could serve us.^' 
 
 " It is very strange — very strange indeed,''' returned her 
 brother, in a meditative voice; but, as Mattie had nothing 
 more to tell him, he did not discuss the matter any further, 
 only thanked her for her news, and civilly dismissed her on 
 the plea that his business was at a standstill. 
 
 But he did not resume his accounts for some time after he 
 was left alone. Instead of doing so, he walked to the window 
 and looked out in a singularly absent manner. Mattie's news 
 was somewhat exciting. The idea of having such pleasant 
 neighbors located within a stone's-throw of the vicarage was 
 in itself disturbing to the imagination of a young man of 
 eight-and4wenty, even though a clergyman. And then, it 
 must be confessed, Nan's charming face and figure had never 
 been forgotten; he had looked out for the sisters many times 
 since his chance encounter with Phillis, and had been secretly 
 disappointed at their total disappearance. And now they 
 proved not mere visitors, but positively inhabitants of Had- 
 leigh. H^ would meet them everyday; and, as there was but 
 one church in the place, they would of course be numbered 
 among his flock. As their future clergyman he would have a 
 right of entrance to the cottage. 
 
 " How soon do you think we ought to call upon them, Mat- 
 tie?" he asked, when he was seated opposite to his sister at 
 the luncheon-table. The accounts had not progressed very 
 favorably, and the letter to Grace was not yet commenced. 
 Mattie's news had been a sad interruption to his morning's 
 work. 
 
 " Whom do you mean, Archie?" she returned, a little be- 
 wildered at this abrupt remark; and then, as he frowned at 
 her denseness, she bethought herself of the new people. It 
 was not often Archie asked her advice about anything, but on 
 this occasion the young vicar felt himself incompetent to de- 
 cide. 
 
 " I suppose you mean the new folk at the Friary," she con- 
 tinued, carelessly. " Oh, they are only moving in to-day, and 
 they will be in a muddle for a week, 1 should think. I don'l 
 tJiiuk we can intrude for ten days or so,"
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 1^3 
 
 (< 
 
 Not ]f you think it will be intrusive," he returned, rather 
 aiixiously; " but they are strangers in the place, and all ladies 
 —there does not seem to be a man belouging to them — would 
 it not be neighborly, as we live so close, just to call, not in a 
 formal way, you know, but just to volunteer help? There are 
 little things you could do for them, Mattie; and, as a clergy- 
 man, they could not regard my visit as an intrusion, I should 
 think. Do you not agree with me?" looking at his sister 
 rather gravely. 
 
 " Well, I don't know," replied Mattie, bluntly; " I should 
 not care for strangers prying into my concerns, if I were in 
 their place. And yet, as you say, we are such close neighbors, 
 and one would like to be kind to the poor things, for they 
 must be lonely, settling in a strange, new place. I'll tell you 
 what, Ai'chie," as his face fell at this matter-of-fact speech; 
 " it is Thursday, and they will be sure to be at church on 
 Sunday; we shall see them there, and that will be an excuse 
 for us to call on Monday. We can say then that we are neigh- 
 bors, and that we would not wait until they were all in order. 
 We can offer to send them things from the vicarage, or vol- 
 unteer help in many little ways. I think that would be best." 
 
 " Yes, perhaps you are right, and we will wait until Mon- 
 day," returned Archie, taking down his soft felt hat. " Kow I 
 must go on my rounds, and not waste any more time chatter- 
 ing." But, though he spoke with unusual good nature, he 
 did not invite Mattie to be his companion, and the poor little 
 woman botook herself to the solitary drawing-room and some 
 plain sewing for the rest of the afternoon. 
 
 The young clergyman stood for a moment irresolutely at 
 the green door, and cast a longing glance in the direction of 
 the Friary, where the van was still uidoading, and then he be- 
 thought himself that, though Mattie had given orders about 
 the weeding of the garden paths, ic would be as well to speak 
 to Crump about the wire fence that was wanted for the 
 poultry-yard; and as soon as he had made up his mind on this 
 p int lie walked on briskly. 
 
 The last piece of furniture had just been carried in; but, as 
 Mr. Drummond was picking his way through the straw and 
 debris that littered the side path, two girlish figures came out 
 of the door-wav full upon him. 
 
 He raised his hat involuntarily, but they drew back at once; 
 and, as he went on, confused at this sudden rencounter, the 
 sound of ii light laugh greeted his ear. 
 
 " How annoying that we should always be meeting himi"
 
 l24 irOT LIKE OTHEK Giiits. 
 
 observed Nan, innocently. " Don't laugh, Phillis; he will 
 hear you. *' 
 
 " My dear, it must be fate,'' returned Phillis, solemnly. 
 " I shall think it my duty to warn Dick if this goes on." But, 
 in spite of her mischievous speech, she darted a quick, inter- 
 ested look after the handsome young clergyman as he walked 
 on. Both the girls stood in the porch for some minutes after 
 they had made their retreat. They had come out to cool 
 themselves and to get a breath of air, until a July sun and 
 Mr. Drummoud's sudden appearance defeated their intention. 
 They had no idea that they were watched from behind the 
 screening geraniums in Mrs. Crump's window. Both of them 
 were enveloped in Dorothy's bib-aprons, which hid their pretty 
 rounded figures. Phillis's cheeks were flushed, and her arms 
 were bare to the dimpled elbows, and Nan's brown hair was 
 slightly disheveled. 
 
 " We look just like cooks!" exclaimed Phillis, regarding 
 her coarse apron with disfavor; but Nan stretched her arms 
 with a little indifference and weariness. 
 
 " What does it matter how we look — like cooks or house- 
 maids? 1 am dreadfully tired; but we must go in and work, 
 Phil. 1 wonder what has become of Dulce?" And then the 
 charming vision disappeared from the young clergyman's 
 eyes, and he was free to fix his mind on the wire fence that 
 was required for the poultry -yard. 
 
 As soon as he had accomplished his errand he set his face 
 toward the vicarage, for he made up his mind suddenly that 
 he would call on the Middletons, and perhaps on Mrs. Cheyne. 
 The latter was a duty that he owed to his pastoral conscience; 
 but there was no need for him to go to the Middletons*. 
 Nevertheless, the father and daughter were his most intimate 
 friends, and on all occasions he was sure of Miss Middleton's 
 sympathy. They lived at Brooklyn — a low white house a lit- 
 tle belosv the vicarage. It was a charming house, he always 
 thought, so well arranged and well managed; and the garden 
 — that was the colonel's special hobby — was as pretty as a gar- 
 den could be. The drawing-room looked shady and comforta- 
 ble, for the French windows opened into a cool veranda, fitted 
 up with flower-baskets and wicker chairs; and beyond lay the 
 trim lawn, with beds of blazing verbenas and calceolarias. 
 Miss Middleton's work-table was just within one of the win- 
 dows; but the colonel, in his gray summer suit, reclined in a 
 louiiging-chair in the veranda. He was reading the paper to 
 his daughter, and was just in the middle of last night's debate;
 
 'SOf LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 125 
 
 toevertheiess, he threw it aside, well pleased at the interrup- 
 tion. 
 
 "I knew how 1 should find you occupied," observed Mr. 
 Drummond, as he exchanged a smile with Miss Middleton. 
 He was fully aware that politics were not to her taste, and 
 yet every afternoon she listened to such reading, well content 
 even with the sound of her father's voice. 
 
 Elizabeth Middleton was certainly a charming person. 
 Phillis had called her the " gray-haired girl," and the title 
 suited her. She was not a girl by any means, having reached 
 her six-and-thirtieth year; but her hair was as silvery as an 
 old woman's, gray and plentiful, and soft as silk, and con- 
 trasted strangely with her still youthful face. 
 
 Without being handsome, Elizabeth Middleton was beauti- 
 ful. Iler expression was sweet and restful, and attracted all 
 hearts. People who were acquainted with her said she was 
 the happiest creature they knew — that she simply diffused 
 sunshine by her mere presence; such a contrast, they would 
 adJ, to her neighbor Mrs. Cheyne, who bore all her troubles 
 badly, and was of a proud, fretful disposition. But then Mrs. 
 Cheyne had lost her husband and her two children, and led 
 such a sad, lonely life; and no such troubles had fallen to Miss 
 Middleton. 
 
 Elizabeth Middleton could afford to be happy, they said, for 
 she was the delight of her father's eyes. Her young half- 
 brother, Hammond, who was with his regiment in India, was 
 not nearly so dear to the old man; and of course that was why 
 she had never married, that her father's house might not be 
 left desolate. 
 
 This is how people talked; but not a single person in Had- 
 leigh knew that Elizabeth Middleton had had a great sorrow 
 in her life. 
 
 She had been engaged for some years most happily, and 
 with her father's consent, to one of his brother ofiBcers. Cap- 
 tain Sedgwick was of good family, but poor; and they were 
 waiting for his promotion, for at that time Colonel Middleton 
 would have been unable to give his daughter any dowry. 
 Klizabeth was young and happy, and she could afford to wait. 
 "No girl ever gloried in her lover more than she did in hers. 
 Capel Sedgwick was not only brave and singularly handsome, 
 but he bore a reputation through the whole regiment for hav- 
 ing a higher standard of duty than most men. 
 
 Promotion came at last, and, just as Elizabeth was gayly 
 making preparations for her marriage, fatal tidings were 
 brought to her. Major Sedgwick had gone to visit an old
 
 1^^ ifCf LIKE OTHER QIELg. 
 
 servant in the hospital who had been struck down with cholera; 
 he had remained with him some time, and on his return to 
 his bungalow the same fell disease had attacked him, and be- 
 fore many hours were over he was dead. The shock was a 
 terrible one; in the first moments of her bitter loss, Elizabeth 
 cried out that her misery was too great — that all happiness 
 was over for her in this world, and that she only prayed that 
 she might be buried in the same grave with Capel. 
 
 The light had not yet come to the poor soul that felt itself 
 afflicted past endurance and could find no reason for such 
 pain. It could not be said that Elizabeth bore her trouble 
 better than other girls would have borne theirs under like cir- 
 cumstances. She fretted and grew thin, and dashed herself 
 wildly against the inevitable, only reproaching herself for her 
 selfishness and want of submission when she looktd at her 
 father's care-worn face. 
 
 But then came a time when light and peace revisited the 
 wrecked heart — when confused reasonings no longer beset the 
 poor weak brain and filled it with dismay and doubt — when 
 the Divine will became her will, and there was no longer sub- 
 mission, but a most joyful surrender. And no one, and least 
 of all she herself, knew when the darkness was vanquished by 
 that clear uprising of pure radiance, or how those brooding 
 wings of peace settled on her soul. From that time, every 
 human being that came within her radius was welcome as a 
 new object of love. To give, and yet to give, and never to be 
 satisfied, was a daily necessity of life to Elizabeih. "Now 
 there is some one more to love," she would say to herself, 
 when a new acquaintance was brought to her; and, as the old 
 adage is true that tells us love begets love, there was no more 
 popular person in Hadleigh than Elizabeth Middleton. She 
 had something to say in praise of every one; not that she was 
 blind to the faults of her neighbors, but she preferred to be 
 silent and ignore them. 
 
 And she was especially kind to Mattie. In the early days 
 of their intimacy, the young vicar would often speak to her of 
 his sister Grace and lament their enforced separation from 
 each other. Miss Middleton listened sympathetically, with 
 the same sweet attention that she gave to every man, woman, 
 and child that laid claim to it; but once, when he had fin- 
 ished, she said, rather gravely: 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Drummond, that I think your mother 
 was right?" 
 
 " Right in dooming Grace to such a life?" he said, pausing 
 in utter surprise at her remark.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. IgJ 
 
 ** Pardon me; it is not her mother who dooms her,'* re- 
 turned Miss MidJieton, quickly, "but duty — her own sense 
 of right— everything that is sacred. If Mrs. Drummond had 
 not decided that she could not be spared, 1 am convinced, 
 from all you tell me, that Grace would still have remained at 
 home; her conscience would have been too strong for her.'' 
 
 " Well, perhaps you are right," he admitted, reluctantly. 
 *' Grace is a noble creature, and capable of any amount of 
 self-sacrifice." 
 
 " I am sure of it," returned Miss Middleton, with sparkling 
 eyes. " How I should like to know her! it would be a real 
 pleasure and privilege; but I am very fond of your sister Mat- 
 tie, too." 
 
 " Fond of Mattie!" It was hardly brotherly, but he could 
 Dot help that incredulous tone in his voice. How could such 
 a superior woman as Miss Middleton be even tolerant of Mat- 
 tie? 
 
 " Oh, yes," she replied, quite calmly; " I have a great re- 
 spect for your sister. She is so unselfish and amiable, and 
 there is something so genuine in her. Before everything one 
 wants truth," finished Elizabeth, taking up her work. 
 
 Now, as the young clergyman entered the room, sho 
 stretched out her hand to him with her usual beaming smile. 
 
 " This is good of you, to come so soon again," she said, 
 making room for him between her father and herself. " But 
 whv have you not brought Mattie?" and Archie felt as though 
 he had received a rebuke. 
 
 " She is finishing some work," he returned, a little con- 
 fused; " that is, what you ladies call work. It is not always 
 necessary for the clergy woman to pay visits, is it?" 
 
 " The clergywoman, as you call her, is doing too much. I 
 was scolding her this morning for not sparing iierself more; 1 
 thought she was not looking quite well, Mr. Drummond." 
 
 " Oh, Mattie is well enough," he replied, carelessly. He 
 had not come to talk about his sister; a far more interesting 
 subject was in his mind. " Do you know, colonel," he went 
 on, with some animation, " that you and I have new neigh- 
 bors? Do you remember the young ladies in the blue cambric 
 dresses?" And at this question the colonel threw aside his 
 paper at once. 
 
 " Ebzabeih has been telling me. 1 remember the young 
 ladies perfectly. I could not help noticing them. They 
 walked so well — heads up, and as neat and trim as though 
 they were on parade; pretty creature?^ both of thenj, Eiiz^-
 
 128 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 beth pretends not to be interested, but she is quite excited. 
 Look at her!" 
 
 " Nay, father, it is you who can talk of nothing else; but it 
 will be very nice to have such pleasant neighbors. How soon 
 do you think we may call on them?" 
 
 And then Archie explained, with some little embarrassment, 
 that he and Mattie thought of calling the following Monday 
 and oEEering their services. 
 
 *' That is very thoughtful of Mattie. She is such a kind- 
 hearted little creature, and is always ready to serve every- 
 body." 
 
 And then they entered into a discussion on the new-comers 
 that lasted so long that the tea-things made their appearance; 
 and shortly afterward Mr. Drummond announced that he 
 must go and call on Mrs. Cheyne. 
 
 CHAPITER XVI. 
 
 A VISIT TO THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Hitherto Mr. Drummond had acknowledged this after- 
 noon to be a success. He had obtained a glimpse of the new- 
 comers through Mrs, Crump's screen of geraniums, and had 
 listened with much interest to Colonel Middleton's innocent 
 gossip, while Miss Middleton had poured out their tea. In- 
 deed, his attention had quite flattered his host. 
 
 "Really, Drummond is a very intelligent fellow," he ob- 
 served to his daughter, when they were at last left alone — " a 
 very intelligent fellow, and so thoroughly gentlemanly.'* 
 
 " Yes, he is very nice," returned Elizabeth; " and he seems 
 wonderfully interested in our new neighbors." And here she 
 smiled a little archly. 
 
 There was no doubt that Mr. Drummond had fully enjoyed 
 his visit. Nevertheless, as he left Brooklyn, and set his face 
 toward the White House, his manner changed, and his face 
 became somewhat grave. 
 
 He had told himself that he owed it to his pastoral con- 
 science to call on Mrs. Cheyne; but, notwithstanding this 
 monition, he disliked the duty, for he always felt on these 
 occasions that he was hardly up to his office, and that this 
 solitary member of his flock was not disposed to yield herself 
 to his guidance. He was ready to pity her if she >vould allow 
 herself to be pitied; but any expression of sympathy seemed 
 repugnant to her. Any one so utterly lonely, so absolutely 
 without interest in existence, he had never seen or thought to 
 geej and yet he could not bring himself to like her, or to mj
 
 HOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 139 
 
 more than the mere commonplace utterances of soc.ety. 
 Though he was her clergyman, and bound by the sacredness 
 of his office to be specially tender to the bruised and maimed 
 ones of his flock, he could not get her to acknowledge her 
 maimed condition to him, or to do anything but listen to him 
 \yith cold attention when he hinted vaguely that all human 
 beings are in need of sympathy. Perhaps she thought him 
 too young, and feared to fiud his judgments immature and 
 one-sided; but certainly his visits to the White House were 
 failures. Mrs. Cheyne was still young enough and handsome 
 enough to need some sort of chaperonage; and though she 
 professed to mock at conventionality, she acknowledged its 
 claims in this respect, by securing the permanent services of 
 Miss Mewlstone — a lady of uncertain age and uncertain ac- 
 quirements. 
 
 It must be confessed that every one wondered at Mrs. 
 Cheyne and her choice, forno one could be less companionable 
 than Miss Mewlstone. 
 
 She was a stout, sleepy-looking woman, with a soft voice, 
 ft-id in placidity and a certain coziness of exterior somewhat 
 resembled a large white cat. Some people declared she abso- 
 lutely purred; and certainly her small blue eyes were ready to 
 clo33 on all occasions. She always dressed in gray — a very 
 unbecoming color to a stout person — and when not asleep or 
 reading (for she was a great reader) she seemed always busy 
 v/ith a mass of soft, fleecy wool. No one ever heard her vol- 
 untarily conversing with her patroness. They would drive to- 
 gether for hours or pass whole evenings in the same room, 
 scarcely exchanging a word. "Just so, my dear,'' she would 
 say, in return to any observation made to her by Mrs. Cheyne. 
 " Just-so Mewlstone,*' a young wag once named her. 
 
 People stared incredulously when Mrs. Cheyne assured them 
 her companion v/as a very superior woman. They thought it 
 was only her satire, and did not believe her in the least. They 
 would have stared still more if they had really known the ex- 
 tent of Miss Mewlstone's acquirements. 
 
 '-' She seems so stupid, as though she can not talk," one of 
 Mrs, Cheyne's friends said. 
 
 " Oh, yes, she can talk, and very well, too," returned that 
 lady,_ quietly; " but she knows that 1 do not care about it; 
 her silence is her great virtue in my eyes. And then she has 
 tact, and knows when to keep out of the way," finished Mrs. 
 Cheyne, with the utmost frankness; and, indeed, it may be 
 doubted whether any other person would have retained her 
 position so long at tlie White House. 
 5
 
 130 KOT LtKE ornv.u girls. 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne was no favorite with the young pastor, never^' 
 theless, she was an exceedingly handsome woman. Before 
 the bloom of her youth had worn oil' she had been considered 
 absolutely beautiful. As regarded the form of her features, 
 there was no fault to be found, but her expression was hardly 
 pleasing. There was a hardness that people found a little 
 repelling — a bitter, dissatisfied droop of the lip, a weariness of 
 gloom in the dark eyes, and a tendency to satire in her speech, 
 that alienated people's sympathy. 
 
 " I am unhappy, but pity me if you dare!*' seemed to be 
 written legibly upon her countenance; and those who knew 
 her best held their peace in her presence, and then went away 
 and spoke softly to each other of the life that seemed wasted 
 and the heart that was so hardened with its trouble. " What 
 would the world be if every one were to bear their sorrows so 
 badly?" they would say. " There is something heathenish 
 in such utter want of resignation. Oh, yes, it was very sad, 
 her losing her husband and children, but it all happened four 
 or five years ago; and you know — " and here people's voices 
 dropped a little ominously, for there were vague hints afloat 
 that things had not always gone on smoothly at the White 
 House, even when Mrs. Cheyne had her husband. Che had 
 been an only child, and had married the only survivor of a large 
 family. Both were handsome, self-willed young peojjle; 
 neither had been used to contradiction. In spite of their love 
 for each other, there had been a strife of wills and misunder- 
 standings from the earliest days of their marriage. Neither 
 knew what giving up meant, and before many months were 
 over the White House witnessed many painful scenes. Her- 
 bert Cheyne was passionate, and at times almost violent; but 
 there was no malice in his nature. He stormed furiously and 
 forgave easily. A little forbearance would have turned him 
 into a sweet-natured man; but his wife's haughtiness and re- 
 sentment lasted long; she never acknowledged herself in the 
 wrong, never made overtures of peace, but bore herself on 
 every occasion as a sorely injured wife, a state of things singu- 
 larly provoking to a man of Herbert Cheyne's irritable tem- 
 perament. 
 
 There was injudicious partisanship as regarded their 
 children: while Mrs. Cheyne idolized her boy, her husband 
 lavished most of his attentions on the baby girl — " papa's 
 girl," as she always called herself in opposition to " mother's 
 boy." 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne really believed she loved her boy best, but 
 when diphtheria carried off her little Janie also, she was utterly
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 131 
 
 inconsolable. Her husband was far away when it happened; 
 he had been a great traveler before his marriage, and latterly 
 his matrimonial relations with his wife had been so unsatisfac- 
 tory tliat virtual separation had ensued. Two or three months 
 before illness, and then death, had devastated the nursery at 
 the White House, he had set out for a long exploring expedition 
 in Central Africa. 
 
 " You make my life so unbearable that, but for the chil- 
 dren, I would never care to set foot in my home again, '^ he 
 had said to her, in one of his violent moods; and, though he 
 repented of this speech afterward, she could not be brought to 
 believe that he had not meant it, and her heart had been hard 
 against him even in their parting. 
 
 But before many monUis were over she would have given all 
 she possessed— to her very life— to have recalled him to her 
 side. She was childless, and her health was broken; but no 
 such recall was possible. Vague rumors reached her of some 
 miserable disaster; people talked of a missing Englishman. 
 One of the little party had already succumbed to fever and 
 hardship; by and by another followed; and the last news that 
 reached them was that Herbert Cheyne lay at the point of 
 death in the kraal of a friendly tribe. Since then the silence 
 had been of the grave: not one of the party had survived to 
 bring the news of his last moments: there had been illness and 
 disaster from the first. 
 
 \A^hen Mrs. Cheyne recovered from the nervous disorder 
 that had attacked her on the receipt of this news, she put on 
 widow's mourning, and wore it for two years; then she sent 
 for Miss Mewlstone, and set herself to go through with the 
 burden of her life. If she found it heavy, she never com- 
 plained : she was silent on her own as on other people's troubles. 
 Only at the sight of a child of two or three years of age she 
 would turn pale, and draw down her veil; and if it ran up to 
 her, as would sometimes happen, she would put it away from 
 her angrily, pushing it away almost with violence, and no 
 child was ever suffered to cross her threshold. 
 
 The drawing-room at the White House was a spacious apart- 
 ment, with four long windows opening on the lawn. Mrs. 
 Cheyne was sitting in her low chair, reading, with Miss Mewl- 
 stone at the further end of the room, with her knitting-basket 
 beside her: two or three greyhounds were grouped near her. 
 They all rushed forward with furious barks as Mr. Drummond 
 was announced, and then leaped joyously round him. Mrs. 
 Cheyne put down her book, and greeted him with a frosty 
 gmile,
 
 133 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 She had laid aside her widosv's weeds, but still dressed in 
 black, the eomberness of her apparel harmouizing perfectly 
 with her pale, creamy complexion. Her dress was always 
 rich in material, and most carefully adjusted. In her younger 
 days it had been an art with her — almost a passion — and it 
 had grown into a matter of custom. 
 
 " You are very good to come again so soon, Mr. Drum- 
 mond," she said, as she gave him her hand. The words were 
 civil, but a slight inflection on the word " soon " made Mr. 
 Drummond feel a little uncomfortable. Did she think he 
 called too often? He wished he had. brought Mattie; only 
 last time she had been so satirical, and had quizzed the poor 
 little thing unmercifully; not that Mattie had. found out that 
 she was being quizzed. 
 
 " I hardly thought I should find you at home, it is so fine 
 an afternoon; but I made the attempt, you see,'' he contiu- 
 ued, a little awkwardly. 
 
 " Your parochial conscience was uneasy, I suppose, because 
 I was missing at church?" she returned, somewhat slyly. 
 " You would make a capital overseer, Mr. Drummond " — 
 with a short laugh. " A headache is a good excuse, is it not? 
 1 had a headache, had 1 not, Miss Mewlstone?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear, just so," returned Miss Mewlstone. She 
 always called her patroness " my dear." 
 
 " Miss Mewlstone gave me the heads of the sermon, so it 
 was not quite labor lost, as regards one of your flock. I am 
 afraid you think me a black sheep because I stay away so often 
 — a very black sheep, eh, Mr. Drummond?" 
 
 " It is not for me to judge," he said, still more awkwardly. 
 " Headaches are very fair excuses; and if one be not blessed 
 with good health — " 
 
 " My health is perfect," she returned, interrupting him 
 ruthlessly. " I have no such convenient plea under which to 
 shelter myself. Miss Mewlstone suffers far more from head- 
 aches than I do. Don't you. Miss Mewlstone?" 
 
 " Just so; yes, indeed, my dear," proceeded softly from the 
 other end of the room. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it," commenced Mr. Drummond, in a 
 sympathizing tone of voice. But his tormentor again inter- 
 rupted him. 
 
 " 1 am a sad backslider, am 1 not? I wonder if you have a 
 sermon ready for me? Do you lecture your parishioners, Mr. 
 Drummond, rich as well as poor? What a pity it is you are 
 so young! Lectures are more suitable with gray hair; a hoa>'y 
 head might have some chance against my satire. A womap'^
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 138 
 
 tongue is a difficult thing to keep in order, is it not? 1 dare 
 say you find that with Miss Mattie?'* 
 
 Mr. Drummond was literally on thorns. He had no re- 
 partee ready. She was secretly exasperating him as usual, 
 making his youth a reproach, and rendering it impossible for 
 him to be his natural, frank self with her. In her presence he 
 was always at a disadvantage. She seemed to take stock of his 
 learning and to mock at the idea of his pastoral claims. It was 
 not the first time she had called herself a black sheep, or had 
 spoken of her scanty attendance at church. But as yet he had 
 not dared to rebuke iier: he had a feeling that she might fling 
 back his rebuke with a jest, and his dignity forbade this. 
 Some day he owed it to his conscience to speak a word to her 
 — to tell her of the evil effects of such an example; but the 
 convenient season had not yet arrived. 
 
 lie was casting about in his own mind for some weighty sen- 
 tence in which to answer her; but she again broke in upon his 
 silence : 
 
 " It seems that I am to escape to-day. I hope you are not 
 a lax disciplinarian; that comes of being young. Youth is 
 more tolerant, they say, of other people's errors: it has its 
 own glass houses to mind." 
 
 " You are too clever for me, Mrs. Cheyne," returned the 
 young man, with a deprecating smile that might have dis- 
 armed her. " Ko, I have not come to lecture: my mission is 
 perfectly peaceful, as befits this lovely afternoon. I wonder 
 what you ladies find to do all day?" he continued, abruptly 
 changing the subject, and trying to find something that would 
 not attract her satire. 
 
 Mrs. Cheyue seemed a lictle taken aback by this direct ques- 
 tion; and then sh6 drew up her beautiful head a little haught- 
 ily, and laughed. 
 
 "^h, you are cunning, Mr. Drummond. You found me 
 disposed to take the offensive in the matter of church-going, 
 and now you are on another tack. There is a lecture some- 
 where in the background. ' How doth the little busy bee,' etc. 
 Now, don't frown" — as Mr. Drummond knitted his brows 
 and really looked annoyed. " I will not refuse to be cate- 
 chised." 
 
 "I should not presume to catechise you," he returned, 
 hastily. " I appeal to Miss Mewlstone if my question were 
 not a very innocent one." 
 
 " Just so; just so," replied Miss Mewlstone; but she looked 
 a little alarmed at this appeal. " Oh, very innocent; oh, 
 yery go, '*
 
 134 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " With two against me I must yield," returned Mrs. 
 Cheyne, with a curl of lier lip. " What do we do with our 
 time, Miss Mewlstone? Your occupation speaks for itself: it 
 is exquisitely feminine. Don't tell Miss Matiie, Mr. Drum- 
 mond, but 1 never work. I would as soon arm m3'Self with a 
 dagger as a needle or a pair of scissors. When J am not in 
 the air I paint. 1 only lay aside my palette for a book." 
 
 " You paint!" exclaimed Archie, with sudden interest. It 
 was the first piece of information he had yet gleaned. 
 
 " Yes," she returned, indifferently: "one must do some- 
 thing to kill time, and music was never my forte. I sketch 
 and draw and paint after my own sweet will. There are port- 
 folios full of my sketches in there " — with a movement of her 
 hand toward a curtained recess. " No, I know what you are 
 going to say; you will ask to see them; but I never show 
 them to any one.^' 
 
 " For what purpose, then, do you paint them?" were the 
 words on his lips; but he forebore to utter them. But she 
 read the question in his eyes. 
 
 " Did I not say one must kill time?" she returned, rather ir- 
 ritably. " The occupation is soothing: surely that is reason 
 enough." 
 
 " It is a good enough reason, I suppose," he replied, reluc- 
 tantly, for surely he must say a word here; " but one need 
 not talk about killing time, with so much that one could do." 
 Then there came a gleam of suppressed mischief in her eyes: 
 " Yes, 1 know: you may spare me that. 1 will listen to it 
 all next Sunday, if you will, when you have it your own way, 
 and one can not sin against decorum and answer you. Yes, 
 yes, there h'. so much to do, is there not? — hungry people to 
 bo fed, and sick to visit — all sorts of disagreeables that people 
 call duties. Ah, I am a sad sinner! I only draw for my own 
 amusement, and leave the poor old world to get on without 
 mc. What a burden I must be on your conscience, Mr. 
 Drummond— heavier than all the rest of your parish! What, 
 are you going already? and Miss Mewlstone has never given 
 you any tea?" 
 
 Then Archie explained, very shortly, that he had partaken 
 of that beverage at Brooklyn, and his Jeave-taking was rather 
 more formal than usual. He was very much surprised, as he 
 stood at the hall door, that always stood open in summer, to 
 hear the low sweep of a dress over the tessellated pavement be- 
 hind him, and to see a white, pudgy hand laid on his coat- 
 sleeve, 
 
 " My dear Miss Mewlstone, how you startled me!"
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 135 
 
 "Just so; yes, I am afraid I did, Mr. Drummond; but I 
 just wanted to say, never oiiud all that uonseuse. Come again; 
 she likes to see you; she does, indeed. It is only her way to 
 talk so; she means no harm, poor dear — oh, none at all!*' 
 
 '' Excuse me," returned Archie, in a hurt voice, " but I 
 think you are mistaken. Mrs. Cheyne does not care for my 
 visits, and shows me she does not. If it were not my duty, I 
 should uot come so often." 
 
 " Ko, no; just so; but all the same it rouses her and does 
 her good. It is a bad day with her, poor dear — the very day 
 the darlings were taken ill, four years ago. Now, don't go 
 away and fancy things; don't, there's a dear young man. Come 
 as often as you can, and try and do her good." 
 
 "Oh, if I only knew how that is to' be done!" returned 
 Archie, slowly; but he was mollified in spile of himself. There 
 were tears in Miss Mevvlstoae's little blue eyes; perhaps she 
 was a good creature, after all. 
 
 " I will come again, but not just yet," he said, nodding to 
 her good-humoredly; but as he walked down the road he told 
 himself that Mrs. Cheyne had never before made herself so 
 disagreeable, and that it would be long before he set foot in 
 the White House again. 
 
 CHAPTER. XVII. 
 
 **A FRIEND IN NEED." 
 
 Human nature is weak, and we are told there are mixed 
 motives to be found even in the holiest actions. Mr. Drum- 
 mond never could be brought to acknowledge, even to himself, 
 the reason why he took so much pains to compose his sermon 
 for that Sunday. Without possessing any special claim to elo- 
 quence, he had always been earnest and painstaking, bestowing 
 much labor on the construction and finish of his sentences, 
 which were in consequence more elaborate than original. At 
 limes, when he took less pains and was simpler in style, he 
 seldom failed to satisfy his hearers. His voice was pleasant 
 and well modulated, and his delivery remarkably quiet and 
 free from any tricks of gestures. 
 
 But on this occasion his subject baffled him; he wrote and 
 rewrote whole pages, and then grew discontented with his 
 work. On the Sunday in question he woke with the convic- 
 tion that something out of the common order of events dis- 
 tinguished the day from other days; but even as this thought 
 crossed his mind he felt ashamed of himself, and was in con-
 
 136 ^ot ukt ofHtk GrRLg. 
 
 sequence a little more dictatorial than usual at the breakfast- 
 table. 
 
 The inhabitants of Hadleigh were well accustomed to the 
 presence of strangers in their church. In the season there 
 was a regular influx of visitors that filled the lodging-houses 
 ^o overllowiug. Hadleigh had always prided itself on its gen- 
 tility. As a watering-place it was select and exclusive: only 
 the upper middle classes, and a sprinkling of the aristocracy, 
 were the habitual frequenters of the little town. It was too 
 quiet; it offered too few attractions to draw the crowds that 
 flocked to other places. Mr. Drummond's congregation was 
 well used by this time to see new faces in the strangers' pew; 
 nevertheless,, a little thrill of something like surprise and ex- 
 citement moved a few of the younger members as Nan and 
 her sisters walked down the aisle, with their mother following 
 them. 
 
 " The mother is almost as good-looking as her daughters,'* 
 thought Colonel Middleton, as he regarded the grou23 through 
 his gold-mounted eyeglasses; and Miss Middleton looked up 
 for an instant from her prayer-book. Even Mrs. Cheyue 
 roused from the gloomy abstraction which was her usual ap- 
 proach to devotion, and looked long and curiously at the three 
 girlish faces before her. It was refreshing even to her to see 
 anything so fresh and bright looking. 
 
 Nan and her sisters were perfectly oblivious of the sensation 
 they were making. Nan's pretty face was a trifle clouded.' 
 The strange surroundings, the sight of all those people unknown 
 to them, instead of the dear, familiar faces that had always 
 been before her, gave the girl a dreary feeling of oppression^ 
 and dismay. Her voice quavered audibly as she sang, and one* 
 or two drops fell on her prayer-book as she essayed to join in 
 the petitions. 
 
 " Why is there not a special clause in the Litany for those 
 ivho are perplexed and in poverty? It is not only from mur- 
 ler and sudden death one need pray to be delivered," thought 
 Nan, with much sinking of heart. Oh, how helpless they 
 vere — so young, and only girls, with a great unknown world 
 iiefore them, and Dick away, ignorant of their troubles, and 
 'no youthful a knight to win his spurs and pledge himself to 
 Lheir service! 
 
 Nan's sweet, downcast face drew many eyes in the direction 
 of the great square pew in which ihuy sat. Pbillis intercepted 
 some of these looks, as her atiention insensibly wandered dur- 
 ing the service. It was wrong, terribly wrong, of course, but 
 her thoughts would not concentrate themselves on the lesson
 
 NOT iIKE OTHER GIRLS. 187 
 
 the young vicar was reading in his best style. She was not 
 heavy-hearted, like Nan; on the contrary, little thrills of ex- 
 citement, of impatience, of repressed amusement, pervaded 
 her mind, as she looked at the strange faces round her. 
 " They would not be long strange,'^ she thought: " some of 
 them would be her neighbors. What would thev say, all these 
 people, when they knew — " And here Phillisheld her breath 
 a moment. People were wondering even now who they were. 
 They had dressed themselves that morning, rehearsing their 
 parts, as it were, with studied simplicity. The gown Nan 
 wore was as inexpensive as a gown could be; her hat was a 
 model of neatness and propriety; nevertheless. Phillis groaned 
 in spirit as she glanced at her. Where had she got that style? 
 She looked like a young princess who was playing at j^rcadia. 
 Would people ever dare to ask her to work for them? Would 
 they not beg her pardon, and cry shame on themselves for 
 entertaining such a thought for a moment? Phillis almost 
 envied Nan, who was shedding salt tears on her prayer-book. 
 She thought she was absorbed in her devotions, while her own 
 thoughts would wander so sadly; and then a handsome face in 
 the opposite pew attracted her attention. Surely that must 
 be Mrs. Cheyne, who lived in the White House near them, of 
 whom Nan had talked — the poor woman who had lost hus- 
 band and children and who lived in solitary state. The ser- 
 mon had now commenced, but Phillis turned a deaf ear to 
 the sentences over which Mr. Drummond had expended so 
 much labor: her attention was riveted by the gloomy, beauti- 
 ful face before her, which alternately attracted and repelled 
 her. 
 
 As though disturbed by some magnetic influence, Mrs. 
 Cheyne raised her eyes slowly and looked at Phillis. Some- 
 thing in the girl's keen-eyed glance seemed to move her 
 strangely. The color crept into her pale face, and her lip 
 quivered; a moment afterward she drew down her veil and 
 leaned back in her seat, and Phillis. somewhat abashed, en- 
 deavored fruitlessly to gather up the threads of the sermon. 
 
 " There, it is over! We have made our debvt," she said, 
 a little recklessly, as they walked back to Beach House, where 
 Mrs. Challoner and Dulce were still staying. And as Nan 
 looked at her, a little shocked and mystified by this unusual 
 flippancy, she continued in the same excited way: 
 
 " Was it not strange Mr. Drummond choosing that text, 
 * Consider the lilies?' He looked at us; I am sure he did, 
 mother. It was quite a tirade against dress and vanity; but I 
 am sure no one could find fault with us."
 
 138 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " It was a very good sermon, and I think he seems a very 
 clever young man/' returned Mrs, Challoner, with a sigh, for 
 the service had been a long weariness for her. She had not 
 been unmindful of the attention her girls had caused; but if 
 people only knew — And here the poor lady had clasped her 
 hands and put up petitions that were certainly not in the 
 litany. 
 
 Phillis seemed about to say something, but she checked her- 
 self, and they were all a little silent until they reached the 
 house. This first Sunday was an infliction to them all; it was 
 a day of enforced idleness. There was too much time for 
 thought and room for regret. In spite of all Pliillis's efforts — 
 and she rattled on cheerily most of the afternoon — Mrs. Chal- 
 loner got one of her bad headaches from worry, and withdrew 
 to her room, attended by Dulce, who volunteered to bathe her 
 head and read her to sleep. 
 
 The church-bells were just ringing for the evening service, 
 and ISIan rose, as usual, to put on her hat, but Phillis sto^jped 
 her: 
 
 *' Oh, Nan, do not let us go to church again this evening. 
 I am terribly wicked to-day, I know, but somehow 1 can 
 not keep my thoughts in order. So what is the use of makiug 
 the attempt? Let us take out our prayer-books and sit on 
 the beach: it is low tide, and a walk over the sands would do 
 us good after our dreadful week." 
 
 " If you are sure it would not be wrong,'* hesitated Nan, 
 whose conscience was a little hard to convince in such matters. 
 
 " No, no. And the run will do Laddie good. The poor 
 little fellow has been shut up in this room all day. We need 
 not tell the mother. She would be shocked, you know. But 
 we have never stayed away from church before, have we? 
 And, to tell you the truth," continued Phillis, with an un- 
 steady laugh that betrayed agitation to her sister's ear, " though 
 I faced it very well this morning, I do not feel inclined to go 
 through it again. People stared so. And 1 could not help 
 thinking all the time, ' if they only knew!' — that was the 
 thought that kept buzzing in my head. If only Mr. Drum- 
 moud and all those people knew!" 
 
 " What does it matter what people think?" returned Nan. 
 But she said it languidly. In her heart she was secretly dis- 
 mayed at this sudden failure of courage. Phillis had been 
 quite bold and merry all the day, almost reckless in her 
 speeches. 
 
 " I am glad we came. This will do us both good," said 
 lii&ii, gently, as they left the Parade behind them, and went
 
 HOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 139 
 
 fiiowly over the shelving beach, with Laddie rolling like a 
 clumsy black ball about their feet. Just before them there 
 was a pretty, black-timbered cottage, covered with roses, stand- 
 ing quite low on the shore, and beyond this was nothing but 
 shingly beach, and a stretch of wet, yellow sand, on which the 
 sun was shining. There was a smooth white bowlder stand- 
 ing quite alone, on which the girls seated themselves. The 
 tide was still going out, and the low wash of waves sounded 
 pleasantly in their ears as they advanced and then receded. A 
 shimmer of silvery light played upon the water, and a rosy 
 tinge began to tint the horizon. 
 
 " How quiet and still it is!" said Phillis, in an awe-struck 
 voice. " When we are tired we must come here to rest our- 
 selves. How prettily those baby waves seem to babble! it is 
 just like the gurgle of baby laughter. And look at Laddie 
 splashing in that pool: he is after that poor little crab. Come 
 here, you rogue!" But Laddie, intent upon his sport, only 
 cocked his ear restlessly and refused to obey. 
 
 " Yes, it is lovely," returned Kan. " There is quite a sil- 
 very path over the water; by and by the sunset clouds 
 will biie beautiful. But what is the matter, dear?" as Phillis 
 sighed and leaned heavily against her; and then, as she 
 turned, she saw the girl's eyes were wet. 
 
 "Oh, Nan! shall we have strength for it? That is what 
 I keep asking myself to-day. No, you must not look so 
 frightened. I am brave enough generally, and 1 do not mean 
 to lose pluck; but now and then the thought will come to me. 
 Shall we have strength to go through with it?" 
 
 " We must think of each other; that must keep us up," re- 
 turned Nan, whose ready sympathy fully understood her sis- 
 ter's mood. Only to Nan would Phillis ever own her failure 
 of courage or fears for the future. But now and then the 
 brave young heart needed comfort, and always found it in 
 Nan's sympathy. 
 
 "It was looking at your dear, beautiful face that made me 
 feel so suddenly bad this morning," interrupted Phillis, with 
 a sort of sob. "It was not the people so much; they only 
 amused and excited me, and 1 kept thinking, ' If they only 
 knew!' But, Nan, when I looked at you-— oh, why are you so 
 nice and pretty, if you have got to do this horrid work?" 
 
 " I am not a bit nicer than you and Dulce," laughed Nan, 
 embracing her, for she never could be made to understand 
 that by most people she was considered their superior in good 
 looks; the bare idea made her angry. " It is worse for you, 
 Phillis, because you are so clever and have so many ideas.
 
 140 irOT LIKB OTHEU 61tlL8. 
 
 But there! we must not go on pitying each other, or else, in= 
 deed, we shall undermioe our little stock of strength." 
 
 " But don't you feel terribly unhappy sometimes?" persist- 
 ed Phi His. Neither of them mentioned Dick, and yet he was 
 in both their minds. 
 
 " Perhaps I do," returned Nan, simply; and then she 
 added, with quaintuess that was pathetic: " You see, we are 
 s> unused to the feeling, and it is overhard at first; by and 
 by we shall be more used to not having our own way in 
 thiiigs. " 
 
 " 1 think I could give up that readily, if 1 could be sure 
 you -and Dulce were not miserable," sighed Phillis. 
 
 " That is what I say," returned Nan. " Don't you see how 
 simple and beautiful that is? Thinking of each other gives 
 us strength to go through with it all. This evening trying to 
 cheer you up has done me good. 1 do not feel the least afraid 
 of people to-night. Looking at that sea and sky makes one 
 feel the littleness and unreality of all these worries. What 
 does it matter— what does anything matter — if we only do our 
 duty and love each other, and submit to the Divine will?" 
 finished Nan, reverently, who seldom spoke of her deeper 
 feelings, even to Phillis. 
 
 ** Nan, you are a saint," returned Phillis, enthusiastically. 
 The worried look had left her eyes; they looked clear and 
 bright as usual. " Oh, what a heathen I have been to-day! 
 but, as Dulce is so fond of saying, ' I am going to be good.' 
 1 will read the evening Psalms to you, in token of my resolu- 
 tion, if you like. But wait: is there not some one coming 
 across the sand? How eerie it looks, such a tall, black figure 
 standing between the earth and sky." 
 
 Phillis had good sight, or she would hardly have distin- 
 guished the figure, which was now motionless, at such a dis- 
 tance. In another moment she even announced that its dra- 
 peries showed it to be a woman, before she opened her book and 
 commenced reading. 
 
 There is something very striking in a lonely central figure 
 in a scene, the outline cuts so sharply against the horizon. 
 Nan's eyes seemed riveted on it as she listened to Phillis'a 
 voice; it seemed to her as immovable as a sphinx, its rigidity 
 lending a sort of barrenness and forlornness to the landscape, 
 a black edition of human nature set under a violet and opal 
 sky. 
 
 She almost started when it moved, at last, with a steady 
 bearing, as it seemed, toward them; then curiosity qaiokenea
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIKL^. l4l 
 
 into intereat, aud she touched Phillis's arm, whispering breath- 
 lessly: 
 
 " The sphiux moves! Look — is not that Mrs. Cheyne, the 
 lady who lives at the White House near us, who always looks 
 so lonely and unhappy?" 
 
 " Hush!" returned Phillis, " she will hear you;" and then 
 Mrs. Cheyne approached with the same swift, even walk. She 
 looked at them for a moment as she passed, with a sort of 
 well-bred surprise in her air, as though she marveled to see 
 them there; her black dress touched Laddie, and he caught at 
 it with an impotent bark. 
 
 The sisters must have made a pretty picture, as they sat al- 
 most clinging together on the stone; one of Nan's little white 
 hands rested on Laddie's head, the other lay on Phillis's lap. 
 Phillis glanced up from her book, keen-eyed and alert in a 
 moment; she turned her head to look at the stranger that had 
 excited her interest, and then rose to her feet with a little cry 
 of dismay. 
 
 " Oh, Nan, I am afraid she has hurt herself! She gave 
 such a slip just now. I wonder what has happened? She is 
 leaning against the break-water, too. Shall we go and ask 
 her if she feels ill or anything?" 
 
 " You may go," was Nan's answer. Nevertheless, she fol- 
 lowed Phillis. 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne looked up at them a little sharply as they came 
 toward her. Her face was gray and contracted with pain. 
 
 " I have slipped on a wet stone, and my foot has somehow 
 tarned on me," she said, quickly, as Phillis ran up to her. 
 "It was very stupid. I can not think how it happened; but 
 I have certainly sprained my ankle. It gives me such pain. 
 I can not move." 
 
 " Oh, dear, 1 am so sorry!" returned Phillis, good-natur- 
 edly; and, in the most natural manner, she knelt down on the 
 beach and took the injured foot in her hands. " Yes, I can 
 feel it is swelling dreadfully. We must try and get your boot 
 ofi before the attemptgets too painful." And she commenced 
 unfastening it with deft fingers. 
 
 " How am I to walk without my boot?" observed Mrs. 
 Cheyne, a little dryly, as she looked down on the girl; but 
 here Nan interposed in her brisk, sensible way: 
 
 " You must not walk* you must not think of such a thing. 
 We will wet our handkerchiefs in the salt water, and bind 
 up your anlde as well as we can, and then one of us will walk 
 over to the White House for assistance. Your servants could 
 easily obtain a wheeled chair."
 
 i42 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " You knew! lived at the White House, then?" returned 
 Mrs. Cheyne, arching her eyebrows in some surprise; but she 
 offered no opposition to Kan's plan. The removal of the 
 boot had brought on a sensation of faintness, and she sat per- 
 fectly still and quiet while the girls swathed the foot in w,et 
 bandages. / 
 
 " It is a little easier now," she observed, gratefully. " How 
 neatly you have done it! you must be used to such work.' 1 
 am really very much obliged to you both for your kindly h|blp; 
 and now I am afraid 1 mast trouble you further if 1 am ever 
 to reach home." / 
 
 " I will go at once," returned Nan, cheerfully; " but I will 
 leave my sister, for fear you should feel faint again: besidfes, 
 it is so lonely." 
 
 " Oh, I am used to loneliness!" was the reply, as a bitljer 
 expression crossed her face. 
 
 Phillis, who was still holding the sprained foot in her lap. 
 looked up in her eager way. f 
 
 " I think one gets used to everything; that is a merciful dis- 
 pensation; but, all the same, I hope you will not send me away. 
 I dearly like to be useful; and at present my object is to pre- 
 vent you foot coming in contact with these stones. Are you 
 really in less pain now? You look dreadfully pale. " I 
 
 " Oh, that is nothing!" she returned, with a smile so sud- 
 den and sweet that it quite startled Phillis, for it lighted up 
 her face like sunshine; but almost before she caught it, it was 
 gone. " How good you are to me! and yet I am a perfect 
 stranger;" and then she added, as though with an after- 
 thought, " But 1 saw you in church this morning." / 
 
 Phillis nodded; the que«tiou certainly required no answen 
 
 " If 1 knew you better, I should ask why your eyes 
 questioned me so closely this morning. Do you know, Misp — 
 Miss — " And here she hesitated and smiled, waiting for Phil- 
 lis to fill up the blank. I . 
 
 " My name is Challoner — Phillis Challoner," replied Phil- 
 lis, coloring a little; and then she added, frankly: " lamafiiaid 
 you thought me rude, and that I stared at you, but [ny 
 thoughts were all topsy-turvy this morning, and refused to! be 
 kept in order. One feels curious, somehow, about the people 
 among whom one has come to live." 
 
 " Have you come to live here?" asked Mrs. Cheyne, ea- 
 gerly, and a gleam of pleasure shot into her dark eyes — " you, 
 and your mother and sisters?" 
 
 "Yes; we have just come to the Friary — a little cottage 
 standing ou the Braidwood Road. "
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 143 
 
 Her manner became a little constrained and reserved as she 
 eaid this; the charming frankness disappeared. 
 
 " The Friary I" echoed Mrs. Cheyne; and then she paused 
 for a moment, and her eyes rested searchingly on Phillis. 
 "That shabby little cottage!" was the thought that filled 
 up the outline of her words; but, though she felt inward 
 siirorise and a momentary disappointment, there was no 
 change in the graciousuess of her manner. Never before had 
 she 30 thawed to any one; but the girl's sweet ministry had 
 Wiin her heart. " Then you will be near me — just at my 
 gates? We shall be close neighbors. I hope you will como 
 anl see me, Miss Challoner." 
 
 ?oor Phillis! the blood suddenly rushed over her face at 
 this. How was she to answer without appearing ungracious? 
 anl yet at this moment how could she explain: "If you 
 p](ase, we are dress-makers?" Oh, no! such words as these 
 vould not get themselves said. It was too abrupt, too 
 sidden, altogether; she was not prepared for such a thing. 
 Oi, why had she not gone to the White House instead of Xan? 
 Htr officiousness had brought this on her. She could not put 
 tb poor foot off her lap and get up and walk away to cool her 
 hu cheeks. 
 
 " Thank you; you are very good," she stammered, feeling 
 ierself an utter fool; she — Phillis — the clever oue! 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne seemed rather taken aback by the girl's sudden 
 rserve and embarrassment. 
 
 " I suppose you think I should call first, and thank you for 
 yoir kindness," she returned, quickly; " but 1 was afraid my 
 tot would keep me too long a prisoner. And, as we are to 
 be leighbors, I hardly thought it necessary to stand on cere- 
 moiy; but if you would rather wait — " 
 
 ' Oh, no," replied Phillis, in despair; " we will not trouble 
 youto do that! Nan and I will call and ask after your foot, 
 and then we will explain. There is a little difficulty; you 
 mieit not care to be friends with us if you knew," went on 
 Pliilis, with burning cheeks; " but we will call and explain. 
 Oh, yes, Nan and I will call." 
 
 'Do; I shall expect you," returned Mrs. Cheyne, half 
 mnsed and half mystified at the girl's obvious confusion. 
 iHiat did the child n;ean? They were gentlepeople — one 
 iould see that at a glance. They were in reduced circum- 
 itances; they had come down to Hadleigh to retrench. Well, 
 vhat did that matter? People's wealth or poverty never 
 ffected her; she would think' none the less well of them for 
 hat; glie would call at the Friary and entertain them at the
 
 144 NOT LlivB OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 White House with as much pleasure as though they lived in 
 a palace. The little mystery piqued her, and yet excited her 
 interest. It was long since she had interested herself so muo/i 
 in anything. To Miss Middleton she had always been ccad 
 and uncertain. Air. Drummond she treated with a mixtiire 
 of satire and haughtiness that aroused her for a moment toner 
 earlier and better self. She conceived an instantaneous lilting 
 for the girl who looked at her with such grave, kindly gla/ces. 
 " I shall expect you, remember,'^ she repeated, aslSIan atlthat 
 moment appeared in sight. I 1 
 
 " Oh, yes, Nan and 1 will come," returned Phillis, slowy, 
 and almost solemnly; but an instant afterward a flicke/of 
 amusement played round her mouth. It was painful/ of 
 course; but, still, how droll it was! 1 
 
 " llow long you have been, Nan!" she exclaimed, a liltle 
 unreasonablv, as Nan ran toward them, flushed and breathless 
 from her haste. 
 
 " It has not been long to me," observed Mrs. Cheynl, 
 pointedly. She talked more to Nan than to Phillis after ths, 
 until the servants appeared with the wheeled chair; but never- 
 theless her last words were for Phillis. " Eemember ywr 
 promise," was all she said, as she held out her hand to tie 
 girl; and Phillis tried to smile in answer, though it was ratfer 
 a failure, after all. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 DOROTHY BRINGS IN THE BEST CHINA. 
 
 *' What a fool 1 made of myself yesterday! but tojlay 
 Richard is himself again!" said PhiHis, as she gatheref up 
 another muslin curtain in her arms ready to hand to Ian, 
 who was mounted on some steps. It was only Monday ater- 
 uoon, but the girls had done wonders: the work-room, as hey 
 called it, was nearly finished. The great carved wardrobe and 
 mahogany table had been polished by Dorothy's strong hnds. 
 Mrs. Challoner's easy-chair and little work-table at one is'iii- 
 dow looked quite inviting; the sewing-machine and Nan's |osV 
 wood davenport were in their places. A hanging cupboard c[ 
 old china, and a few well-bound books, gave a little coloring 
 and finish, and one or two fine old prints that had hung in thi 
 dining-room at Glen Cottage had been disposed with advari 
 tage on the newly papered walls. An inlaid clock ticked o\ 
 the mantel-piece, and some handsome ruby-colored vases stool 
 on either side of it. Nan was quite right when she had glance
 
 NOT LIKE OTHEK GIRLS. 145 
 
 rountl her a few minutes ago in a satisfied manner and said no 
 one need be ashamed of living in such a room. 
 
 " Our pretty things make it look almost too nice for the 
 purpose," she continued, handling a precious relic, a Sevres 
 cuiD and saucer, that had been her especial pride in old days. 
 " I think you were wrong, Phil, not to have the china in the 
 other room." 
 
 "No, indeed; 1 want people to see it and be struck with 
 our taste," was Phillis's frank answer. " Think what pleas- 
 ure it will give the poor ladies when their dresses are beiug 
 tried on. Don't you remember the basket of wax fruit afc 
 Miss Slinders's, when we were small children? I thought it 
 the loveliest work of art, and feasted my eyes all the time 
 Miss Slinders was fitting my pink frock. Now, our pictures 
 and china will refresh people's eyes in the same way." 
 
 Xan smiled and shook her head as she dusted and arranged 
 her treasures. The china was very dear to her— far more than 
 the books Phillis was arraugiug on the chiffonier. The Dres- 
 den figures that Dick had given to her mother were among 
 them. She did not care for strangers to look at them and 
 appraise their value. They were home treasures — sacred relics 
 of their past". The last time she had dusted them, a certain 
 young man of her acquaintance had walked through the open 
 window whistling " Blue bonnets over the Border," and had 
 taken up his station beside her, hindering her work with his 
 chattering. Dulce v.'as in the upper regions, unpacking a box 
 in her mother's room. Mrs. Challoner was coming home the 
 next da}', and Dorothy and she were hard at work getting 
 things in order. 
 
 When Phillis made her downright speech. Nan looked down 
 from her lofty perch, and held out her arms for the eurlain. 
 
 " Richard is always himself, my dear," she said, siftly. 
 " Do you know when you are down, Phil, 1 feel as though 
 we are all at a stand-still, and there's no getting on at all; 
 and then at one of your dear, droll speeches the sunshine comes 
 out again, and we are all as right as possible." 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense," was Phillis's blunt answer; but 
 she could not help being pleased at the compliment. She 
 looked up archly afc Nan, as the mass of soft white drapery 
 lay between them; and then they both broke into a laugh, 
 just as two shadows seemed to glide past the window, and a 
 moment afterward the house-bell sounded. " Visitors — oh. 
 Nan!" And Phillis glanced down at the neat bib-apron that 
 she wore over her cambric dress. 
 
 " Don't be afraid; Dorothy will have too ranch sense to ad-
 
 146 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 mifc them/* returned Nan, quite iiidiSereutly, as she went up 
 a step higher to hang up the curtain. 
 
 Phillis was still holding it; but her manner was not quite so 
 well assured. She thought she heard Dulce's voice in con- 
 fabulation with the stranger. A moment afterward Dulce 
 came briskly into the room. 
 
 " Nan, Mr. Drummond and his sister have kindly called to 
 see us. We are not in order, of course. Oh, dear!'' as Nan 
 looked down on them with startled eyes, not venturing to de- 
 scend from her perch. " I ought not to have brought them 
 in here," looking half mischievously and half guiltily at the 
 young clergyman, who stood hat in hand on the threshold. 
 
 " It is 1 who ought not to have intruded," he began, in a 
 perfect agony of embarrassment, blushing over his face like a 
 girl as Nan looked down at him in much dignity; but Mattie, 
 who was behind him, pushod forward in her usual bustling 
 way. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Challoner, it is too bad! I told Archie that we 
 ought not come too soon — " but Phillis stopped her with an 
 outstretched hand of welcome. 
 
 " What is too bad? I call it very kind and friendly of you 
 both; one hardly expected to find such good neighbors. Nan, 
 if that curtain is finished I think you had better come down. 
 Take care; those steps are rickety. Perhaps Mr. Drummond 
 will help you." 
 
 " Let me do the other ones for you. 1 don't think those 
 steps are safe!" exclaimed Archie, with sudden inspiration. 
 
 No one would have believed such a thing of him. Mattie's 
 eyes grew quite round and fixed with astonishment at the 
 sight. He had not even shaken hands with Nan, yet there he 
 was, mounted in her place, slipping in the hooks with dex- 
 terous hands, while Nan quietly held up the curtain. 
 
 Months afterward the scene came back on Archibald Drum- 
 mond with a curious thrill half of pain and half of amuse- 
 ment. How had he done it? he wondered. What had made 
 him all at once act in a way so unlike himself? for, with the 
 best intention, he was always a little stiff and constrained with 
 strangers. Yet there he was laughing as though he had 
 known them all his life, because Nan had rebuked him gravely 
 for slipping two hooks into one ring. Months afterward he 
 recalled it all: Nan glancing up at him with quietly amused 
 eyes, Phillis standing apart, looking quaint and picturesque in 
 her bib-apron, Dulce with the afternoon sunshine lighting up 
 her brown hair; the low, old-fashioned room, with the great 
 carved wardrobe, and the cupboard of dainty china; the shady
 
 ifOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 14t 
 
 little ]awii outside, with Laddie rolling among the daisies. 
 What made it suddenly start up in his memory like a picture 
 one has seen and never quite forgotten? 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Urummond. You have done it so nice- 
 ly," said Nan, with the utmost gravity, as he lingered, almost 
 unwilling to descend to conventionality again. Dulce and 
 Phillis were busily engaged looping up the folds. " ISI"ovy we 
 will ask Dorothy to remove the steps, and then we can sit 
 down comfortably.'* 
 
 But here Archie interposed: 
 
 " Why need you call any one? Tell me where I shall put 
 them." Mattie b»-oke into a loud laugh. She could not help 
 it. It was too droll of Archie. She must write and tell 
 Grace. 
 
 Archie heard the laugh as he marched out of the room with 
 his burden, and it provoked him excessively. He made some 
 excuse about admiring Laddie, and went out on the lawn for 
 a few minutes, accompanied by Nan. When they came back 
 the curtains were finished, and the two girls were talking to 
 Mattie. Mattie seemed quite at ease with them. 
 
 '' We have such a dear old garden at the vicarage,'* she was 
 saying, as her brother came into the room. " 1 am not much 
 of a gardener myself, but Archie works for hours at a time. 
 He talks of getting a set of tennis down from town. AVe 
 think it will help to bring people together. You must prom- 
 ise to come and play sometimes of an afternoon when you 
 have got the cottage in order." 
 
 "Thank you," returned Phillis; and then Nan and she ex- 
 changed looks, A sort of blankness came over the sisters' 
 faces— a sudden dying out of the brightness and fun. 
 
 Mr. Drummond grew a little alarmed: 
 
 *' 1 hope you will not disappoint my sister. She has few 
 friends, and is rather lonely, missing so many sisters; and you 
 are such close neighbors. " 
 
 *' Yes, we are close neighbors," returned Phillis. But her 
 voice was a little less clear than usual; and, to Archie's aston- 
 ishment—for they all seemed talking comfortably together 
 —her face had grown suddenly pale. " But you must not 
 think us unkind if we refuse your hospitality," she went on, 
 looking straight at him, and not at Mattie. " Owing to pain- 
 ful circumstances, we have made up our minds that no such 
 pleasures are in store for us. We must learn to do without 
 things; must we not, Nan?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed," returned Nan, very gravelv. And then 
 the tears came into Dulce's eyes. Was Phillis actually going
 
 148 HOl' LIKE OTilEil GIRLS, 
 
 to tell them? She would have run away, ouly she was ashamed 
 of such cowardice. 
 
 '^* 1 hope you do not mean to do without friends,'* stam- 
 mered Archie. "That would be too painful to bear." He 
 thought they were excusing themselves from partaking of their 
 neighbors' hospitality because they were too poor to return it, 
 and wanted to set them at their ease. " You may have rea- 
 sons for wishing to be cjuiet. Perhaps Mrs. Challoner's 
 health, and — and — parties are not always desirable," he went 
 on, floundering a little in his speech, and signing to Mattie to 
 come to his help, wh'ch she did at once, breathlessly: 
 
 " Parties! Oh, dear, no! They are such a trouble and ex- 
 pense. But tenuis and tea on the lawn is just nothing — noth- 
 ing at all. One can give a little fruit and some home-made 
 3ake. No one need scruple at that. Archie is not rich — 
 3lergymen never are, you know — but he means to entertain 
 liis friends as well as he can. 1 should like you to see Miss 
 Middleton. She is a charming person. And the colonel is 
 as nice as possible. We will just ask them to meet you in a 
 quiet way, and, if your mother is not too much of an invalid, 
 I hope she will give us the pleasure of her company; for when 
 people are such close neighbors it is stupid to stand on cere- 
 mony," finislied Mattie, bringing herself rapidly to a full stop. 
 
 '.' You are very kind. But you do not understand," re- 
 turned Phillis. And then she stopped, and a gleam of fun 
 came into her eyes. Her sharp ears had caught the rattle of 
 cups and saucers. Actually, that absurd Dorothy was bring- 
 ing in tea in the old way, making believe that they were en- 
 tertaining their friends in Glen Cottage fashion! She must get 
 Dut the truth somehow before the pretty purple china made its 
 appearance. " Oh," she went on, with a sort of gulp, as 
 though she felt the sudden touch of cold water, " you come 
 iiere meaning kindly, and asking us to your house, and taking 
 compassion upon us because we are strangers and lonely, and 
 70U do not know that we are poor, and that we have lost our 
 money, and — " But here Mr. Drummond was absolutely 
 rude enough to interrupt her. 
 
 " What does that matter, my dear MissChalloner? Do you 
 think that is of any consequence in mine or my sister's eyes? 
 i suppose if 1 be your clergyman — " And then he stopped 
 and stroked his beard in an embarrassed way; for though 
 Phillis's face was pale, there was laughter in her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, if this be a parochial visit," she began, demurely; 
 •' but you should not have talked of tennis, Mr. Drummond. 
 How do you know we are not Roman Catholics or Wesleyans,.
 
 "SOT LlfeE OTHER atRLS. l4§ 
 
 or even Baptists or Bible Christians? We might have gone 
 to your church out of curiosity on Sundaj', or to see the fash- 
 ions. There is not a Quaker cut about us; but, still, we 
 might be Unitarians, and people would not find it out," con- 
 tinued Phillis, looliing with much solemnity at the bewildered 
 young Anglican. 
 
 The situation was too absurd; there was no knowing to 
 what length Phillis's recklessness and sense of humor would 
 have brought her, only Nan's good sense came to the rescue. 
 
 " Phillis is only in fun, Mr. Drummond. Of course we are 
 church people, and of course we hope to attend your services. 
 1 am sure my mother will be pleased to see you, when you 
 are kind enough to call. At Oldfield we were always good 
 friends with our clergyman; he was such a dear old man." 
 
 " Do you mean to forbid my sister's visits, then?" asked 
 Archie, Tooking anxiously at her sweet face; Nan looked so 
 pretty, in spite of her discomposure. 
 
 *' Oh, no! we do not mean to be so rude; do we, Phillis? 
 We should be glad to see Miss Drummond; but— but," faltered 
 Nan, losing breath a little, " we have been unfortunate, and 
 must work for our living; and your sister perhaps would not 
 care to visit dress-makers." 
 
 " What!" exclaimed Archie; he almost jumped out of his 
 chair in surprise. 
 
 Phillis had uttered a faint " Bravo, Nan!" but no one 
 heard her. Dulce's cheeks were crimson, and she would not 
 look at any one; but Nan, who had got out the dreaded word, 
 went on bravely, and was well hugged by Phillis in private 
 afterward. 
 
 " We are not clever enough for governesses," continued 
 Nan, with a charming smile, addressing Mattie, who sat and 
 stared at her, " and there was nothing we dreaded so much as 
 to separate; so, as we had capable fingers and were fond of 
 work, my sister Phillis planned this for us. Now you see. 
 Miss Drummond, why we could not accept your kind hospi- 
 tality. Whatever we have been, we can not expect people to 
 visit us now. If you would be good enough to recommend us, 
 and help us in our efforts to make ourselves independent, that 
 is all we can ask of you." 
 
 " Well, I don't know," returned Mattie, bluntly; " as far 
 as 1 am concerned, I am never ashamed of any honest calling. 
 What do you say, A.rchie?" 
 
 " I say it is all very proper and laudable," he returned, 
 hesitating; "but surely — surely there must be some other 
 way more suitable for ladies in your position. Let me call
 
 150 ifOT LIKE OTHER GIRLl 
 
 again when your mother comes, and see if there is nothing that 
 1 can do or recommend better than this. Yes, 1 am sure, if I 
 can only talk to your mother, we could find some other way 
 than this." 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Drummond, you must do nothing of the 
 kind," replied Phillis, in an alarmed voice; " the poor dear 
 mother must not be disturbed by any such talk! You mean 
 it kindly, but we have made up our own minds, I^an and I; we 
 mean to do without the world and live in one of our own; and 
 we mean to carry out our plan in defiance of everything and 
 everybody; and though you are our clergyman, and we are 
 bound to listen to your sermons, we can not take your advice 
 in this." 
 
 " But — but I would willingly act as a friend," began the 
 young man, confusedly, looking not at her, but at Nan. 
 
 He was so bewildered, so utterly taken aback, he hardly 
 knew what he said. 
 
 " Here comes Dorothy with the tea," interrupted Nan, 
 pleasantly, as though dismissing the subject; " she has not 
 forgotten our old customs. Friends always came around us in 
 the afternoon. Mr. Drummond, perhaps you will make your- 
 self useful and cut the cake. Dorothy, you need not have un- 
 packed the best silver tea-pot." Nan was moving about in 
 her frank, hospitable way. Laddie was whining for cake, and 
 breaking into short barks of impatience. " This is one of 
 our Glen Cottage cakes. Susan always prides herself on the 
 recipe," said Nan, calmly, as she pressed it on her guests. 
 
 Mr. Drummond almost envied his sister as she praised the 
 cake and asked for the recipe. He had always found fault 
 with her manners, but now nothing (iould be finer than her 
 simplicity. Pure good nature and innate womanliness were 
 teaching Mattie something better than tact. Nan had dropped 
 a painful subject, and she would not revive it in her brother's 
 presence. There would be 2)lenty of time for her to call and 
 talk it over with tjiem quietly. Help them — of course she 
 would help them. They should have her new silk dress that 
 Uncle Conway had just sent her. It was a risk, for perhaps 
 they might spoil it; but such fine creatures should have a 
 chance. At present she would only enjoy the nice tea, and 
 talk to poor little frightened Dulce, who seemed unable to 
 open her lips after her sister's disclosure. 
 
 Archie could not emulate her ease; a man is always at a dis- 
 advantage in such a case. His interest had sustained no shock; 
 it was even stimulated by what he had just heard; but his 
 sympathy seemed all at once congealed, and he could find no
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIKLS. l5X 
 
 vent for it. In spite of his best efforts, his manner grew more 
 and more constrained every moment. 
 
 Nan looked at him more than once with reproachful sweet- 
 ness. She thought they had lost caste in his eyes; but Phil- 
 lis, who was shrewd and sharp-set in her wits, read him more 
 truly. She knew — having already met a score of such — how 
 addicted young Englishmen are to mauvais honte, and how 
 they will hide acute sensibilities under blunt and stolid ex- 
 teriors; and there was a certain softness in Mr. Drummoiid's 
 eye that belied his stiffness. Most likely he was very sorry 
 for them, and did not know how to show it; and in this she 
 was right. 
 
 Mr. Drummond was very sorry for them, but he was still 
 more grieved for himself. The Oxford fellow had not long 
 been a parish priest, and he could not at all understand the 
 position in which he found himself — taking tea with three ele- 
 gant young dress-makers who talked the purest English and 
 had decided views on tennis and horticulture. He had just 
 been congratulating himself on securing such companionship 
 for his sister and himself. Being rather classical-minded, he 
 had been calling them the gray-eyed Graces, and one of them 
 at least " a daughter of the gods — divinely tall and most 
 divinely fair;" for where had he seen anything to compare 
 with Nan's bloom and charming figure? Dress-makers! — oh, 
 if only Grace were at hand, that he might talk to her, and 
 gain her opinion how he was to act in such a case! Grace had 
 the stiff-necked Drummond pride as well as he^ and would 
 hesitate long behind the barriers of conventionality. No won- 
 der, with all these thoughts passing through his mind, that 
 Nan, with her bright surface talk, found him a little vague. 
 
 it was quite a relief to all the party when Mattie gave the 
 signal for departure and the bell was rung for Dorothy to 
 show them out. 
 
 " Well, Nan, what do you think of our visitors?" asked 
 Phillis, when the garden door had clanged noisily after them, 
 and she had treated Nan to the aforesaid hugs; " for you were 
 80 brave, darling, and actually took the wind out of my sails!" 
 exclaimed the enthusiastic Phillis. " Miss Drummond is not 
 so bad, after all, is she? in spite of her dowdiness and fussy 
 ways." 
 
 " No; she means well, and so does her brother. He is very 
 nice, only his self-consciousness spoils him," returned Nan, 
 in a calm, discursive tone, as though they were discussing 
 ordniary visitors. 
 
 It was impossible for these young girls tQ see that thei?-
 
 153 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 ordinary language \vas not humble enough for their new cir- 
 cumstances. They would make mistakes at every turn, like 
 Dorothy, who got out the best china and brewed her tea in 
 the melon-shaped silver tea-pot. 
 
 Phillis opened her eyes rather widely at this. Nan was not 
 often so observant. It was true, self-consciousness was a tor- 
 ment to Archibald Drummond; a Frankenstein of his own 
 creation, that had grown imperceptibly with his growth to the 
 full measure of his manhood, as inseparable as the shadow 
 from the substance. Phillis had recognized it at once; but 
 then, as she said, no one was faultless; and then, he was so 
 handsome. " Very handsome," chimed in Dulce, whose 
 opinions were full-fledged on such matters. 
 
 'Is he? Well, I never cared for a man with a long fair 
 beard," observed Nan, carelessly. Poor Archie! how his 
 vanity would have suffered if he had heard her! for, in a mas- 
 culine way, he prided himself excessively on the soft silky ap- 
 pendage that Grace had so often praised. A certain boyish 
 countenance, with kindly, honest eyes and a little sandy mus- 
 tache was more to Nan's taste than the handsome young An- 
 glican's. 
 
 "Oh, we all know Nan's opinion in such matters," said. 
 Dulce, slyly; and then Nan blushed, and suddenly remem- 
 bered that Dorothy was waiting for her in the linen-closet, and 
 hurried away, leaving her sisters to discuss their visitors to 
 their hearts' content. 
 
 CHAPTEK XIX. 
 
 ARCHIE IS IN A BAD HUMOR. 
 
 *' Oh, Archie, I was never more astonished in my life!'* ex- 
 claimed Mattie, as she tried to adapt her uneven trot to her 
 brother's long, swinging footsteps; and then she glanced up 
 in his face to read his mood; but Archie's features were in- 
 scrutable and presented an appalling blank. In his mind he 
 was beginning his letter to Grace, and wondering what he 
 should say to her about their new neighbors. " Writing is 
 such a nuisance when one wants to talk to a person," he 
 thought, irritably. 
 
 " Oh, Archie, won't you tell me what we are to do?" went 
 on Matt"e, excitedly. She would not take Archie's silence as 
 a hint that he wanted to keep his thoughts tohimsidf. " Those 
 poor girls! oh, how nice and pretty they all are, especially the 
 eldest; and is not the youngest — Dulce, I think they called 
 lier — the very image of Isubeir"
 
 •* Isabel! not a bit. That is so like you, Mattie. You 
 always see likenesses when other people cati not trace the 
 faintest resemblance;" for this remark was sure to draw out 
 his opposition. Isabel was a silly, flirting little thing in her 
 brother's estimation, and, he thought, could not hold a candle 
 to the youngest Miss Challoner. 
 
 " Oh, dear! now I have made you cross!" sighed poor Mat- 
 tie, who especially wanted to keep him in good humor. " And 
 yet every one but you thinks Isabel so pretty. 1 am sure, 
 from what Grace said in her last letter, that Mr. Ellis Burton 
 means to propose to her." 
 
 " And I suppose you will all consider that a catch/' sneered 
 Archie. " That is so like a parcel of women, thinking every 
 man who comes to the house and makes a few smooth-tongued 
 speeches— is, in fact, civil — must be after a girl. Of course 
 you have all helped to instill this nonsense into the child's 
 head." 
 
 " Dear me, how you talk, Archie!" returned Mattie, feel- 
 ing herself snubbed, as usual. Why, Archie had been quite 
 excited about it only the other day, and had said quite serious- 
 ly that with seven girls in a family, it would be a great bless- 
 ing if Isabel could make such a match; for it was very unlike- 
 ly that Laura and Susie, or even Clara, would do much for 
 themselves in that way, unless they decidedly improved in 
 looks. 
 
 " Well, it is nothing to me," he returned, in a chilling 
 manner; " we all know our own mind best. If an angular, 
 lantern-jawed fellow like Burton, who, by the bye, does not 
 speak the best English, is to Isabel's taste, let her have him 
 by all means; he is well-to-do, and I dare say will keep a car- 
 riage for her by and by; that is what you women think a great 
 advantage," liiiished Archie, who certainly seemed bent on 
 making himself disagreeable. 
 
 Mattie heaved another great sigh, but she did not dare to 
 contradict him. Grace would have punished him on the spot 
 by a dose of satire that would have brought him to reason and 
 good nature in a moment; but Mattie ventured only on those 
 laborious sighs which she jerked up from the bottom of her 
 honest little heart. 
 
 Archie heard the sigh and felt ashamed of his bad temper. 
 He did not know himself why he felt so suddenly cross; some 
 secret irritation was at work within him, and he could scarcely 
 refrain from bidding Mattie quite roughly to hold her tongue 
 and not tease him with her chatter. If she expected him in 
 his present state of mind, which was at once contradictory and
 
 15 i ' NOT LIIiE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 aggi-essive, to talk to her about the Challoners. she must just 
 make up her mind to be disappoiuted, for he could not bring 
 himself to speak of them to her just now; he wanted to hold 
 counsel with his own thoughts and with Grace. He would 
 call at the Friary again and see Mrs. Challoner, and fiiid out 
 more of this strange matter; but as to talking it over with 
 Mattie, he quite shrugged his shoulders as he swung open the 
 green door. 
 
 " Are you going in?" faltered Mattie, as she noticed this 
 
 movement. 
 
 " Well, yes; I have letters to write, and it is far too hot for 
 a longer walk," he returned, decidedly; and then, as Mattie 
 stood hesitating and wistful in the middle of the road, he 
 strode ot!, leaving: the door to close noisily after him, and not 
 caring to inquire into her further movements, such being the 
 occasional graceless manners of brothers when sisterly friend- 
 ship is not to their liking. 
 
 Mattie felt snubbed; but, for the first time in her life, she 
 did not take her snubbing meekly. It was too much to expect 
 of her, who was only a woman and not one of Archie's divini- 
 ties, that she should follow him "into the house and hold her 
 tongue just because he was pleased to refrain from speaking. 
 Water must find its vent, and Matfcie's tongue could not be 
 silenced in this way. If Archie would not talk to her. Miss 
 Middleton would; so at once she' trotted off for Brooklyn, 
 thereby incurring Archie's wrath if he could only have known 
 her purpose; for gossip was to him as the sin of witchcraft, 
 unless he stooped to it himself, and then it was amiable socia- 
 bility. 
 
 Miss Middleton was listening to her father's reading as 
 usual, but she welcomed Mattie with open arms, literally as 
 well as metaphorically, for she kissed Mattie on either cheek, 
 and then scolded her tenderly for looking so flushed and tired; 
 " for somebody who is always looking after other people, and 
 never has time to spare for herself, is growing quite thin; is 
 she not, father? and we must write to Grace if this goes on," 
 finished Miss Middleton, with one of her kind looks. 
 
 All this was cordial to poor Mattie, who, though she was 
 used to snubbing, and took as kindly to it as a spaniel to water, 
 yet felt herself growing rather like a thread-paper and shabby 
 with every-day worries and never an encouraging word to in- 
 spirit her. 
 
 So she gave Elizabeth a misty little smile— Mattie's smile 
 was pretty, though her features were ordinary — and then sat 
 np straight and began to enjoy herself — that is, to talk — never
 
 NOT LIKE OTHEB GIRLS. 155 
 
 noticing that Colonel Midflleton looked at his paper in a crest- 
 fallen manner, not much liking the interruj)tion and the cessa- 
 tion of his own voice. 
 
 " Oh, dear!" began Mattie; she generally prefaced her re= 
 mark by an "Oh, dear!" ("That was one of her jerky 
 ways," as Archie said.) " 1 could not help coming straight 
 to you, for Archie would not talk, and I felt I must tell some- 
 body. Oh, dear. Miss Middletou! What do you think? We 
 have just called at the Friary— and — " but here Colonel Mid- 
 dletou's countenance relaxed, and he dropped his paper. 
 
 " Those young ladies, eh? Come, Elizabeth, this is inter- 
 esting. W'ell, what sort of place is the Friary, seen from the 
 inside, eh. Miss Drummond?" 
 
 "Oh, it is very nice," returned Mattie, enthusiastically. 
 " We were shown into such a pretty room, looking out on the 
 garden. They have so many nice things— pictures and old 
 china and handsomely bound books, and all arranged so taste- 
 fully. And before we went away, the old servant — she seems 
 really quite a superior person— brought in an elegant little 
 tea-tray; the cups and saucers were handsomer even than 
 yours,- Miss Middleton— dark purple and gold. Just what I 
 admire so — " 
 
 "Ah, reduced in circumstances! I told you so, Eliza- 
 beth," ejaculated the colonel. 
 
 " I never saw Archie enjoy himself so much or seem so 
 thoroughly at home anywhere. Somewhere, the girls put us 
 so at our ease. Though they were hanging up curtains when 
 we went in— and any one else would have been annoyed at 
 our intruding so soon— actually before we were in the room a 
 moment, Archie was on the steps, helping the eldest Miss 
 Challoner fasten the hooks." 
 
 Miss Middleton exchanged an amused look with her father. 
 Mattie's narrative was decidedly interesting. 
 
 " Oh, don't tell him I repeated that, for he is always call- 
 ing me chatter-box!" implored Mattie, who feared she had 
 been indiscreet, and that the colonel was not to be trusted, 
 which was quite true as far as jokes were concerned. No one 
 understood the art of teasing better than he, and the young 
 vicar had already had a taste of his kindly satire. " Archie 
 only meant to be good-natured and put every one at their 
 ease. " 
 
 " Quite right. Mr. Drummond is alwa3's kind," returned 
 Elizabeth, benignly. She had forgotten Mattie's frequent 
 scoldings, and the poor little thing's tired face, or she would 
 never have hazarded such a compromise with truth. But
 
 156 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 somehotv Elizabeth alwa3's forgot people's weaknesses, espe- 
 cially when they were absent. It was so nice and easy to 
 praise people; and if she always believed what she said, that 
 was because her faith was so strong, and charity that is love 
 was her second nature. 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course," returned Mattie, innocently. She 
 was far too loyal a little soul to doubt Archie's kindness for a 
 moment. Was he not the pride and ornament of the family, 
 the domestic pope who issued his bulls without possibility of 
 contradiction? Whatever Archie did must be right. Was not 
 that their domestic creed? — a little slavish, perhaps, but still 
 so exquisitely feminine. Mattie was of opinion that — well, to 
 use a mild terra — irritability was a necessary adjunct of man- 
 hood. All men were cross sometimes. It behooved their 
 womaukiud, then, to throw oil on the troubled waters — to 
 speak peaceably, and to refrain from sour looks, or even the 
 shadow of a frown. Archie was never cross with Grace; there- 
 fore" it must be she, Mattie, on whom the blame lay; she was 
 such a silly little thing. And so on. There is no need to 
 follow the self-accusation of one of the kindest hearts that 
 ever beat. 
 
 " Did not your visit end as pleasantly as it began?" asked 
 Elizabeth, who, though she was overmerciful in her judg- 
 ments, was not without a good deal of sagacity and shrewd- 
 ness. Something lay beyond the margin of Mattie's words, 
 she could see that plainly; and then her father was getting 
 impatient. 
 
 " Well, you see, that spoiled everything," returned Mattie, 
 jumbling her narrative in the oddest manner. " Archie was 
 so sorry, and so v/as I; and he got quite — you know his way 
 when he feels uncomfortable. 1 thought Miss Challoner was 
 joking at first — that it was just a bit of make-believe fun — 
 until 1 saw how grave Miss Phillis, that is the second one, 
 looked; and then the little one — at least, she is not little, but 
 somehow one fancies she is — seemed as though £he were going 
 to cry." 
 
 " But what did Miss Challoner say to distress you and Mr. 
 Drummond so?" asked Elizabeth, trying patiently to elicit 
 facts and not vague statements from Mattie. 
 
 " Oh, she said — no, please don't think I am exaggerating, 
 for it is all true — that they had lost their money, and were 
 very poor, and that she and her sisters were dress-makers." 
 
 " iJress-makers!" shouted the colonel, and his ruddy face 
 grew almost purple with the shock; his very muetache seemed 
 %9 bristle,
 
 NOT LIKE OTEER GIRLS. 151? 
 
 *' Dress-makers! my dear Miss Drummond, I don't believe a 
 word of it. Tliose girls! It is a hoax! — a bit of nouseiise 
 from beginning to end!" 
 
 "Hush, father! you are putting Mattie out/' returned 
 Elizabeth, mildly. It was one of her idiosyncrasies to call 
 people as soon as possible by their Christian names, thougli no 
 one but her father and brother ever called her Elizabeth. Per- 
 haps her gray haif and a certain soft dignity that belonged to 
 her forbade such freedom. " Dear father, we must let Mat- 
 tie speak." But even Elizabeth let her work lie unheeded in 
 her lap in the engross-ing interest of the subject. 
 
 " I do not mean they have been dress-makers all this time, 
 but this is their plan for the future. Miss Challoner said they 
 were not clever enough for governesses, and that they did not 
 want to separate. But that is what. they mean to do— to 
 make dresses for people who are not half so good as them- 
 selves.*' 
 
 "Preposterous! absurd!" groaned the colonel. "Where 
 is their mother? What can the old lady be thinking about?" 
 Mrs. Challoner was not an old lady by any means; but tben 
 the choleric colonel had never seen her, or he would not have 
 applied that term to the aristocratic-looting gentlewoman 
 whom Mattie had admired in Miss Milner's shoj). 
 
 i i 
 
 I had a good look round the room afterward," went on 
 Mattie, letting this pass. "They had got a great carved 
 wardrobe— 1 thought that funny in a sitting-room: but, of 
 course, it was for the dresses " — another groan from the colonel 
 — " and there was a sewing-machine, and a rosewood daven- 
 port for accounts, and a chiSonier, of cour&e, for the pieces. 
 Oh, they mean business; and I should not be surprised if they 
 understand their work well," went on Mattie, warming up to 
 her subject, and thinking of the breadths of green silk that 
 reposed so snugly between silver paper in her dra(\'ers at the 
 vicarage— the first silk dress she had ever owned, for the 
 Drummond finances did not allow of such luxuries— the new 
 color, too; such a soft, invisible, shadowy green, like an au- 
 tumn leaf shriveled by the sun's richness. " Oh, if they should 
 spoil it!" thought Mattie, with a sigh, as the magnitude of 
 her intended sacrifice weighed heavily upon her mind. 
 
 " It is sheer girlish nonsense~I raiglit say foolery; and the 
 mother must be a perfect idiot!" began the colonel, angrily. 
 
 He was an excitable man, and his wrath at the intelligence 
 was really very great. He had taken a fancy to the new- 
 comers, and was prepared to welcome them heartily in his 
 genial wayj but now his old-fashioned prejudices were gney=
 
 158 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 ously wouuded. Ifc was against his nice code of honor that 
 women should do anything out of the usual beaten groove; in- 
 iioi'ations that would make them conspicuous were heinous 
 riins in his eyes. 
 
 " Come, Mattie, you and 1 will have a chat about this by 
 ourselves," observed Elizabeth, cheerfully, as she noticed her 
 father's vexation. He would soon cool down if left to himself; 
 she knew that well. " Suppose we go down to Miss Mihier, 
 and hear what she has to say; you may dej)end upon it that it 
 was this that made her so reserved with us the other day." 
 
 " Oh, do you think so?" exclaimed Mattie; but she was 
 charmed at the idea of fresh gossip. And then they set off 
 together. 
 
 Miss Milner seemed a little surprised to see them so soon, 
 for Mattie had already paid her a visit that day; but at Miss 
 Middleton's first words a look of annoyance passed over her 
 good-natured face. 
 
 " Dear, dear! to think of that leaking out already," she 
 said, in a vexed voice; " and I have hot spoken to a soul, be- 
 cause the young ladies asked me to keep their secret a few 
 days longer. ' You must give us till next Monday,' one of 
 them said this very morning; ' by that time we shall be in 
 order, and then we can set to work.' " 
 
 "It was Miss Challoner who told me herself," observed 
 Mattie, in a deprecating manner. " My brother and 1 called 
 this afternoon. You see, being the clergyman, and such close 
 neighbors, he thought we might be of some use to the poor 
 things." 
 
 "Poor things indeed!" ejaculated Miss Milner. "lean 
 not tell you how bad I felt," she went on, her little gray curls 
 bobbing over her high cheek-bones with every word, " when 
 that dear young lady put down her head there " — pointing 
 to a spot about as big as a half-crown on the wooden counter 
 — " and cried like a baby. ' Oh, how silly 1 am!' she said, 
 sobbing like; 'and what would my sisters say to me? But 
 you are so kind. Miss Milner; and it does seem all so strange 
 and horrid.' I made up my mind then and there," finished 
 the good woman, solemnly, " that 1 would help them to the 
 best of my power. 1 have got their bits of advertisements to 
 put about the shop; and there's my new black silk dress, that 
 has lain by since Christmas, because I knew Miss Slasher would 
 spoil it; not but what they may ruin it finely for me; but I 
 mean to shut my eyes and take the risk," with a little smile 
 of satisfaction over her own magnanimity. 
 
 Elizabeth stretclied out her hand acruivS the couutor.
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 16d 
 
 *' Miss Miluer, you are a good creature," she said, softly. 
 *' I honor you for this. If people always helped each other, 
 and thought so little of a sacrifice, the world would be a hap- 
 pier place." And then, without waiting for a reply from the 
 gratified shopwoman, she went out of the hbrary with a 
 thoughtful brow. 
 
 " Miss Milner has read me a lesson," she said, by and by, 
 when Mattie had marveled at her silence a little. " Conven- 
 tionality makes cowards of the best of us. I am not particu- 
 larly worldly minded," she went on, with a faint smile, " but 
 all the same I must plead guilty to feeling a little shocked my- 
 self at your news; but when 1 have thought a little more about 
 it, I dare say I shall see things by a truer light, and be as 
 ready to admire these girls as 1 am now to wonder at them." 
 And after this she bade Mattie a kindly good-bye. 
 
 Meanwhile, Phillis was bracing herself to undergo another 
 ordeal. Mr. Drummond and his sister bad only just left the 
 cottage when a footman from the White House brought a note 
 for her. It was from Mrs. Cheyne, and was worded in a most 
 friendly manner. 
 
 She thanked the sisters gracefully for their timely help on 
 the previous evening, and, though making light of her acci- 
 dent, owned that it would keep her a prisoner to her sofa for 
 a few days; and then she begged them to waive ceremony and 
 come to her for an hour or two that evening. 
 
 " I will not ask you to dinner, because that will perhaps in- 
 convenience you, as you must be tired or busy," she wrote; 
 " but if one or both of you would just put on your hats and 
 walk np in the cool of the evening to keep Miss Mewlstone and 
 myself company, it would be a real boon to us both." And 
 then she signed herself " Magdalene Cheyne." 
 
 Phillis wore a perplexed look on her face as she took the 
 note to Nan, who was still in the linen closet. 
 
 "Very kind, very friendly," commented Nan, when she 
 had finished reading it; " but I could not possibly go, Phil. 
 As soon as 1 have done this I have promised to sit with moth- 
 er. She has been alone all day. You could easily send an 
 excuse, for Mrs. Cheyne must know we are busy." 
 
 " 1 don't feel as though an excuse will help us here," re- 
 turned Phillis, slowly. " When an unpleasant thing has to be 
 done, it is as well to get it over; thinking about it only hin- 
 ders one's sleep.'* 
 
 " But you will surely not go alone?" demanded Nan, in 
 astonishment. " You are so tired, Phil; you have been work-
 
 160 I^OT tiki; oMiiii GiiiLS. 
 
 iug hard all day. Give it up, deai% and sit and rest in the 
 garden a little/' 
 
 " Oh, no," returned Phillis, disconsolately. " 1 value my 
 night's rest too much to imperil it so lightly; besides, I owe 
 it to myself for a penance for being such a coward this after- 
 noon." And then, without waiting for any further dissuasion, 
 she carried off the letter and wrote a very civil but vague re- 
 ply, promising to walk up in the evening and inquire after 
 the invalid; and then she dismissed the messenger, and went 
 up to her room with a heavy heart. 
 
 Dulce came to help her, like a dutiful sister, and chattered 
 on without intermission. 
 
 " I suppose you will put on your best dress?" she asked, as 
 she dived down into the recesses of a big box. 
 
 Phillis, who was sitting wearily on the edge of her bed, 
 roused up at this: 
 
 " My best blue silk and cashmere, that we wore last at Fitz- 
 roy Lodge? Dulce, how can you be so absurd? Anything 
 will do— the gray stuff or the old foulard. No, stop; 1 for- 
 got; the gray dress is better made and newer in cut. We 
 must think of that. Oh, what a worry it is going out when 
 one is tired to death!" she continued, with unusual irritation. 
 
 Dulce respected her sister's mood and held her peace, 
 though she knew the gray dress was the least becoming to 
 Phillis, who was pale, and wanted a little color to give her 
 brightness. 
 
 " There, now, you look quite nice," she said, in a patroniz- 
 ing voice, as Phdlis put on her hat and took her gloves. 
 Phillis nodded her thanks rather sadly, and then bethought 
 herself and came back and kissed her. 
 
 " Thank you, dear Dulce; I am not nearly so tired now; 
 but it is getting late, and 1 must run off." And so she did 
 until she had turned the corner, and then, in spite of herself, 
 her steps became slower and more lagging. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. ^ 
 
 " YOU ARE llOMAKTIC.'^ 
 
 HuMAK nature is prone to argument; a person will often in 
 the course of a few moments bring himself or herself to the 
 bar of conscience, and aocuse, excuse, and sum up the case in 
 the twinkling of an eye. 
 
 On arriving at the lodge gates Phillis began to take herself 
 to task. Conscience, that " makes cowards of us all," began 
 its small inner remonstrance; then followed tielf-fiagellatiou
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 161 
 
 and much belaboring of herself with many remorseful terms. 
 She was a pitiful thing compared to Nan; she was conven- 
 tional; there were no limits to her pride. Where were that 
 freedom and nobility of soul which she once fancied would 
 sweep over worldly prejudices, and carry her into purer air? 
 She was still choking in the fogs of mere earthly exhalations. 
 No wonder Nan was a little disappointed in her, though she 
 was far too kind to say so. Well, she was disappointed in 
 herself. 
 
 By this time she had reached the hall door; and now she be- 
 gan to hold up her head more boldly, and to look about her. 
 vVhen a very solemn-looking butler confronted her she said to 
 herself, " It will be all the same a hundred years hence, and I 
 am determined this time not to be beaten;" and then she 
 asked for Mrs. Cheyne with something of her old spright- 
 liness, and nothing could exceed the graceful ease of her en- 
 trance. 
 
 All the Challoners walked well. There was a purity of 
 health about them that made them delight in movement and 
 every bodily exercise — an elasticity of gait that somehow at- 
 tracted attention. 
 
 No girls danced better than they. And when they had the 
 chance, which was seldom, they could ride splendidly. Their 
 skating was a joy to see, and made one wish that the ice would 
 last forever, that one could watch such light, skimming prac- 
 tice; and as for tennis, no other girl had a chance of being 
 chosen for a partner unless the Challoners good-naturedly held 
 aloof, which ten times out of twelve they were sure to do. 
 
 Phillis, who, from her pale complexion, was supposed to 
 possess the least vitality, delighted in exercise for its own 
 sake. " It is a pleasure only to be alive and to know it,^' 
 was a favorite speech with her on summer mornings, when 
 the shadows were blowing lightly hither and thither, and the 
 birds had so much to say that it took them until evening to 
 finish saying it. 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne, who was lying on her couch, watched with 
 admiring eyes the girl's straightforward walk, so alert and 
 business-like, so free from fuss and consciousness, and held 
 out her hand with a more cordial welcome than she was ac- 
 customed to show her visitors. 
 
 It was a long room; and as the summer dusk was falling, 
 and there was only a shaded lamp beside Mrs. Cheyne, it was 
 full of dim corners. Nevertheless, Phillis piloted herself with- 
 out hesitation to the illuminated circle. 
 
 This is good of you^ Miss Challouer, to take me at m/ 
 
 (( rri
 
 102 KOT LIKE OTHER GIELB. 
 
 \V£>rcl. But whei-e is your sister? I wanted to look at her 
 again, for it is long since I have seen any one so pretty. Miss 
 Mewlstone, this is the good Samaritan who bound up my foot 
 so cleverly. '^ 
 
 " Ah, just so," returned Miss Mewlstone; and a soft, 
 plump hand touched Phillis's, and then she went on picking 
 up stitches and taking no further notice. 
 
 "Nan could not come," observed Phillis. "She had to 
 run down to Beach House to report progress to mother. "We 
 hop© she is coming home to-morrow. But as you were so 
 kind as to wiite, I thought I would just call and inquire about 
 your foot. And then it would be easier to explain things than 
 to write about them. " 
 
 "Oh! so your mother is coming home!" returned Mrs. 
 Cheyne, with so much interest in her voice that Miss Mewl- 
 stone left off counting to look at her. (" Just so, just so," 
 Phillis heard her mutter.) " You must have worked hard to 
 get readj for her so soon. When my foot will allow me to 
 cross a room without hobbling, 1 will do myself the pleasure 
 of calling on her. But that will be neither this week nor the 
 next, 1 am afraid. But I shall see a good deal of you and 
 your sister before then," she concluded, with the graciousness 
 of one who knows she is conferring an unusual honor. 
 
 " 1 do not know," faltered Phillis. And then she sat up- 
 right and looked her hostess full in the face. " That will be 
 for you to decide when you hear what I have to say. But I 
 fear " — with a very poor attempt at a smile — " that we shall 
 see very little of each other in the future." 
 
 " Oh, there is a mystery, is there?" returned Mrs. Cheyne, 
 with a little scorn in her manner; and her mouth took one of 
 the downward curves that Mr. Drummond so thoroughly dis- 
 liked. She had taken an odd fancy to these girls, especially 
 to Phillis, and had thought about them a good deal during a 
 sleepless, uneasy night. Their simplicity, their straightfor- 
 ward unconsciousness, had attracted her in spite of her cyni- 
 cism. But at the first suspicion of mystery she withdrew into 
 herself rather haughtily. *' Do speak out, 1 beg. Miss Chal- 
 loner; for if there be one thing that makes me impatient it is 
 to have anything implied." 
 
 *' I am quite of your opinion," replied Phillis, with equal 
 hausfhtiness, only it sat more strangely ^)n her girlishness. 
 " That is why I am here to-night — just to inquire after your 
 foot and explain things." 
 
 " Well?" still more impatiently, for this woman was a 
 spoiled child, and hated to be thwarted, and was undisciplined
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 163 
 
 and imperious enough to ruin all her own chances of happi- 
 ness. 
 
 " I told you that we were very poor/* went on Phillis, in A 
 sweet and steady voice; " but that did not seem to impress 
 you much, and 1 thought how noble that was " — catching her 
 breath an instant; " but it will make a difference and shook 
 you dreadfully, as it did Mr. Drummond, when I tell you we 
 are dress-makers — Nan and Dulce and 1; at least, that will be 
 our future occupation.'' 
 
 *' Ah, just so!'' ejaculated Miss Mewlstone; but she said it 
 with her lips far apart., and a mistiness came into her sleepy 
 blue eyes. Perhaps, though she was stout and middle-aged 
 and Dreathed a liLLle too heavily at times, she remembered — 
 lot)g ago when she was young and poor and had to wage a 
 bitter war with the world — when she eat the dry bread and 
 drank the bitter water of dependence, and felt herself ill nour- 
 ished by such unpalatable sustenance. " Oh, just so, poor 
 thing!" And a little round tear dripped on to the ball of 
 scarlet fleecy wool. 
 
 But Mrs. Cheyne listened to the announcement in far differ- 
 ent mood. There was an incredulous stare at Phillis, as 
 though she suspected her of a joke; and then she laughed, a 
 dry, harsh laugh, that was not quite pleasant to hear. 
 
 " Oh, this is droll, passing droll!" she said, and leaned back 
 on her cushions, and drew her Indian cashmere shawl round 
 her, and frowned a little. 
 
 " I am glad you find it so," returned Phillis, who was non- 
 plused at this, and did not know what to say, and was a little 
 angry in consequence; and then she got up from her chair 
 with a demonstration of spirit. " I am glad you find it so; 
 but to us it is sad earnestness." 
 
 " What! are you going?" asked Mrs. Cbeyne, with a keen 
 glance through her half-shut eyes at poor Phillis standing so 
 tall and straight before her. " And you have not told me the 
 reason for taking so strange a step!" 
 
 " The reason lies in our poverty and paucity of resources," 
 was Phillis's curt reply. 
 
 " It is not to make a sensation, then? No, I did not mean 
 that," as Phillis shot an indignant glance at. her — " not ex- 
 actly; but there is no knowing what the emaf^cipated girl will 
 do. Of course 1 have no right to question, who was a stranger 
 to you four-and-twenty hours ago, and had never heard the 
 name of Challoner, except that it was a good And an old name; 
 but when one sees young things like you about to forfeit caste 
 and build up a barrier between yourselves and your equals
 
 164: KOT LIKE OTHEll GTRti. 
 
 that the bravest will fear to pass, it seems as though one must 
 lift up one's voice in protest. '^ 
 
 " Thank you; but it will be of no use,'* returned Phillis, 
 colrlly. 
 
 " You are determined to make other people's dresses?'* 
 And here her lip curled a little, perhaps involuntarily. 
 
 " We must make dresses or starve; for our fingers are clev- 
 erer than our brains," replied Phillis, defiantly; for the knew 
 nothing about it, and her powers were so immature and 
 unfledged that she had never tried her wings, anil had no notion 
 whether she could fly or not, and yet no girl had a clearer 
 head. " VV"e have chosen work that we know we can do well, 
 and we mean not to be ashamed of our occupation. In the 
 old days laJies used to spin and weave, aud no one blamed 
 them, though they were noble; and if my work will bring 
 me money, and keep the mother comfortable, I see nothing 
 that will prevent my doing it." 
 
 " Ah, you are romantic. Miss Challoner; you will soon be 
 taught matter-of-facti" 
 
 " 1 am willing to learn anything, but I must choose my 
 teachers," retorted Phillis, with a little heat, for the word 
 "romantic" and the satirical droop of Mrs. Oheyne's lips 
 made her decidedly cross. " But I must not detain you any 
 more with our uninteresting affairs," dropping a little court- 
 esy, half in pique and half in mockery, for her spirits were ris- 
 ing under this rough treatment. 
 
 " It is far from uninteresting; I have not heard anything 
 so exciting for a long time. Well, perhaps you had better go 
 before I say anything very rude, for 1 am teriibly outspoken, 
 and I think you are all silly, self-willed young 2>«opie." 
 Then, as Phillis bridled her neck like an untamed colt, she 
 caught hold of the girl's dress to detain her, and the sharpness 
 passed out of her eyes. " Now, don't go away and believe 
 that I think any worse of you for telling me this. I am a 
 cross-grained body, and contradiction makes me worse. 1 
 don't know how I shall act: 1 must have time to consider thU 
 extraordinary bit of news. But all the same, whatever I do, 
 whether I know you or do not know you, I shall always think 
 you the very bravest girl I ever saw." And then ^he h-t jjer 
 go, and Phillis, with her head in the air and her thoughts all 
 topsy-turvy, marched out of the room. 
 
 But when she reached the end of the corridor there was a 
 soft but distinctly audible breathing behind her, and, as in 
 Mr. Urummond's case. Miss Mewlstoue's shadowy gray gown 
 swept between her aud the door.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 165 
 
 " Miss Mevvlstone, how you startled me! but the carpets 
 are so soft and thick!" 
 
 "Yes, indeed! just so, my dear; but Phillips must be 
 asleep, as he does not answer the bell, and so 1 thought I 
 would let you out. You are young to walk alone. Shall I throw 
 a shawl over my cap, and walk down the road with you?" 
 
 " Kot for worlds, my dear Miss Mewlstone;" but Phillis was 
 quite touched at this unexpected kindness. Miss Mewlstone 
 did not look sleepy now; her small blue eyes were wide open, 
 and her round, placid face wore a most kindly expression, and 
 there was a tremulous movement of her hands, as though they 
 were feeling after something. "It is only such a little bit of 
 road; and, though the trees make it dark, I am not the least 
 afraid of going alone. " 
 
 "Ah! just so. When we are young we are brave; it is 
 the old who are afraid of the grasshopper. I like your spirit, 
 my dear; and so does she, though she is a little taken aback and 
 disappointed; but anythmg that interests and rouses her is 
 welcome. Even this may do her good, for it will give her 
 something to think about besides her own troubles." 
 
 " 1 have heard of her troubles — " began Phillis; but a 
 moving door arrested Miss Mewlstone's attention, and she in- 
 terrupted her hurriedly. 
 
 "Ah! there is Phillips at last. Just so; you shall hear 
 from me again. It is a gray satin — one of her presents— but 
 I have never had it made up; for what is the use, when we 
 keep no company?" went on Miss Mewlstone, incoherently. 
 " Oh! is that you, Phillips? Please go with this young lady 
 to the lodge gate. You shall make it after your own fash- 
 ion," she whispered in Phillis's ear; " and I am not as partic- 
 ular as other people. There is Magdalene now. Ah! just so. 
 Good-night, my dear; and mind the scraper by the gate." 
 
 Phillis was almost sorry when the obsequious Phillips left 
 her; for the road certainly looked terribly dark. There was 
 no moon, and the stars chose to be invisible; and there was a 
 hot, thundery feeling in the air that suggested a storm. And 
 she moved aside with a slight sensation of uneasiness — not fear, 
 of course not fear — as a tall, gloomy-looking figure bore 
 swiftly down on her; for, even if a girl be ever so brave, a 
 very tall man wal king fast on a dark night, with a slouching hat 
 like a conspirator's, is rather a terrifying object; and how 
 could she know that it was only Archie Drummond in his old 
 garden-hat, taking a consfitiitioual? 
 
 But he brought himself up iu front of her with » sudden 
 jerk.
 
 166 KOT LtKE Other GiRts. 
 
 " Miss Challoner — alone at this time of night!" 
 
 " Why, it is not ten; and 1 could not wait for Dorothy to 
 fetch me," returned Pliillis, bound to defend herself, and quite 
 palpitating with relief, not that she was afraid — not a bit of 
 it— but, still, Mr. Drummond's presence was very welcome. 
 
 " 1 suppose I shall do as well as Dorothy?" he returned, 
 veering round with the greatest ease, just as though he were 
 Dick, and bound to escort a Challoner. " Challouers' Squire " 
 — that was Dick's name among people. 
 
 "Oh, poor Dick!" thought Phillis, with a sudden rush of 
 tenderness for her old playmate; and then she said, demurely, 
 but with a spice of malice: 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Druiumond. The road is so gloomy that 
 I shall be glad of your escort this evening; but we shall have 
 to do without that sort of thing now, for our business may 
 often b«ing us out after dark, and we must learn not to be 
 too particular." 
 
 " Oh, this must not be!" he returned, decidedly; and, 
 though it was too dark to see his face, she knew by his voice 
 that he was dreadfully shocked. " 1 must see your mother 
 and talk to her about this, for it would never do for you to 
 run such risks. I could not allow it for a moment; and, as 
 your clergvmiin '* — coming down from his high horse, and 
 stammering a litlle — " I have surely — surely a right — " But 
 Phillis sna[:ped him up in a moment, and pretty sharply too, 
 for she had no nation of a young man giving himself airs and. 
 lecturing her. 
 
 " Oh, no right at all!" she assured him; " clergymen could 
 only rebuke evil-doers, to which class she and her sisters did 
 not belong, thank Heaven!" to which Mr. Drummond devoutly 
 said an "amen." "And would he please tell her if dress- 
 makers were al'iVays met two and two, like the animals in the 
 ark? and how would it sound when she or Nan had been fit- 
 ting on a dress, on a winter's evening, if they were to refuse 
 to leave the house until Dorothy fetched them? and how — " 
 But here Mr. Drummond checked her, and the darkness hid 
 his smile. 
 
 " Notv you are beyond me, Miss Challoner. In a matter of 
 detail, a man, even a parson, is often at fault. Is there no 
 other way of managing this odious business? Forgive me; the 
 word slipped out by accident. Could you not do the fitting, 
 or whatever you call it, by daylight, and stay at home quietly 
 in the evening, like other young ladies?" 
 
 " Of course not," returned Phillis, promptly. She had not 
 the least idea why it could not be done; indeed, if she had been
 
 ITOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 16T 
 
 perfectly cool — which she was not, for Mrs. Cheyne had de- 
 cidedly stroked her the wrong way, aiid ruffled lier past endur- 
 ance — she would .have appreciated the temperat*^, counsel 
 vouchsafed her, and acquiesced in it without a murmur; but 
 now she seemed bent on contradiction. 
 
 " Our opinions seem to clash to-night,*' returned Mr. Drum- 
 mond, good-humoredly, but feeling that the young lady beside 
 hiiu had decidedly a will of her own. " She is very nice, but 
 she is not as gentle as her sister," he said to himself, which 
 was hard on Pliillis, who, though she was not mek, being a 
 girl of spirit, was wholesomely sweet and sound to the heart's 
 core. 
 
 " One may be supposed to know one's business best,*' she 
 replied, rather dryly to this. And then, fearing that she might 
 seem ungracious to a stranger, who did not know her and her 
 little ways, she went on in a more cordial tone: " I am afraid 
 you think me a little cross to-night; but I have been having a 
 stand-up fight, and am rather tired. Trying to battle against 
 other people's prejudices makes one irritable. And tiien, be- 
 cauie 1 am down and out of heart about things, our clergy- 
 man thinks fit to lecture me on propriety." 
 
 " Only for your good. You must forgive me if I have taken 
 too much upon myself," returned Mr. Drunimond, with much 
 compunction. " You seem so lonely — no father or brother; 
 at least — pardon me — 1 believe you have no brother?" 
 
 " Oh, no; we have no brother," sighed Phillis. Their ac- 
 quaintance was in too early a stage to warrant her in bringing 
 in Dick's name. Besides, that sort of heterogeneous rela- 
 tionship is so easily Uiisconstrued. And then she added: " I 
 sea. You meant to be very kind, and I was very ungrateful." 
 
 " I only wish 1 could find some way of helping you all," 
 was his reply to this. But it was said with such frank kind- 
 ness that Phillis's brief haughtiness vanished. They were 
 standing at the gate of the Friary by this time, but Mr. Drum- 
 mond still lingered. It was Phillis who dismissed him. 
 
 " Good-night, and many thanks," she said, brightly. " It 
 is too late to ask you in; for, you see, even dress-makers have 
 their notions of propriety." And as she uttered this mali- 
 cious little speech, the young man broke into a laugh that was 
 heard by Dorothy in her little kitchen. 
 
 " Oh, that is too bad of j'ou. Miss Challoner," he said, as 
 soon as he recovered himself; but, nevertheless, he liked the 
 girl better for her little joke. 
 
 Mr. Drunimond's constitutional had lasted so long that 
 Mattie grew quite frightened, and came down in her drab
 
 168 NOT LIKE OTHEU GIELS. 
 
 dressing-gown to wait for him. It was not a becoming cob- 
 tume, but it was warm and comfortable; but then, Mat tie never 
 considered what became her. If any one had admired her, or 
 oared how she looked or what she wore, or had taken an inter- 
 est in her for her own sake, she would doubtless have de- 
 veloped an honest liking for pretty things. But what did it 
 matter under the present circumstances? Mr. Drummoud. 
 was lighting his chamber candle when Matlie rushed out on 
 him — a grotesque little figure, all capes and frills. 
 
 " Oil, Archie, how you frightened me! Where have you 
 been?'' 
 
 Archie shrugged his shoulders at this. 
 
 " I am not aware, Matilda " — for in severe moods he would 
 call her by her full nam'^, a thing she especially disliked from 
 him — " I did not know that I was accountable to you for my 
 actions. Neither am I particularly obliged to you for spying 
 upon me in this way.*' For tlie siglit of Mattie at this time 
 of night was peculiarly distasteful. Why was he to be watched 
 in his on^i house? 
 
 " Oh, dear, Archie! How can you say such things? Spy 
 on you, indeed! when there is a storm coming up, and I was 
 BO anxious." 
 
 " 1 am very much obliged to you," returned Archie, iron- 
 ically, " but, as you see I am safe, don't you think you had 
 better take off that thing " — pointing to the obnoxious gar- 
 ment — " and go to bed?" And such was his tone that poor 
 Mattie fled without a word, and cried a little in her dark room, 
 because Archie would not be kind to her and let her love him, 
 but was always finding fault with one trifle or other. To- 
 night it was her poor old dressing-gown, which had been her 
 mother's, and had been considered good enough for Mattie. 
 And then he had called her a spy. And here she gave a sob 
 that caught Archie's ears as he passed her door. 
 
 " Good-night, you little goose!" he called out, for tho 
 sound made him uncomfortable; and though the words were 
 contemptuous, the voice was not, and Mattie at once dried her 
 eyes and was comforted. 
 
 But before Archie went to sleep that night he made up his 
 mind that it was his duty as a clergyman and a Christian to 
 look over Phillis's willfulness, and to befriend to the utmost of 
 his power the stranger, widow, and fatherless, that Providence 
 had placed at his very gates. 
 
 " They are so very lonely, poor things!" he said to himself; 
 " not a man about them. By the bye, I noticed she did not 
 wear au engagement-ring." But which was the "she'' Ji^
 
 kOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. l^if 
 
 meant was an enigma known only to himself. " Not a man 
 about them!" he repeated, in a satisfied manner, for as yet 
 the name of Dick had not sounded in his ear. 
 
 CHAPTER XXT. 
 
 BREAKING THE PEACE. 
 
 Nan went to Beach House to fetch her mother home, es" 
 corted by Laddie, who was growing a most rollicking and 
 friendly little animal, and a great consolation to his mistress, 
 whom he loved with all his doggish heart. 
 
 They all three came back in an old fly belonging to their 
 late host, and found Phillis waiting for them on ihe doorstep, 
 who made her mother the following liLtle speech: 
 
 " Now, mammie, you are to kiss us, and tell us what good, 
 industrious girls we have been; and then you are to shut 
 your eyes and look at nothing, and then sit down in your old 
 arm-chair, and try and make the best of everything." 
 
 " Welcome home, dearest mother," said Nan, softly kissing 
 her. " Home is home, however poor it may be; and thank 
 God for it," finished the girl, reverently. 
 
 *' Oh, my darlings!" exclaimed the poor mother; and then 
 she cried a little, and Dulce came up and put a rose-bud in 
 her hand, and Dorothy executed an old-fashioned courtesy, 
 and hoped that her mistress and the dear young ladies would 
 try and make themselves as happy as possible. 
 
 "Happy, you silly old Dorothy! of course we mean to be 
 as busy as bees, and as frolicsome as kittens!" returntd Phil- 
 lis, who had recovered her old sprightliuess, and was ready to- 
 day for a dozen Mrs. Cheynes and all the clergy of the dio- 
 cese. " Now, mammie, you are only to peep into this room. 
 This is our work-room, and those are the curtains Mr. Drum- 
 mond was kind enough to hang. In old days," continued 
 Phillis, with mock solemnity, " the parson would have pro- 
 nounced a benediction, but the modern Anglican performs 
 another function, and with much gravity ascends the steps 
 and hooks up the curtains of the new-comers." 
 
 *' Oh, Phillis, how can you be so absurd! I am sure it was 
 very good-natured of him. Come, mother, dear, we will not 
 stand here listening to her nonsense." And Nan drew her 
 mother to the parlor. 
 
 It was a very small room, but still snug and comfortable, 
 and full of pretty things. Tfa was laid on the little round 
 table that would hardly hold five, as Nan once observed, think-
 
 170 KOT LIKE OTHEE GiUtS. 
 
 ing of Diet; and the evening's sunshine was stealing in, but 
 not too obtrusively. Mrs. Challoner tried not to think it dull, 
 and endeavored to say a word of praise at the arrangements 
 Dulce pointed out to her; but the thought of Glen Cottage, 
 and her pretty drawing-room, and the veranda with its climb- 
 ing roses, and the shady lawn with the seat under the acacia- 
 trees, almost overpowered her. That they should come to 
 this! That they should be sitting in this mean little parlor, 
 where there was hardly room to move, looiiing out at the lit- 
 tle strip of grass, and the medlar-tree, and the empty green- 
 house! Nan saw her mother's lip quiver, and adroitly turned 
 the subject to their neighbors. She had so much to say about 
 Mr. Drummond and his sister that Mrs. Challoner grew quite 
 interested; nevertheless, it was a surprise even to Nan when 
 Dorothy presently opened the door, and Mr. Drummond coolly 
 walked in, with a magnificent basket of roses in his hand. 
 
 Nan gravely introduced him to her mother, and the young 
 man accosted her; but there was a little surprise on his facBo 
 He had taken it into his head that Mrs. Challoner would be a 
 far older-looking and more homely person; but the stately 
 looking woman before him might have been an older and faded 
 edition of Nan. Somehow, her appearance confused him, and 
 he commenced with an apology for his intrusion: 
 
 " I ought not to have been so unceremonious, I am afraid, 
 as you have just arrived, my visit will seem an intrusion; but 
 my sister thought you would like some of our roses " — he had 
 obliged poor Mattie to say so — " and, as we had cut some fine 
 ones, we thought you ought to have them while they are 
 fresh. '^ 
 
 " Thank you; this is very kind and neighborly,*' returned 
 Mrs. Challoner; but, though her tone was perfectly civil. Nan 
 thought her manner a little cold, and hastened to interpose 
 with a few glowing words of admiration. 
 
 " The roses were lovely; they were finer than those at Long- 
 mead, or even at Fitzroy Lodge, though Lady Fitzroy prided 
 herself on her roses.'* Archie pricked up his ears at this lat- 
 ter name, which escaped quite involuntarily from Nan. 
 " And was it not good of Miss Drummond to spare them so 
 many, and of Mr. Drummond to carry them?" all of which 
 Nan said with a sweet graciousness that healed the young 
 man's embarrassment in a moment. 
 
 *' Yes, indeed!" echoed Mrs. Challoner, obedient, as usual, 
 to her daughter's lead. " And you must thank your sister, 
 Mr. Drummond, and tell her hosv fond my girls are of flow- 
 ers." But though Mrs. Challoner said this, the roses were
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 171 
 
 not without thorns for her. Why had uot Miss Drumniond 
 brought them herself? She was pleased indeed that, under 
 existing circumstances, any one should be civil to lier girls, 
 but was there uot a little patronage intended? She was not 
 quite snre that she rejoiced in having such neighbors. Mr. 
 l)rumiDoud was nice and gentlemanly, but he was far too 
 young and handsome for an unmarried clergs*man; at least, 
 that was her old-fashioned opinion; and when one has three 
 very good-looking daughters, and dreads the idea of losing 
 one, one may be pardoned for distrusting eveu a basket of 
 roses. 
 
 If Mr. Drummond perceived her slight coldness, he seemed 
 quite determined to overcome it. He took small notice uf 
 Nan, who busied herself at once afrangiug the flowers under 
 his eyes; even Phillis, who looked good and demure this even- 
 ing, failed to obtain a word. He talked almost exclusively to 
 Mi-s. Challoner, plying her with artful questions about their 
 old home, which he now learned was at Oldfield, and gaining 
 scraps of information that enabled him to obtain a pretty 
 clear insight into their present circumstances. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner, wh ) was a soft-ht-arted woman, was not 
 proof asfainst so much sympathy. She perceived that i^Ir. 
 Drummond was sorry for them, and she began to warm a lit- 
 tle towaid him. His manner was so respectful, his words so 
 discreet; and then he b^ha^e 1 so nicely, taking no notice of 
 the girls, though Nun was looking so pretty, but just talking 
 to her in a grave, responsible wayj as though he were a gray- 
 haired man of sixty. 
 
 Phillis was not quite sure she approved of it. In the old 
 days she had never been so excluded from conversation; she 
 would have liked a word nowand then. But Nan sat by quite 
 contented; it pleased her to see her mother roused and in- 
 terested. 
 
 When Mr. Drummond took his leave, she accompanied him 
 to the door, and thanked him quite wai'mly. 
 
 '* You have done her so much good, for this first evening is 
 such a trial to her, poor thing!" said Nan, lifting her lovely 
 eyes to the young man's face. 
 
 " I am so glad! 1 will come again," he said, rather inco- 
 herently. And as he went out of the green door he told him- 
 self that it was his clear duty to befriend this interesting fam- 
 ily. He ought to have gone home and written to Grace, for 
 it was long past the time when she always expected to hear 
 from him. But the last day or two he had rather shirked this 
 duty. It would be difficult to explaiu to Grace. She mighfe
 
 173 KOT LIKE OTHER GIKLS. 
 
 be rather shocked, for she was a little prim in such things, 
 being her mother's daughter. He thought he would ask Mat- 
 tie to tell her about the Challoners, and that he was busy and 
 would write soon; and when he had made up his mind to this, 
 he went down to the sea-shore and amused himself by sitting 
 on a break-water and staring at the fishing-smacks — which, of 
 course, showed how very busy he was. 
 
 " I think 1 shall like Mr. Drummond," observed Mrs. Chal- 
 loner, in a tolerant tone, when Nan had accompanied the young 
 vicar to the door. " He seems an earnest, good sort of young 
 man." 
 
 " Yes, mammie, dear. And I am sure he has fallen in love 
 with you," returned Philh's, naughtily, " for he talked to no 
 one else. And you are so young looking and pretty that, of 
 course, no one could be surprised if he did.'' But though Mrs. 
 Challoner said, " Oh, Phillis!" and looked dreadfully shocked 
 in a proper, matronly way. what was the use of that, when the 
 mischievous girl burst oui. laughing in her face? 
 
 But the interruption had done them all good, and the even- 
 ing passed less heavily than they had dared to hope. And 
 when Mrs. Challoner complained of fatigue and retired early, 
 escorted by Dorothy, who was dying for a chat with her mis- 
 tress, the three girls went out in the garden and walked, 
 after their old fashion, arm in arm up and down the lawn, 
 with Nan in the middle; though Dulce pouted and pretended 
 that the lawn was too narrow, and that Phillis was pushing 
 her on the gravel path. 
 
 Their mother's window was open, and they could have heard 
 snatches of Dorothy's conversation if they had chosen to listen. 
 Dulce stood still a moment, and wafted a little kiss toward 
 her mother's room. 
 
 " Dear old manisie! She has been very good this evening, 
 has she not, Nan? She has only cried the least wee bit, when 
 you kissed her." 
 
 "Yes, indeed! And somebody else has been good too. 
 What do you say, Phillis? Has not Dulce been the best child 
 possible?" 
 
 " Oh, Nan, I should be ashamed to be otherwise," returned 
 Dulce, in snch an earnest manner that it made her sisters 
 laugh. " Do you think I could see you both so good and 
 cheerful, making the best of things, and never complaining, 
 even when the tears are in your eyes — as yours are often. 
 Nan, when you think no one is looking — and not try and copy 
 your example? I am dreadfully proud of you both — that 
 is what I am," continued the warm-hearted girl. "I never
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 173 
 
 knew before what was in my sistera. And now 1 feel as though 
 I want the whole world to come and admire my Phil lis and 
 Nan!'^ 
 
 " Little flatterer!" but Nan squeezed Dulce^s arm affec- 
 tionately. 
 
 And Phillis said, in a joking tone: 
 
 " Ah, it was not half so bad. This evening there was moth- 
 er looking so dear and pretty, and there weie you girls; and, 
 though the nest is small, it feels warm and cozy. And if we 
 could only forget Glen Cottage, and leave off missing the old 
 faces, which 1 never shall — " ("Nor I," echoed Nan, with 
 a deep sigh, fetched from somewhere) — " and root ourselves 
 afresh, we should contrive not to be unhappy." 
 
 " I think it is our duty to cultivate cheerfulness," added 
 Nan, seriously; and after this they fell to a discussion on 
 ways ani means. As usual, Phillis was chief spokeswoman, 
 but to Nan belonged the privilege of the deciding vote. 
 
 The next few days were weary ones to Mrs. Challoner; there 
 was still much to be done before the Friary could be 2)ro- 
 nounced in order. The girls spent most of the daylight hours 
 unpacking boxes, sorting arid arranging their treasures, and, 
 if the truth must be told, helping Dorothy to polish furniture 
 and wash glass and china. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner, who was not strong enough for these house- 
 hold labors, found herself condemned to hem new dusters and 
 mend old table-linen, to the tune of her own sad thoughts. 
 Mr. Drummond found her sorting a little heap on the parlor 
 table when he dropped in casually one morning — this time 
 with some very fine (^herriea that his sister thongnt Mrs. Chal- 
 loner would enjoy. 
 
 When Mr. Drummond began his little speech, he could 
 have sworn that there were tears on the poor lady's checks; 
 but when he had finished she looked up at him with a smile, 
 and thanked him warmly, and then they had quite a nice chat 
 together. 
 
 Mr. Drummond's visit was quite a godsend, she told him, 
 for her girls were busy and had no time to talk to her; and 
 " one's thoughts are nok always pleasant companions," she 
 added, with a sigh. And Mr. Drummond, who had caught 
 sight of the tears, was at once sympathetic, and expressed 
 himself in such feeling terms — for he was more at ease in the 
 girls' absence — that Mrs. Challoner opened out in the most 
 confiding way, and told him a great deal that he had been 
 anxious to learn. 
 
 But she found out, to her dismay, that he disapproved of
 
 174 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 her girls' plans; for he told her so at once, and in the coolest 
 manner. The opportunity for airing his views on the subject 
 was far too good to be lost. Mrs. Challoner was alone; she 
 was in a low, dejected mood; the rulers of the household were 
 gathered in an upper chamber. What would PhilJis have said, 
 as she warbled a rather flat accompaniment to Nan's "Bon- 
 nie Dundee/' which she was singing to keep up their spirits 
 over a piece of hard work, if she had known that Mr. Drum- 
 mond was at that moment in possession of her mother's ear? 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Drummond, this is very sad, if every one should 
 think as you do about my poor girls! and Phillis does so ob- 
 ject to being called lomantic;" for he had hinted in a gentle- 
 manly way that he thought the whole scheme was crude and 
 girlish and quixotic to a degree. 
 
 " I hope you will not tell her, then,'* returned Mr. Drum- 
 mond, in a soothing tone, for Mrs. Challoner was beginning 
 to look agitated. "I am afraid nothing I say will induce 
 Miss Challoner to give up her pet scheme; but 1 felt, as your 
 clergyman, it was my duty to let you know my opim'nn.'' 
 And here Archie looked so very solemn that Mrs. Challoner, 
 being a weak woman, and apt to overvalue the least expres- 
 sion of masculine opinion, grew more and more alarmed. 
 
 " Oh, yes!" she faltered; "it is very good — very nice of 
 yon to tell me this." Phillis would have laughed in his face, 
 and Mrs. Cheyne would have found something to say about 
 his youth; but in Mrs. Challoner's eyes, though she was an 
 older woman, Archie's solemnity and Oriental beard carried 
 tremendous weight with them. He might be young, never- 
 theless she was bound to listen meekly to him, and to respect 
 his counsel as one who had a certain authority over her. 
 " Oh, you are so very good! and if only my girls had not 
 made up their minds so quickly! but now what can 1 do but 
 feel very uncomfortable after 3^ou have told me this?'' 
 
 " Ob, as to that, there is always time for everything; it is 
 never too late to mend," returned Mr. Drummond, tritely. 
 " I meant from the first to tell you what 1 thought, if I 
 should ever have an opportunity of speaking to you alone. 
 You see, we Oxford men have our own notions about things; 
 we do not always go with the tide. If your daughters " — 
 here he hesitated and grew red, for he was a modest, honest 
 young fellow in the main—" pardon me, but I am only pro- 
 posing an hypothesis — if they wanted to make a sensation and 
 get themselves talked about, no doubt they would achieve a 
 success, for the novelty — " But here he stopped, reduced to 
 Biieuce by the shocked expression of Mrs. Challoner's face.
 
 i^Of LTKE OTHER GIRLS. 175 
 
 "Mr. Drummond! my girls— -oiake a sensation — be talked 
 about!" she gasped; and all the spirit of her virtuous matron' 
 hood, and all the instinctive feeling that years of culture and 
 ingrained refinement of nature had engendered, shone in her 
 eyes. Her Nan and Phillis and Dulce to draw this on them- 
 selves! 
 
 Now, at this unlucky moment, when the maternal fires were 
 all alight, who should enter but Phillis, wanting " pins, and 
 dozens of them— quickly, please,'' and still warbling flatly 
 that refrain of " Bonnie Dundee." 
 
 "Oh, Phillis! Oh, my darling child!" cried Mrs. Chal- 
 loner, quite hysterically, " do you know what your clergyman 
 says? and if he should say such things, what will be the world's 
 opinion? No, Mr. Drummond, I did not mean to be angry. 
 Of course you are telling us this for our good; but 1 do not 
 know when I have been so shocked." 
 
 " Why, what is this?" demanded Phillis, calmly; but she 
 fixed her eyes on the unlucky clergyman, who began to wish 
 that that last speech had not been uttered. 
 
 " He says it is to make a sensation — to be talked about — 
 that you are going to do this," gasped Mrs. Challoner, who 
 was far too much upset to weigh words truly. 
 
 " What!" Phillis only ultered that very unmeaning mono- 
 syllable; nevertheless, Archie jumped from his seat as though 
 he had been shot. 
 
 " Mrs. Challoner, really this is too bad! No, you must al- 
 low me to explain," as Phillis turned aside with a curling lip, 
 as though she would leave them. He actually went between 
 her and the door, as though he meant to prevent her egress 
 forcibly. There is no knowing to what lengths he would have 
 gone in his sudden agitation. " Only wait a moment until 1 
 explain myself. Your mother has misunderstood me alto- 
 goLher. Never has such a thought entered my mind!" 
 
 " Oh," observed Phillis. But now she stood still and began 
 to collect her pins out of her mother's basket. " Perhaps, 
 as this is rather unpleasant, you will have the kindness to tell 
 me what it was you said to my mother?" And she spoke like 
 a young princess who had just received an insult. 
 
 " I desire nothing more," returned Archie, determined to 
 defend himself at all costs. " I had been speaking to Mrs. 
 Challoner about all this unfortunate business. She was good 
 enough to repose confidence in me, and, as your clergyman, I 
 felt myself bound to tell her exactly my opmions on the sub- 
 ject."
 
 if6 NOT LIKE OTfiER GIRLS. 
 
 *' I do not quite see the necessity; but no doubt you know 
 best," was Phillis's somewhat sarcastic answer. 
 
 " At least, I did it for the best/' returned the young man, 
 humbly. *' 1 pointed out things to Mrs. Challoner, as I told 
 you 1 should. I warned her what the world would say — tbat 
 it would regard your plan as very singular and perhaps quix- 
 otic. Surely there is nothing in this to offend you?" 
 
 " You have not touched on the worst part of all," returned 
 Phillis, with a little disdain in her voice. " About making a 
 sensation, I mean." 
 
 " There it was that your mother so entirely misunderstood 
 me. What 1 said was this: If this dress-making scheme was 
 undertaken just to make a sensation, it would, of course, 
 achieve success, for 1 thought the novelty might take. And 
 then I added that 1 was merely stating an hypothesis by way 
 of argument; and then Mrs. Challoner looked shocked, and 
 you came in." 
 
 " Is that all?" asked Phillis, coming down from her stilts 
 at once, for she knew of old how her mother would confuse 
 things sometimes; and, if this were the truth, she, Phillis, 
 had been rather too hard on him. 
 
 " Yes. Do you see now any necessity of quarreling with 
 me?" returned Mr. Drummond, breathing a little more freely 
 as the frown lessened on Phillis's face. He wanted to be 
 friends with these girls, not to turn them against him. 
 
 " Well, no, I believe not," she answered, quite gravely. 
 " And 1 am sure I beg your pardon if 1 was rude." But this 
 Archie would not allow for a moment. 
 
 " But, Mr. Drummond, one word before peace is quite re- 
 stored," went on Phillis, with something of her old archness, 
 " or else I will fetch my sisters, and you will have the three 
 of us against you." 
 
 " Oh, do, Phillis, my dear!" interrupted her mother; 
 "let them come and hear what Mr. Drummond thinks." 
 
 " Mammie, how dare you— how dare you be so contuma- 
 cious, after all the trouble we have taken to set your dear, 
 fidgety mind at rest? Just look what you have done, Mr. • 
 Drummond," turning upon him. " Now I am not going to 
 forgive you, and we will not trust the mother out of our sight, 
 unless you promise not to say these sort of things to her when 
 we af-e not here to answer them." 
 
 " But, Miss Challoner, my pastoral conscience!" but hia 
 eyes twinkled a little. 
 
 " Oh, never mind that!" she retorted, mischievously. "I 
 will give you leave to lecture us collectively, but not Individ-
 
 irOT Ltkt! OTHER GIEL^. I'^i 
 
 tiatly; that mnst not be thought about for a moment/' She 
 had not a notion what the queer expression on Mr. Drum- 
 mond's face meant, and he did not know himself, but he had 
 the strongest desire to laugh at this. 
 
 They parted after this the best of friends; and PhilHs tasted 
 the ciierries, and pronounced them ve'y good. 
 
 "You have quite forgiven me?" Mr. Drummond said, as 
 she accompanied him to the door before rejoining her sisters. 
 *' You know I h.ive promised not to do it again until the next 
 time." 
 
 "Oh, we shall see about that!" returned Phillis, good- 
 humoredly. " Forewarned is forearmed, and there is a triple 
 alliance against you." 
 
 " Good heavens, what mockery it seems! 1 never saw such 
 girls — never!" thought Mr. Drummond, as he took long 
 strides down the road. "But Mattie is right: they mean 
 business, and nothing in the world could change that girl's 
 determination if she had set herself to carry a thing out. I 
 never knew a stronger will." And in this he was tolerably 
 right. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 "trimmings, NOT SQUAILS." 
 
 The longest week must have an end ; and so, at last, the 
 eventful Monday morning arrived — " Black Monday," as 
 Dulce called it, and then sighed as she looked out on the sun- 
 shine and the waving trees, and thought how delicious a long 
 walk or a game of tennis would be, instead of stitch, stitch, 
 stitching all day. But Dulce was an unselfish little soul, and 
 kept all these thoughts to herself, and dressed herself quickly; 
 for she had overslept herself, and Phillis had long been down- 
 stairs. 
 
 Nan was locking up the tea-caddy as she entered the parlor, 
 and Phillis was standing by the table, drawing on her gloves, 
 and her lips were twitching a little — a way they had when 
 Phillis was nervous. 
 
 Nan went up and kissed her and gave her an encouraging 
 pat. 
 
 " This is for luck, my dear; and mind you make the best 
 of poor Miss Milner's dnmpy, roundabout little figure. 
 There, I have put the body-hning and the measuring-tape 
 and a paper of pins in this little black bag; and I have not 
 forgotten the scissors— oh, dear, no! I have not forgotten the 
 scissors," went on Nan, with such surprising cheerfulness
 
 ltd iJOt LIKE OTHtR Gltltg. 
 
 that Pliillis saw through it, and was down on her in a md- 
 ineut: 
 
 " No, Nan; there! I declare I will not be such a goose. 1 
 am not nervous, not one bit ; it is pure fun, that's what it is. 
 Dulce, what a naughty child you are to oversleep yourself this 
 morning, and I had not the heart to wake you, you looked so 
 like a baby; and we never wake babies because they are sure 
 to squall!" 
 
 " Oh, Phil, are you going to Miss Milner's? I would have 
 walked with you if I had had my breakfast; but I am so 
 hungry." 
 
 " 1 could not possibly wait," returned Phillis; " punctual- 
 ity is one of the first duties of — htm— dress-makers; all 
 orders executed promptly, and promises performed with uu- 
 deviating regularity; those are my maxims. Eat a good 
 breakfast, and then see if mamraie wants any help, for Nan 
 must be ready for me at the work-table, for she is our head 
 cutter-out." And then Phillis nodded briskly and walked 
 away. 
 
 By a singular chance, Mr. Drummond was watering his 
 ferns in the front court as Phillis passed, and, in spite of her 
 reluctance, for somehow he was the last person she wanted to 
 encounter that day, she was obliged to wish him good -morn- 
 ing. 
 
 " Good-morning! Yes, indeed, it is a glorious morning,'* 
 observed Archie, brightly. " And may 1 ask where you are 
 going so early?" 
 
 " Only to the library,^' returned Phillis, laconically; but the 
 color mounted to her forehead. " We begin business to-day." 
 
 And then Archie took up his watering-pot, and refrained 
 from any more questions. It was absurd, perhaps, but at the 
 moment he had forgotten, and the remembrance was not 
 pleasing. 
 
 Phillis felt quite brave after this, and walked into the library 
 as though the place belonged to her. When it came to de- 
 tails, Miss Milner was far more nervous than she. 
 
 She would keep apologizing tf) Phillis for making her stand 
 so long, and she wanted to hold the pins and to pick up the 
 scissors that Phillis had dropped; and when the young dress- 
 maker consulted her about the trimmings, she was far too 
 humble to obtrude her opinions. 
 
 " Anything you think best, Miss Challoner, for you have 
 8uch beautiful taste as never was seen; and I am sure the way 
 jou have fitted that body-lining is just wonderful, and would
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 179 
 
 be a lesson to Miss Slasher for life. No, don't put the pins 
 in your mouth, there's a dear." 
 
 For, iu her intense zeal, Phillis had thought herself bound 
 to follow the maimers of Mrs. Sloper, the village factotum, 
 and she always did so, though Nan afterward assured her that 
 it was not necessary, and that in this particular they might be 
 allowed to deviate from example. 
 
 But she was quite proud of herself when she had finished, 
 for the material seemed to mold under her fingers in the most 
 marvelous way, and she knew the fit would be perfect. She 
 wanted to rush oil at once and set to work with Nan; but Miss 
 Milner would not let her off so easily. There was orange 
 wine and seed-cake of her own making in the back parlor, 
 and she had just one question — a very little question — to ask. 
 And here Miss Milner coughed a little behind her hand to gain 
 time and recover her courage. 
 
 " The little papers were about the shop, and Mrs. Trim- 
 mings saw one, and — and — " Here Phillis came promptly to 
 her relief. 
 
 " And Mrs. Trimmings wants to order a dress, does she?'* 
 And Phillis bravely kept down the sudden sinking of heart at 
 the news. 
 
 Mrs. Trimmings was the butcher's wife — the sister of that 
 very Mrs. Squalls of whom Dulce once made mention — well 
 known to be the dressiest woman in Hadleigh, who was much 
 given to imitate her betters. The newest fashions, the best 
 materials, were always to be found on Mrs. Trimmings's 
 portly figure. 
 
 *' What could 1 do?" observed Miss Milner, apologetically. 
 " The papers were about the shop, and what does the woman 
 do but take one up? ' 1 wonder what sort of dress-makers 
 these are?' she said, careless-like. ' There is my new blue silk 
 that Andrew brought himself from London, and paid five-and- 
 sixpence a yard for in St. Paul's Churchyard; and I daren't 
 let Miss Slasher have it, for she made such a mess of that 
 French merino. She had to let it out at every seam before I 
 could get into it, and it is so tight for me now that 1 shall be 
 obliged to cut it up for Mary Anne. I wonder if 1 dare try 
 thi'se new people?' " 
 
 " And what did you say. Miss Milner?" 
 
 *' What could 1 do then, my dear young lady, but speak up 
 and say the best 1 could for you? for though Mrs. Trimmings 
 is not high — not one of the gentry, I mean — and has a rough 
 tongue sometimes, still she knows what good stuff and good 
 cutting-out means; and a word from her might do you a power
 
 180 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 of good among the tovrn- folks, for her gowns are always after 
 the best patterns." 
 
 " All right!'' returned Phillis, cheerfully; " one must creep 
 before one runs, and, until the gentry employ us, we ought 
 to think ourselves fortunate to work for the town-people. I 
 am not a bit above making a dress for Mrs. Trimmings, 
 though I would rather make one for you, Miss Miluer, because 
 you have been so kind to us." 
 
 *' There, now! didn't 1 say there never were such young 
 ladies?" exclaimed Miss Milner, quite affected at this. 
 " Well, if you aie sure you don't mind, Miss Challoner, dear, 
 will you please go to Mrs. Trimmings this morning? for 
 though I told her my dress was to be finished first, still Trim- 
 mings 's isn't a stone's-throw from here; and you may as well 
 settle a thing when you are about it." 
 
 " And I will take the silk. Miss Milner, if you will kindly 
 let me have a nice piece of brown paper." 
 
 " ludeed and you will do no such thing, Miss Challoner; 
 and there is Joseph going down with the papers to Mr. Drum- 
 mond's, and will leave it at the Friary as he passes." 
 
 " Oh, thank you," observed Phillis, gratefully. " Then I 
 will pencil a word to my sister, to let her know why 1 am de- 
 tained. " And she scrawled a line to Nan: 
 
 " Trimmings, not Squails. Here beginneth the first chap- 
 ter. Expect me when you see me, and do nothing until 1 
 come." 
 
 There was no side door at Trimmlngs's, and Mrs. Trim- 
 mings was at the desk, jotting down legs of mutton, and en- 
 tries of gravy beef and suet, with a rapidity that woukl have 
 tried the braiu of any other woman than a butcher's wife. 
 
 When Phillis approached, she looked up at her suavely, ex- 
 pecting custom. 
 
 "Just half a moment, ma'am," she said, civilly. " Yes, 
 Joe, wing-rib and half of suet to Mrs. Penfold, and a loin of 
 lamb and sweet-bread for No. 12 Albert Terrace. Now, 
 ma'am, what can 1 do for you?" 
 
 " 1 have only come about your dress, Mrs. Trimmings," 
 returned Phillis, in a very small voice; and then she tried not 
 to laugh, as Mrs. Trimmings regarded her with a broad stare 
 of astonishment, which took her in comprehensively, hat, 
 dress, and neat dog-skin gloves. 
 
 " You might have taken up a pen and knocked me down 
 with it," was Mrs. Trimmings's graphic description of her 
 feelings afterward, as she carved a remarkably fine loiu of veal.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS, 181 
 
 with a knuckle of ham and some kidney-beans to go with it. 
 " There was the colonel standing by the desk, Andrew; and he 
 turned right round and looked at us both. ' I've come about 
 your dress, Mrs. Trimmings/ she said, as pert-like as possi- 
 ble. Law! 1 thought 1 should have dropped, and I was that 
 taken aback.'' 
 
 Phillis's feelings were not of the pleasantest when Colonel 
 Middleton turned round and looked at her. There was an ex- 
 pression almost of sorrow in the old man's eyes as he so re- 
 garded her, which made her feel hot and uncomfortable. It 
 was a relief when Mrs. Trimmings roused from her stupefac- 
 tion and bustled out of the desk. 
 
 " This way, miss," she said, with a jerk of her comely 
 head. But her tone changed a little, and became at once 
 sharp and familiar. '* 1 hope you understand your business, 
 for 1 never could abide waste; and the way Miss Slasher cut 
 into that gray merino — and it only just meets, so to say— and 
 the breadths are as scanty as possible; and it would go to my 
 heart to have a beautiful piece of silii spoiled, five-and-sixpence 
 a yard, and not a flaw in it. " 
 
 " If I thought 1 should spoil your dress I would not under- 
 take it," returned Phillis, gently. She felt she must keep 
 herself perfectly quiet with this sort of people. " My sister 
 and 1 have just made up some very pretty silk and cashmere 
 costumes, and they fitted as perfectly as possible." 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" observed Mrs. Trimmings, in a patronizing 
 tone. She had no idea that the costumes of which Phillis 
 spoke had been worn by the young dress-maker at one of 
 Lady Fitzroy's afternoon parties. She was not quite at her 
 ease with Phillis; she thought her a little high-and- mighty in 
 her manner. " A uppish young person," as she said afterward; 
 " but her grand airs made no sort of difference to me, I can 
 assure you." 
 
 There was no holding pins or picking up scissors in this case. 
 On the contrary, Mrs. Trimmings watched with a vigilant eye, 
 and was ready to pounce on Phillis at the least mistake or 
 oversight, seemg which, Phillis grew cooler and more off -hand 
 every moment. There^ was a great deal of haggling over the 
 cut of the sleeve and arrangement of the drapery. " If you 
 will kindly leave it to me," Phillis said once; but nothing was 
 further from Mrs. Trimmiugs's intention. She had not a silk 
 dress every day; and she had always been accustomed to settle 
 all these points herself, while Miss Slasher had stood by hum- 
 bly turning over the pages of her fashion books, and calling 
 her, at every sentence, " Ma'am," a word that PhilJis's lips
 
 183 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 had not yet uttered. Phillls's patience was aloiost tired out 
 when she was at last allowed to depart, with a large brotvn- 
 paper parcel under her arm. Mrs. Trimmings would have 
 wrapped it up in newspaper, but Phillis had so curtly refused 
 to have anything but brown paper that her manner rather 
 overawed the woman. 
 
 Poor Phillis! Yes, it had really come to pass, and here she 
 was, actually walkmg through Hadleigh in tlie busiest time of 
 the day, with a large, ugly looking parcel and a little black 
 bag! She had thought of sending Dorothy for the dress, but 
 she knew what a trial it would have been to the old woman to 
 see one of her young ladies reduced to this, and she preferred 
 lading herself to hurting the poor old creature's feelings. So 
 she walked out bravely in her best attire. But, nevertheless, 
 her shapely neck would turn itself now and then from side to 
 side, as though in dread of some familiar face. And there 
 were little pin-pricks all over her of irritation and mortified 
 self-love. " A thing is all very well in theory, but it may be 
 tough in practice," she said to herself. And she felt an irre- 
 sistible desire to return the oSending dress to that odious 
 Trimmings and tell her she would have nothing to do with 
 her—" a disagreeable old cat," 1 am afraid Phillis called her, 
 for one is not always charitable and civil spoken in one's 
 thoughts. 
 
 '• We are going the same way. May I carry that formid- 
 able-looking parcel for you?" asked a voice that was certainly 
 becoming very familiar. 
 
 Poor Phillis started and blushed, but she looked more an- 
 noyed than pleased at the recent re. 
 
 " Mr. Drummond, are you omnipresent? one is forever en- 
 countering you!" she said, quite pettishly; but when Archie 
 only laughed, and tried to obtain possession of the parcel, she 
 resisted, and would have none of his assistance. 
 
 "Oh, dear, no!" she said; " 1 could not think of such a 
 thing! Fancy the vicar of Hadleigh condescending to carry 
 home Mrs. Trimmings's dress!" 
 
 "Mrs. Trimmings's dress?" repeated Mr. Drummond, in 
 a rapid crescendo. " Oh, Miss Challoner! I declare this beats 
 everything!" 
 
 Phillis threw him a glance. She meant it to be cool, but 
 she could not keep the sadness out of her eyes; they did so 
 contradict the assumed lightness of her words: 
 
 " Miss Milner was far more considerate; she made Joseph 
 carry hers to the Friary when he left your papers. Was he 
 Hot a benevolent Joseph? Mrs. Trimmings wanted to wrap
 
 iJOi* ttKE OTHER GIRLS. 18§ 
 
 Up her silk in newspaper, but 1 said to myself, * One must 
 draw the line somewiiere,' atid so I held out for brown paper. 
 Do you think you coulJ have offered to carry a parcel in news- 
 paper, Mr. Druranioiid? Oh, by the bye, how can you conde- 
 scend to walk wiih a dress-maker? But this is a quiet road, 
 and no one will see you/' 
 
 " Parduu Qie if I contradict you, but there is Colonel Mid- 
 dleton looking over his garden palings this moment," returned 
 Mr. Drummond, who had just become painfully aware of the 
 fact. 
 
 " Don't you think you had better go and speak to him, 
 then? for you see I am in no need of help," retorted Phillis, 
 who was sore all over, and wanted to get rid of him, and yet 
 would have bien offended if he had taken her at her word. 
 But Mr. Drummond, who felt his position an uncomfortable 
 one, and was dreadfully afraid of the colonel's banter, was not 
 mean enough to take advantage of her dismissal. He had 
 joined himself to her company out of pure good nature, for it 
 was a hot day and the parcel was heavy; but she would have 
 none of his assistance. 
 
 So he only waved his hand to his friend, who took off his old 
 felt hat very solemnly in return, and watched them with a 
 grieved expression until they were out of sight. 
 
 " IsTow I will bid you good-bye," he said, when they had 
 reached the vicarage. 
 
 Phillis said nothing, but she held out her hand, and there 
 was a certain brightness in her eyes that showed she was 
 pleased. 
 
 " He is a gentleman, every inch of him, and I won't quar- 
 rel with him any more," she thought, as she walked up to the 
 Friary. 
 
 " Oh, how nice it would have been if we were still at Glen 
 Cottage and he could see us at our best, and we were able to 
 entertain him in our old fashion! How Carrie and the other 
 jy'wls would have liked him! and how jealous Dick would have 
 been! for he never liked our bringing strange young men to 
 the house, and always found fault with them if he could." 
 And here Phillis sighed, and for the moment Mrs. Trimmings 
 was forgotten. 
 
 CHAPTER XXni. 
 
 /'BRAVO, ATALANTa!'* 
 
 Phillis received quite an ovation as soon as she crossed the 
 threshold. Dulce, who was listening for her footstep, rushed
 
 i84 iJOT LIKE OTHER GiRLg. 
 
 out into the little hall and dragged her in, as though she were 
 too weary to have any movement or volition of her own. And 
 then Xan came up in her calm, elder-sisterly way, and put 
 her arm round her, and hoped she was not so very tired, and 
 there was so much to say and so much to do, and tjhe wanted 
 her advice, and so on. 
 
 And on Kan's forehead lay a thoughtful pucker, and on the 
 center-table were sundry breadths of green silk, crisp looking 
 and faintly bronzed, like withered leaves with the sun on them. 
 
 " 01], dear! has MissDrummond been here in my absence?^* 
 asked Phillis, with the overwhelmed feelings of a beginner 
 who has not yet learned to separate and classify, or the rich 
 value of odd moments. " Three dresses to be done at once!'* 
 
 " One at a time. But never mind Miss Drunimond's 
 this moment. Mother is safe in the store-cupboard for the 
 next half hour, and we want to know what you mean by your 
 ridculous message, ' Trimmings, not Squails.' Dulce is dying 
 of curiosity, and so am 1." 
 
 " Yes; but she looks so hot and tired that she must refresh 
 herself first." And Dulce placed on her sister's lap a plate 
 of yellow plums, perfectly bedded in moss, which had come 
 from the vicarage garden. And as Phillis enjoyed the dainty 
 repast, and poured out her morning's experiences in the ears 
 of her astonished auditors, lo! the humiliation and the sting 
 were forgotten, and only an intense sense of humor of the 
 situation remained. 
 
 It was Dulce whose pink cheeks were burning now. 
 
 "Oh, Phillis! how could you? It is too dreadful even to 
 think about! That fat old thing, too! Why, she is twice as 
 big as Mrs. Squails!" 
 
 " Beggars can not be choosers, my dear/' replied Phillis, 
 airily; for rest was pleasant and the fruit was good, and it 
 was so delicious to feel all that was over and she was safe in 
 her nest again; and then the pleasure of talking it all over! 
 "Do you know — " she began, in a disconnected manner, 
 and then sat and stared at her sisters with luminous gray 
 eyes, until they begged to know what the new idea was. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," she replied, and colored a little. And then 
 she blurted out, in an oddly ashamed way: '* It was talking to 
 you two dears that put it in my head. But I could not help 
 thinking that moment that if one is ever good enough to get; 
 to heaven, one of the greatest pleasures will be to talk about 
 all our past miseries and ditticuities, and how the angels helped 
 as; and, though you may laugh at me " — they were doing 
 nothing of the kind, only admirmg her with all their might—
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 185 
 
 " I have a kind of fancy that evsn my ' TrimmlDgs, not 
 Squails,' episode may have a different looii up there." 
 
 " Mv dear," returned Nan, gently, for she loved all speeches 
 of this sort, being a devout little soul and truly pious, " noth- 
 ing was further from my thoughts than to laugh at you, for 
 the more we think in lliis way the grander our work will ap- 
 pear to us. Mrs. Trimuiiijgs may be fat and vulgar, but 
 when you were measuring her and answering her so prettily — 
 and I Jiiiow how nicely you would speak, Phil — I think you 
 were as brave as one of those old kmghts — 1 can not remem- 
 ber their names — who set out on some lofty quest or other." 
 
 " I suppose the child means Sir Galahad," observed Phillis, 
 with a groan at Kan's ignorance. " Oh, Nannie, I wish 1 
 could say: 
 
 " ' My strength is as the strength of ten, 
 I3ecause my heart is pure;' " 
 
 and then she softly chanted — for quotation never came amiss 
 to her, and her head was crammed with choice selections from 
 the poets, 
 
 " ' All armed I ride, whate'er betide, 
 Until I find the Holy Grail.' " 
 
 " Yes, the Sangreal, or the (^uest. It does not matter what, 
 for it was only an allegory," returned Nan, who had plenty of 
 ideas, only she confused them sometimes, and was noi as clever 
 in her definitions as Phillis. " It only meant that those grand 
 old knights had some holy purpose and aim in their lives, for 
 •which they trained and toiled and fought. Don't you see? 
 the meaning is quite clear. We can have our Quest, too." 
 
 " Bless her dear heart, if she is not traveling thousands of 
 years and miles from Mrs. Trimmings!" exclaimed Phillis, 
 who never could be serious long. " Well, Nannie, 1 under- 
 stand you, though you are a trifle vague. We will have our 
 Quest and our unattainable standard, and I will be your maiden 
 knight — yours and Dulce's. 
 
 " ' How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
 On whom their favors fall! . 
 For them I'll battle till the end, 
 To save from shame and thrall.' " 
 
 And when she had repeated this she rose, laughing, and 
 said they were all a little demented; and what did they mean 
 by wasting their time when there were three dresses to be cuf^ 
 GUI? and Dulce must have the work fixed for the sewing- 
 machine. 
 
 For the next hour there was little talk^ only the snipping
 
 186 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 sound of scissors and the rustling of silken breadths, and some- 
 times the swish and the tearing of sundry materials, and then 
 the whirring and burring and tappings of Dulce's sewing-ma- 
 chine, like a dozen or two of woodpeckers at work on an iron- 
 tree. And no one quoted any more poetry, for prose was 
 heaped up everywhere about them, and their heads were full 
 of business. 
 
 But in the afternoon, when things were in progress and 
 looked promising, and Mrs. Challoner had had her nap, and 
 was busy over some sleeves that they had given her to keep 
 her quiet and satisfy her maternal conscience that she was 
 helping her girls, Phillis did hear a little about Miss Drum- 
 mond's visit. The sewing-machine, which they worked by 
 turns, had stopped for a time, and they were all three round 
 the table, sewing and fixing as busily as possible, and Phillis, 
 remembering Sir Galahad, dared not say she was tired, only 
 she looked out on the lengthening shadows with delight, and 
 thought about tea and an evening walk just to stretch her 
 cramped muscles. And if one day seemed so long, how would 
 a week of days appear before the blessed Sunday gave them a 
 few hours of freedom? 
 
 It was at this moment, that Nan, with fine tact, broke the 
 silence that was good for work, but was apt to wax drowsy in 
 time: 
 
 *' Miss Milner's dress is getting on well. How fast you two 
 girls work! and mammie is doing the sleeves beautifully. An- 
 other afternoon you must let the work rest, mammie, and read 
 to us, or Phillis will get restive. By the bye, Dulce, we have 
 not told her a word about Miss Drummond's visit. ^^ 
 
 " No, indeed. Was it not good of her to come so soon?'* ex- 
 claimed Dulce. " She told us she wanted to be our first cus- 
 tomer, and seemed quite disappointed when we said that we 
 were bound in honor and mere giatitude to send Miss Milner's 
 dress home first. 'Not that lam in a hurry for my dress, 
 for nobody cares what I wear,' she said, quite cheerfully; ' but 
 I wanted to be the first on your list.' I wish we could oblige 
 her, for she is a nice, unaffected little thing, and 1 am begin- 
 ning to like her, though she is a little fussy." 
 
 " But she was as meek as a lamb about her dress," added 
 Nan, who was a first-rate needle-woman, and could work 
 rapidly while she talked. "Just fancy, Phil! she wanted to 
 have a jacket with tabs and loose sleeves, just for comfort and 
 coolness," 
 
 " Loose sleeves and a jacket!" almost gasped Phillis, for 
 the princess skirts were then worn, and Jackets were consigned
 
 i?6T LIKE OTHER GIRLS, l8^ 
 
 to oblivion for the time being. " I hope you told her, Nan, 
 that we had never worked for Mrs. Noah, neither had Mrs. 
 Shem ever honored us by her custom?" 
 
 " Well, no, Phillis; I was not quite so impertinent, and 
 clever speeches of that sort never occur to me until you say 
 them. But I told Miss Drummond that 1 could not consent 
 to spoil her lovely dress in that way; and then she laughed and 
 gave in, and owned she knew nothing about fashions, and ihat 
 her sister Grace always ordered her clothes for her, because 
 she chose such ugly things. She sat and chatted for such a 
 long time with us; she had only just gone when you came 
 home." 
 
 " And she told us such a lot about this wonderful Grace," 
 went on Dulce; " she says Archie quite worships her. Well, 
 mammie," as Mrs. Challoner poised her needle in midair and 
 regarded her youngest daughter with unfeigned astonishment, 
 "1 am only repeating Miss Drummond's words; she said 
 * Archie.'" 
 
 " But, my dear, there was no need to be so literal," re- 
 turned Mrs. Challoner, reprovingly; for she was a gentle- 
 woman of the old school, and notliing grieved her more than 
 slipshod English or any idiom or idiocy of modern parlance 
 in the mouths of her bright young daughters. To speak of any 
 young man, except Dick, without the ceremonious prefix was a 
 heinous misdemeanor in her eyes. Dulce would occasionally 
 trespass, and was always rebuked with much gravity. " You 
 could have said ' her brother,' could you not?" 
 
 " Oh, mammie, I am sure Providence intended you for an 
 old maid, and you have not fulfilled your destiny," retorted 
 Dulce, who was rarely awed by her mother's solemnity. "All 
 this fuss because I said ' Archie!' Oh, I forgot, that name is 
 sacred: the Reverend Archibald Drummond adores his sister 
 Grace." 
 
 _" And she must be very nice," returned Mrs. Challoner, 
 with an indulgent smde at her pet, Dulce. " I am sure, from 
 what Miss Drummond told us this morning, that she must 
 be a most superior person. Why, Phillis, she teaches ail her 
 four younger sisters, and one of them is sixteen. Miss Drum- 
 mond eays she is never out of the school-ruom, except for an 
 hour or two in the evening, when her father and brothers 
 come home. There are two more broihers, 1 think she said. 
 Dear, what a large family! and Miss Druxuaiond hinted that 
 they were not well off." 
 
 " I should like to know that Grace," began Phillis, and 
 then she shook her head reflectively. " No, depend upon it^,
 
 188 ^Ot LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 we should be disappointed in her; family paragons are gener- 
 ally odious to other folk. Most likely she wears spectacles, 
 and is a thin, thread-papery sort of person. " 
 
 " On the contrary, she is a sweet-looking girl, with large, 
 melancholy eyes; for Miss Drummond showed us her photo- 
 graph. So much for your imagination, Phil," and Dulce 
 looked triumphant. " And she is only twenty-two, and, 
 though not pretty. Just the sort of face one could love.'' 
 
 " Some people's swans turn out to be geese in the end," re- 
 marked Phillis, provokingly; but she registered at the same 
 time a mental resolve that she would cross-examine Mr. Drum- 
 mond on the earliest opportunity about this wonderful sister 
 of his. Oh, it was no marvel if he did look down on them 
 Fhen they had not got brains enough to earn their living ex- 
 cept in this way! and Phillis stuck her needle into Miss Mil- 
 ner's body-liuiug so viciously that it broke. 
 
 The sharp click roused Nan's vigilance, and she looked up, 
 and was at once full of pity for Phillis's pale face. 
 
 " You are tired, Phil, and so are we all," she said, brightly; 
 *' and, as it is our first day of work, we will not overdo our- 
 selves. Mammie, if you will make the tea, we will just tidy 
 up, and look out the patterns for you to match the trimmings 
 and buttons to-morrow;" for this same business of matching 
 was rather hailed by Mrs. Challoner as a relief and amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 Phillis grumbled a little over this additional labor, though, 
 at the same time, no one worked harder than she; but she 
 was careful to explain that it was her riglit, as a free-born 
 Britoness, to grumble, and that it was as much a relief to her 
 peculiar constitution as a good long yawn is to some people. 
 
 " And it answers two purposes," as she observed; " for it 
 airs the lungs and relieves the mind, and no one takes any 
 more notice than if 1 set the wind blowing. And thankful 1 
 am, and every mother's child of us, that Dorothy is approach- 
 ing this room with her dust-pan and brush. Dorothy, 1 have 
 a nice little sum for you to do. How many snippets of green 
 and black silk go to a dust-pan? Count them, and subtract 
 all the tacking-thread and Dulce's pins." 
 
 *' Phillis, you are just feverish from overfatigue and sitting 
 so long in one place, for you are used to running about." 
 And Nan took her by the shoulders and marched her playfully 
 to the small parlor, where Mrs. Challoner was waiting for 
 them. 
 
 " Come, girls," she said, cheerfully. " Dorothy has baked 
 your favorite little cakes, and there are new-laid eggs for those
 
 HOT LIKE OTH^R GlitZh, 1§9 
 
 who are hungry; and I am sure you have all earned your tea, 
 darlings. And, oh, Pliillis! iiow tired you look!"' And Mrs. 
 Chul loner looked round ou each face in turn, in the unwise 
 but loving way of mothers. 
 
 This was too mucli fur Phillis, and she interlaced her fingers 
 and put them suddenly and sternly over her mother's eyes. 
 ■ " Now, aiammie, promise." 
 
 *' Phillis, my dear, how can you be so absurd!" but Mrs. 
 Chal loner strove in vain to release herself. Phillis's fingers 
 had iron tenacity in them when she choie. 
 
 " A thing like this must be nipped in the bud," pronounced 
 Phillis, apostrophizing her laughaig sisters. " You must not 
 look at us in that fashion every evening, as though we were 
 sheep in a pen, or rabbits for sale. You will be weighing us 
 next, and my nerves will not stand it. No, mother; here I 
 strike. I will not be looked at in that manner," 
 
 " But, Phillis — Qh, you nonsensical child!" 
 
 " Personal remarks are to be tabooed from this moment. 
 You must not say, ' How tired you look!' or ' How pale you 
 are!' It is not manners at the Friary, and it is demoralizing. 
 1 am ten times more tired this minute than I was before you 
 told me so. " 
 
 " Very well, Phillis; but you must let me pour out the 
 tea." And then Phillis subsided. But she had started the 
 fun, and Dulce soon took it up and set the ball rolling. And 
 Dorothy, working hard with her dust-pan and brushes, heard 
 the merriment, and her old face lighted up. 
 
 " Bless their sweet faces — pretending to be happy, just to 
 cheer up the mistress, and make believe it is only a game they 
 are having!" muttered the old woman, as she paused to listen. 
 " But, if 1 am not mistaken. Miss Phillis, poor dear, is 
 just ready to drop with fatigue. Only to hear her, one would 
 think she was as perky as possible." 
 
 When the evening meal was over, Mrs. Challoner leaned 
 back in her chair and made a little speech to her daughters: 
 
 " Thank you, my dears. You have done me so much good. 
 Now, if you want to please me, you will all three put ou your 
 hats and take a nice long walk together." 
 
 The girls looked at each other, and every pair of eyes said, 
 as plainly as possible, " What a delicious idea! But only two 
 can go, and 1 intejid to be the filial victim." But Mrs. Chal- 
 loner was too quick for them. " I said all three," she re- 
 marked, very decidedly. " If one offers to stay with me, I 
 shall just put myself to bed and lock the door; but if you will 
 be good, and enjoy this lovely evening, I will -take my book
 
 i§0 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRtS. 
 
 in the garden and be quite happy until you come back to me.** 
 And when they saw that she meant it, and would only be wor- 
 ried by a fuss, they went off as obediently as possible. 
 
 They walked very sedately down the Braid wood Road, and 
 past the White [louse; but when they got into the town, Phil- 
 lis hurried them on a little. " 1 don't want people. It is air 
 and exercise and freedom for which I am pining." And she 
 walked so fast that they had some trouble to keep up R'ith 
 her. 
 
 But when they had left every trace of human habitation be- 
 hind Ihem, and were strolling down the rough, uneven beach, 
 toward a narrow strip of sand that would soon be covered by 
 the advancing tide, Pliillis said, in an odd, breathless way: 
 " Nan, just look round and see if there be any one in sight, 
 before, behind, or around us;" and Nan, though in some lit- 
 tle surprise, did at once as she was bidden, in the most thor- 
 ough manner. For she looked up at the sky first, as though 
 she were afraid of balloons or possible angels; and then at the 
 sea, which she scanned narrowly, so that not even a fish could 
 escape her; and after that she beat the boundaries of the land. 
 
 " No, there is not a creature in sight except ourselves and 
 Laddie," she answered. 
 
 " Very well," answered Phillis, promptly. " Then, if it 
 be all safe, and the Hadleigh wits are away wool-gathering, 
 and you will not tell mother, I mean to have a race with 
 Dulce as far as we can run along the shore; and if 1 do not 
 win — " And here she pursed up her lips and left her sen- 
 tence unfinished, as though determined to be provoking. 
 
 " We shall see about that," returned Dulce, accepting the 
 challenge in a moment, for she was always ready to follow a 
 good lead. 
 
 "Oh, you foolish children!" observed Nan, in her staid 
 fashion. But she did not otfer the slightest remonstrance, 
 knowing of old that unless Phillis found some safety-valve she 
 would probably wax dangerous. So she called Laddie to her, 
 and held him whining and struggling, for he wanted to stretch 
 his little legs too, thinking a race was good for dogs as well 
 as for girls. But Nan would not hear of it for a moment; 
 he might trip them up and cause another sprained ankle. 
 
 " Now, Nan, you must be umpire, and say. One, two, 
 three!" And Nan again obeys, and then watches them with 
 interest. Oh, how pretty it was, if only any one could have 
 seen it, except the crabs and star-fish, and they never take 
 much notice: the foreground of the summer sea coming up 
 Vfith little purple rushes and a friuge of foam; the yellow
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 191 
 
 sand, jagged, uneven, with salt-water pools here and there; 
 the two girls in their light dresses skimujing over the ground 
 with swift feet, skirting the pools, jumping lightly over stones, 
 even climbing a break-water, then running along another level 
 piece of sand— Dulce a little behind, but Phillis as erect and 
 sure-footed as Atalanta. 
 
 Now Nan has lost them, and puts Laddie down and pre- 
 pares to follow. In spite of her staidness, she would have 
 dearly loved a run too; only she thinks of Dick, aud foibears. 
 
 Duice, who is out of breath, fears she must give up the race, 
 and begins to pant and drop behind in earnest, and to wish 
 salt water were fresh, and then to dread the nest break- 
 water as a hopeless obstacle; but Phillis, who is still as fresh 
 as possible, squares her elbows as she has seen athletes do, 
 and runs lightly up to it, unmindful and blissfully ignorr.nt of 
 human eyes behind a central hole. 
 
 Some one who is of a classical turn has been thinking of the 
 daughter of lasus and Clymene, and cries out, " Bravo, Ata- 
 lanta! But where is Milanion, that he has forgotten the golden 
 apples?" And Phillis, stricken dumb by the question and the 
 sudden apparition of a bearded face behind the break-water, 
 remains standing as though she were carved in stone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 "mothers are ilOTHERS." 
 
 " Mr. Drummond! Oh, dear! is one never to be free from 
 pastoral supervision?" muttered Phillis, half sulkily, when she 
 roused from her stupefaction and had breath to take the 
 oSensive. And what would he think of her? But that was a 
 question to be deferred until later, when nightmares and dark- 
 ness and troublesome thoughts harass the unwary soul. " Like 
 a dog, he hunts in dreams," she might have said to herself, 
 quoting from " Locksley Hall." But she did nothing of the 
 kind— only looked at the offending human being with such an 
 outraged dignity in her bearing that Mr. Drummond nearly 
 committed himself by bursting out laughing. 
 
 He refrained with ditficulty, and said, ralher dryly: 
 
 *' That was a good race; but 1 saw you would win from the 
 first, and you jiim[)e(l that stone splendidly. 1 suppose you 
 know the story of Aialanta?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," responded Phillis, gloomily; but she could not 
 help showing off her knowledge, all the same; and she had al- 
 wa;^s been so fond of heathen mythology, and had even rea<i
 
 193 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 translations of Homer and Virgil. " She had a she-bear 
 foi" a nurse, and was eventually turned into a lion; and I al- 
 ways thought her very stupid for being such a baby and stop- 
 ping to pick up the golden apple." 
 
 " Nevertheless, the subject is a charming one for a picture," 
 returned Archie, with admirable readiness, for he saw Phillis 
 was greatly hurt by this untoward accident, and he liked the 
 girl all the better for her spirit. He would not have discovered 
 himself at all, only in another moment she must have seen 
 him; and if she would only have believed how fully he en- 
 tered into the fun, and how graceful and harmless he thought 
 it, there would have been no pang of wounded self-esteem left. 
 But girls, especially if they be worthy of the name, are so 
 sensitive and prickly on such matters. 
 
 Dulce had basely deserted her sister, and, at the sight of the 
 clerical felt hat, had fled to Nan's side for protection. 
 
 " Oh, never mind," Nan had said, consoling her; " it is 
 only Mr. Drummond. And he will know how it was, and that 
 we thought there was not a creature in sight." Nevertheless, 
 she felt a little sorry in her heart that such a thing had hap- 
 pened. It would spoil Phillis's mirth, for she was very proud; 
 and it might shock their mother. 
 
 " Oh, he will think us such tom-boys for grown-up young 
 ladies!" sighed .Dulce, who was only just grown up. 
 
 " Never mind what he thinks," returned Nan, walking fast, 
 for she was anxious to come to Phillis's relief. She joined 
 them very quietly, and held out her hand to Archie as though 
 nothing had happened. 
 
 " Is this a favorite walk of yours, Mr. Drummond? We 
 thought we had it all to ourselves, and so the girls had a rf.ce. 
 They will be dreadfully troubled at having a spectator; but it 
 might be worse, for you already know us well enough not to 
 misconstrue a little bit of fun." 
 
 " I am glad you judge me so truly," returned Archie, with 
 a gleam of pleasure m his eyes. Phillis certainly looked un- 
 commonly handsome as she stood there, flushed and angry. 
 But how sweet and cool Nan looked — not a hair ruffled nor a 
 fold of her dress out of order; whereas Dulce's brown locks 
 were all loose about her shoulders, shaken down by the exer- 
 cise. Nevertheless, at that moment, Phillis looked the most 
 striking. 
 
 " I am afraid my sudden appearance has put your sister out 
 dreadfully. I assure you I would have made myself into 
 thin air if I could," went on Archie, penitently; " but all the 
 g»me, it was impossible not to applaud the winner. I felt in-
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 193 
 
 clined to wave my hat in the air, and cry, ' Bravo, Alalanta!' 
 half a dozen limes. You made such pretty running, Miss 
 Challoner; aurl 1 v\'i^h Grace could have seen it/' 
 
 The last word acted like magic on Phillis's cloudy brow. 
 She had passed over two delicately implied compliments with 
 a little scorn. DiJ he think her like other girls, to be mollified 
 by sugar-plums and sweet speeches? He might keep all that 
 for the typical young lady of Hadleigh. At Oldfield the young 
 men knew her better. 
 
 It must be owned that the youth of that place had been 
 slightly in awe of Pliillis. One or two had even hinted that 
 they thought her strong-minded. " She has stand-off ways, 
 and rather laughs at a fellow, and makes one feel sometimes 
 like a fool," they said; which did not prove much, except that 
 Phillis showed herself above nonsense, and had a knowledge of 
 shams, and would not be deceived, and, being the better horse 
 of the two, showed it; and no man likes to be taken down in 
 his class. 
 
 As Phillis would not flirt — not understanding the art, but 
 Dulce proved herself to be a pretty apt pupd — they left o(f try- 
 ing to make her, and talked sensibly to her instead, -^ hich she 
 liked better. But though more than one had aJmired her, no 
 one had ventured to persuade himself or her that he was in love; 
 but for that there was plenty of time, Phillis not being the 
 sort of girl to remain long without a lover. 
 
 So when she heard Grace's name she pricked up her ears, 
 and the proud look left her face; and she said, a liitle aichly, 
 but in a way that pleased Mr. Drummond: 
 
 " All the same, 1 am glad your sister was not here, for she 
 would think J)ulce and me such tom-boys!" using DuIcq's 
 very expression. 
 
 Archie shook his head very decidedly at this. 
 
 " Ah! you do not know Grace, and how she loves a bit of 
 fun; only she never gets it, p( or girl!" sighmg in a marked 
 maimer, for he saw how interested Phillis looked. " If you 
 could only hear her laugh. But please sit down a moment and 
 rest yourselves," continued the artful young man, who had 
 not dared to propose such a thing before. 
 
 Kaji hesitated; but a glance at Phillis's hot face decided her. 
 
 "Just for five minutes," she said, " and then we must go 
 back to mother;" for she had already determined that they 
 must cut their walk short for the purpose of getting rid of 
 Mr. Drummond. 
 
 And they sat down on the beach, and Dulce retirerl behind 
 the break-water to take off herbal and tuck up her hair; whilf
 
 194 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Archie, taking no notice, leaned against the other side, and 
 felt well contented with his position — three such pretty girls, 
 and all the world well away! 
 
 '* Is Grace your favorite sister?'* asked Phillis, suddenly, 
 as she menaced Laddie with a small pebble. 
 
 This was a lucky opening for Archie. He was never seen 
 to more advantage than when he was talking about Grace. 
 There was no constraint or consciousness about him at such 
 times, but he would speak with a simple earnestness that marie 
 people say, " What a good fellow he is!" 
 
 " Oh, she has always been that, you know," he said, bright- 
 ly, " ever since she was a little thing, and I used to carry her 
 about in my arms, and string horse-chestnuts for her, when 
 she was the funniest, merriest little creature, and so clever. 
 I suppose when a man has seven sisters he may be allowed to 
 have a favorite among them? and there is not one of them 
 to compare with Grace." 
 
 " Seven sisters!" repeated Nan, with a smile; and then she 
 added, " you are very lucky, Mr. Drummond. " 
 
 Archie shrugged his shoulders at this: he had never quite 
 recognized his blessings in this respect. Isabel and Tottie 
 might be tolerated, but he could easily have dispensed with 
 Susie and Laura and Clara; he had a knack of forgetting their 
 existence when he was absent from them, and when he was at 
 home he did not always care to be reminded of their presence. 
 He was one of those men who are very exacting to their wom- 
 enkind, who resent it as a personal injury if they fail in good 
 looks or are not pleasant to the eye. He did not go so far as 
 to say to himself that he could dispense with poor Mattie, too, 
 but he certainly acted on most occasions as though ho 
 thought soi 
 
 " Are you not fond of all your sisters?" asked Phillis, rather 
 maliciously, for she had remarked the shrug. 
 
 *' Oh, as to that," replied the young man, coloring a little, 
 " one can not expect to be interested in a lot of school-girls. 
 1 am afraid I know very little about the four youngest, except 
 that they are working Grace to death. Just fancy. Miss Chal- 
 Ioner!""he continued, addressing Nan, and quite disregarding 
 Phillis's sympathetic looks. " Grace has actually no life of her 
 own at all; she teaches those girls, sits with them, walks with 
 them, helps them mend their clothes, just like a daily, or 
 rather, a nursery governess, except that she is not paid and 
 has no holidays. I can not think how my mother can find it 
 in her heart to work her so hard!" finished Archie, excited tp 
 wrath at the remembrance of Grace's wrongs.
 
 ifOt LiKT: OTHER GIRLS. ISS 
 
 '* Well, do you know," returned Xan, thoughtfully, as he 
 seemed to expect an atisw^er to this, and Phillis, for a wonder, 
 was silent, " I can not think your sister an object of pity. 
 Think what a good and useful life she is leading! She must 
 be a perfect treasure to her mother, and I dare say they all 
 love her dearly." 
 
 " The girls do," was the somewhat grudging response; 
 " they follow her about like four shadows, and even Isabel 
 can do nothing without her advice. When 1 am home I can 
 scarcely get her for a moment to myself. It is ' Grace, come 
 here,' and ' Grace, please do this for me/ until I wonder she 
 is not worn out." 
 
 " Oh, how happy she must be!" responded Nan, softly, for 
 to her no lot seemed sweeter than this. To be the center and 
 support of a large family circle — the friend and trusted con- 
 fidante of each! What a wonderful creature this Grace must 
 be! and how could he speak of her in that pitying tone? " No 
 life of her own!" Well, what life could she want better than 
 this? To be the guide and teacher of her younger sisters, and 
 to be loved by them so dearly! " Oh, I think she is to be en- 
 vied! her life must be so full of interest," she said, addressing 
 the astonished Archie, who had certainly never taken this 
 view of it. And when she had said this she gave a slight signal 
 to her sisters, which they understood at once; and then they 
 paced s]o>vly down the beach, with their faces toward the town, 
 talking as they went. 
 
 They did not walk four abreast, as they used to do in the 
 Oldfield lanes; but Nan led the way with Mr. Drummond, and 
 Phillis and Dulce dropped behind. 
 
 Archie was a little silent, but presently he said, quite 
 frankly, as though he had known her for years — but from the 
 first moment he had felt strangely at home with these girls: 
 
 " Do you know you have thrown a fresh light on a vexed 
 subject? I have been worrying myself dreadfully about Grace. 
 I wanted her to live with me because there was more sympathy 
 between us than there ever will be between my sister Mai tie 
 and myself. We have more in common, and think the game 
 on so many subjects, and I knew how happy 1 could have 
 made her." 
 
 "Yes, I see," returned Nan, and she looked up at him in 
 such an interested way that he found no difficulty in going on: 
 
 " We had planned for years to live together, but when I ac- 
 cepted the living, and the question was mooted in the family 
 council, my mother would not hear of it for a moment. Bhi 
 said Grace could not possibly be spared."
 
 196 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " Well, I s'i[)po?e not, after what you have told me. But 
 it must havH bc-eii a great dit^appoiiilmeut to you both/' was 
 !N ail's judioious reply. 
 
 " I have never ceased to regret ray mother's decision/' he 
 returned, warmly; "and as for Grace, I fear she has taken 
 the disappciiiitment grievously to heart.'' 
 
 "Oh, I hoiDe not!" 
 
 " Ispbel writes to my sister Mattie that Grace is looking 
 thin and pale and has lost her appetite, and she thinks the 
 mother is getting uneasy about her; and I can not help worry- 
 ing myself about it, and thinking how all this might have been 
 averted." 
 
 " 1 think you are wrong in that," was the unexpected an- 
 swer. " When one has acted rightly, to the very best of one's 
 power, it is of no use worrying about consequences." 
 
 " How do you mean?" asked Archie, very much surprised 
 at the decided tone in which Nan spoke. He had thought her 
 too soft in manner to possess much energy and determination 
 of character, but he was mistaken. 
 
 " It would be far worse if your sister had not recognized her 
 duty and refused to remain at home. One can not find hap- 
 piness if one moves out of one's allotted niohe; but of course 
 you know all this better than I, being a clergyman. And, oh, 
 how beautifully j^ou spoke to rrs last Sunday I" finished Nan, 
 remembering all at once that she was usurping his place and 
 preaching a little sermon of her own. 
 
 "Never mind that," he replied, impatiently; "tell me 
 what you mean. There is something behind your speech; you 
 think 1 am wrong in pitying poor Grace so much?" 
 
 " If you ask me so plainly, I must say yes, though perhaps I 
 am not competent to judge; but, from what you tell me, I 
 think you ought not to pity her at all. She is fulfilling her 
 destiny. Is she not doing the work given her to do? and 
 what can any girl want more? You should trust your mother, 
 I think, Mr. Drummond, for she would not willingly over- 
 work her. Mothers are mothers; you need not be afraid," 
 said Nan, looking up in her clear, honest way. 
 
 " Thank you; you have taken a weight off my mind," re- 
 turned Archie, more moved by this than he cared to own- 
 That last speech had gone home; he must trust his mother. 
 In a moment scales seemed to fall from the young man's eyes 
 a3 he walked along gravely and siknily by ISan. "Why, 
 what manner of girls cuild these be?" he thought; " frolic- 
 Bome ae kittens, and yet poosessnig the wiadum of mature
 
 KOT LIKE (■)THER GIRLS. 197 
 
 womaTihood. " And those few simple words of Nan abided 
 long with him. ^ 
 
 What if he and Grace were making a mistake, and there 
 was no hardship in her case at all, but only cbar duty, and a 
 most high privilege, as Nan hinted? What if his mother 
 were right, and oul}' they were wrong? 
 
 The idea was salutary, but hardly pleasant: for he had cer 
 tainly aided and abetted Grace in her discontent, and had 
 doubtless increased her repinings at her dull surrouudiugs. 
 Surely Grace's talents had been given her for a purpose, else 
 why was she so much cleverer than the others — so gifted with 
 womanly accomplishments? And that clear head of hers — 
 she had a genius for teaching; he had never denied that. Was 
 his mother, a sensible, large-sighted woman in her way, to be 
 secretly condemned as a tyrant, and wanting in maternal ten- 
 derness for Grace, because she had made use of this gifted 
 daughter for the good of her other children, and had refused 
 to part with her at Archie's request? 
 
 Archie began to feel uncomfortable, for conscience was 
 waxing warm within him; and there had been a grieved, hurt 
 tone in his mother's letters of late, as though she had felt 
 herself neglected by him. 
 
 " Mothers are mothers; you need not be afraid,'* Nan had 
 said, with simple, wholesome faith in the instincts of mother- 
 hood; and the words had come home to him with the strong- 
 est power. 
 
 His poor harassed mother — what a hard life hers had been? 
 Archie began to feel his heart quite tender toward her; per- 
 haps she was a little severe and exacting with the girls, but 
 they none of them understood her in the least; " for her bark 
 was always worse than her bite,^' thought Archie; and girls, 
 at least the generality of them, are sometimes aggravating. 
 
 He thought of the weary times she must have had with his 
 father — for Mr. Drummond could make himself disagreeable 
 to his wife when things went wrong with him; and the sullen 
 fortitude with which he bore his reversal of fortune gave small 
 opening to her tenderness. The very way in which he shirked 
 all domestic responsibilities, leaving on her shoulders the whole 
 weight of the domestic machinery and all the home manage- 
 ment, had hardened and itnbittered her. 
 
 A large family and small means, little support from her hus- 
 band, who interfered less and less with domestic matters — 
 all this had no doubt fostered ihe arbitary will that governed 
 the Drummond household. If her husband had only kept her 
 in check — if he had supported her authority, and not left her
 
 198 KOT LtKl 0'rHi:R GiRL§. 
 
 to stand alone — she would have been, not a better woman, for 
 Archie knew his mother was good, but she would have been 
 softer and more lovable, and her children would, have seen 
 deeper into her heart, 
 
 Some such thoughts as these passed through Archie's mind 
 as he walked beside Nan, but he worked them out more care- 
 fully when he was alone that night. Just before they reached 
 the Friary, he had started another subject; for, turning to 
 Phillis and Dulce, whom he had hitherto ignored, he asked 
 them whether he might enroll one or all of them among his 
 Sunday-school teachers, 
 
 Phillis's eyes sparkled at this. 
 
 " Oh, Nan, how delightful! it will remind us of Oldfield." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," chimed in Dulce, who had left her infant 
 class with regret; but, to their surprise. Nan demurred. 
 
 *' At Oldfield^ things were very different,'* she said, decid- 
 edly; " we played all the week, and it was no hardship to teach 
 the dear children on Sunday; but now we shall have to work 
 so hard that we shall be glad of one day's rest.'* 
 
 " But surely you might spare us one hour or two in the 
 afternoon?" returned Archie, putting on what Grace called 
 " his clerical face." 
 
 " In the afternoons mother will be glad of our company, 
 and sometimes we shall indulge in a walk. No, Mr. Drum- 
 mond, our week-days are too full of work, and we shall need 
 all the rest we can get on Sunday." And, with a smile. Nan 
 dismissed the subject, 
 
 Phillis spoke regretfully of it when he had left them. 
 
 " It would have been so nice," she pleaded; but Nan was 
 inexorable. 
 
 " You can go if you like, Phil; but I think mother is en- 
 titled to that one afternoon in the week, and I will not con- 
 sent to any parish work on that account; and then I am sure 
 we shall often be so tired, " And Nan's good sense, as usual, 
 carried the daj'. 
 
 After that they all grouped round the window in the little 
 parlor, and repeated to their mother every word of their con- 
 versation wilh Mr, Drummond. 
 
 Mrs. Challouer grew alarmed and tearful in a moment. 
 
 " Oh, my darlings, promise me to be more careful for the 
 future!" she pleaded, "Of course, it was only fun, Phillis, 
 and he will not think anything of it. Still, in a strange place, 
 where no one knows you—" 
 
 " Duicij and i will never run a race again; I think I can
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 19£ 
 
 promise you that," replied Phillis, very grimly, who felt that 
 " Bravo, Ataluuta!" would hauut her iu her dreams. 
 
 " And — aud 1 would not walk about with Mr. Drnmmond, 
 though he is our clergyman and a very gentlemanly person. 
 People might talk; and in your position, my poor dears — " 
 Mrs. Challouer hesitated, for she was very nice in her scruples, 
 and nol for worlds would she have hinted to her daughters that 
 Mr. Drummond was young and unmarried, and a very hand- 
 some man iu the bargain. " You see, I can not always be with 
 you, and as you have to work for your living, and can not be 
 guarded like other girls, you have all the more need to be cir- 
 cumspect. Youdou't think me overstrict, do you, darlings?" 
 
 " No, dear mother, you are perfectly right,'^ returned i\an, 
 kissing her. " I knew how you would feel, and so we came 
 home directly to get rid of him. It would never do for the 
 vicar of the parish to be seen walking about with dress- 
 makers. " 
 
 " Don't, Nan!'' exclaimed Phillis, with a shudder. Nev- 
 ertheless, as she turned away she remembered how she had 
 enjoyed that walk down the Braidwood Koad that very morn- 
 ing, when he offered to carry home Mrs. Trimmings's dress 
 and she would not let him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 maitie's new dress. 
 
 The remainder of the week passed harmlessly and without 
 any special event to mark it, and, thanks to Nan's skillful 
 management and Phillis's pride, there were no further contre- 
 temps to shock Mrs. Challoner's sense of propriety. The 
 work progressed with astonishing rapidity; in the mornings the 
 young dress-makers were sufficiently brisk and full of zeaJ, 
 and in the afternoons, when their energies flagged aud their 
 fingers grew weary, Dulce would sing over her task, or Mrs. 
 Challoner would read to them for the hour together; but, 
 notwithstanding the interest of the tale, there was always great 
 alacrity manifested when the tea-bell gave them the excuse for 
 putting away their work. 
 
 One or two evenings they gardened, and Mrs. Challoner sat 
 under the mulberry-tree and watched them; on another occa- 
 sion they took a long country walk, and lost themselves, and 
 came back merry and tired, and laden with primrose roots 
 and ferns. They had met no one, except a stray laborer— had 
 Been glow-worms, picked wild flowers, and declared themselves
 
 200 NOT LTKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 mightily refreshed. One evening Philh's, who was not to be re- 
 pressed, contrived a new amnseoient. 
 
 " Life is either a mill-pond or a whirlpool/' she said, rather 
 sententiously. " We have been stagnant for three days, and 1 
 begin to feel flat. Races are tabooed; besides, we can not al- 
 ways leave' mother alone. I propose we go out in the garden 
 and have a game of battledoor and shuttlecock;" for this 
 had been a winter pastime with them at the cottage. 
 
 Nan, who was always rather sober-minded now, demurred 
 to this. She would have preferred gardening a little, or sit- 
 ting quietly with her mother under the mulberry-tree: but 
 Phillis, who was in a wild mood, overruled all her objections, 
 and by and by the battle began, and the shuttlecocks flew 
 through the air. 
 
 The week's work was finished, and the three dresses lay in 
 their wrappers, waiting for Dorothy to convey them to their 
 several owners. Nan, who was really an artiste at heart, had 
 called her mother proudly into the room to admire the result 
 of their labors. Mrs. Challoner was far too accustomed to her 
 daughters' skillfulness to testify any surprise, but she at once 
 pronounced Miss Drummond's dress the chef-d'cBuvre. Nan's 
 taste was faultless, and the trimmings she had selected 
 harmonized so well with the soft tints of the silks. 
 
 " They are all very nice, and Mrs. Trimmings will be 
 charmed with her blue silk,*' observed Mrs. Challoner, trying 
 to throv\r a little interest into her voice and to suppress a sigh; 
 and then she helped Nan to adjust the wrappers, and to pin 
 the neatly written bills inside each. 
 
 " I am sure that is business-like,'' said Nan, with a satis- 
 fied nod, for she never could do anything by halves; and she 
 was so interested in her work that she would have been heart- 
 broken if she thought one of the dresses would be a misfit; and 
 then it was that Phillis, who had been watching her very 
 closely, brightened up and proposed a game. 
 
 It was a very pretty sight, the mother thought, as she fol- 
 lowed her girls' movements; the young figures swayed so grace- 
 fully as they skimmed hither and thither over the lawn with 
 light, butterfly movements, the three eager faces upturned in 
 the evening light, their heads.held well back. 
 
 " Two hundred, two huudrtd and one, two hundred and 
 two — don't let it drop, Dulce!" panted Phillis, breathlessly. 
 
 " Oh, my darlings, don't tire yourselves!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Challoner, as her eyes followed the white flutter of the shut- 
 tlecocks. 
 
 This was the picture that Mr. Drummond surveyed. Dor*
 
 irOT tiKT? OTHER GIRLS. 201 
 
 otliy, who was just starting on her round, and was in no mood 
 for her errand, had admitted him somevviiat churliahly. 
 
 " Yes, the mistress and the young ladies were in; and 
 would he step into the parlor, as her hands were full?" 
 
 " Oh, yes; 1 know the way," Mr. Drnmmond had returned, 
 quite undaunted by the old woman's sour looks. 
 
 But the parlor was empty, save for Laddie, who had been 
 shut up there noc to gpoil the sport, and who was whining 
 most piteously to be let out. Ho saluted Archie with a joyous 
 bark, and commenced licking his boots and wagging his tail 
 with mute petition to be released from this durance vile. 
 
 Archie patted and fondled him, for he was good to all dumb 
 creatures. 
 
 " Poor little fellow! I wonder why they have shut you up 
 here?" he said; and then he took him up in his arms, and 
 stepped to the window to reconnoiter. 
 
 And then he stood and looked, perfectly fascinated by the 
 novel sight. His sisters played baitledoor and shuttlecock in 
 the school-room sometimes, or out in the passages on a win- 
 ter's afternoon. He had once caught Susie and Clara at it, 
 and had laughed at them in no measured terms for indulging 
 in such a babyish game. "1 should have thought Dottie 
 might have played at that," he had said, rather contemptu- 
 ously. '* I suppose you indulge in skipping-rope sometimes.'* 
 And the poor girls had paused in their game, feeling ashamed 
 of themselves, Archie would think them such hoidens. 
 
 He remembered his reprimand wiih a strange feeling of 
 compunction, as he stor.d by the window trying vainly to elude 
 Laddie's caresses. VVhat a shame of him to have spoiled those 
 poor children's game with his sneer, when they had so little 
 fun in their lives; and yet, as he recalled Clara's clumsy gest- 
 ures and Susie's sJiort-sighted attempts, he was obliged to 
 confess that battledoor nnd shuttlecock wore a different aspect 
 now. Could anything surpass Phillis's swift-handed move- 
 ments, brisk, graceful, alert, or Nan's attitude as she sustained 
 the duel? Dulce, who seemed dodging in between them in a 
 most eccentric way, had her hair loose, as usual, curling in 
 brown lengths about her shoulders. She held it with one 
 hand, as she poised her battledoor with the other. This time 
 Archie th uight of Nausicaa and her maidens tossing the ball 
 beside the river, after washing the wedding garments. Was 
 it in this way the young dress-makers disported themselves 
 during the evenings? 
 
 It was Phillis who first discovered the intruder. The shut- 
 tlecocks had become entangled, and had fallen to the ground.
 
 202 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 As she stooped to pick them up, her quick eyes detected a 
 coat-sleeve at the window; aud an iudefiiiable iustiuct, for she 
 could not see his face, made her call out: 
 
 " Mother, Mr. Diummoiid is in the parlor. Do go to him, 
 while Dulce puts up her hair.'' Aud then she said, severely: 
 " I always tell you jiot to wear your hair like that, Duloe. 
 Look at Nan and me; we are quite unrufiBed; but yours is al- 
 ways coming down. If you have pretty hair, you need not call 
 people's attention to it in this way." At which speech Dulce 
 tossed her head and ran away, too much offended to answer. 
 
 "When Archie saw Mrs. Challoner crossing the lawn with the 
 gait of a queen, he knew he was discovered, so he opened the 
 window and stepped out in the cookst possit)le way. 
 
 " I seem ahva\s spoiling sport," he said, with a mischiev- 
 ous glance at Phillis, which she received with outward cool- 
 ness and an inward twinge. " Bravo, Atalanta!" sounded 
 in her ears again. " Your maid iuvited me in, but I did not 
 care to distuib you." 
 
 " 1 am glad you did not open the window before,'* returned 
 Nan, speaking with that directness and fine simplicity that al- 
 ways put things to right at once; '* it would have startled us 
 before we got to the five hundred, and then Phillis would have 
 been disappointed. Mother, shall we bring out some more 
 chairs instead of going into the parlor? It is so much pleas- 
 anter out here." And as Mrs. Challoner assented, they were 
 soon comfortably established on the tiny lawn; and Archie, 
 very much at his ease, and feeling himself unaccountably 
 happy, proceeded to deliver some trifling message from his 
 sister, that was his ostensible reason for his intrusion. 
 
 " Why does she not deliver her messages herself.^" thought 
 Phillis; but she kept this remark to herself. Only, that even- 
 ing she watched liie young clergyman a little closely, as though 
 he puzzled her. Phillis was the man of the family, and it 
 was she who a' ways stood upon guard if Nan or Dulce needed 
 a sentinel. She was beginning to think Mr. Drummond came 
 very often to see them, considering their short acquaintance. 
 If it were Miss Matiie, now, who ran in and out with little 
 offerings of flowers and fruit in a nice neighborly fashion! 
 But for this very dignified young man to burden hijnself with 
 these slight feminine messages — a question about new-laid 
 eggs, which even Nan had forgotten. 
 
 Phillis was quite glad when her mother said: 
 
 " You onght to have brought your sister, Mr. Drummond; 
 ghe must be so dull all alone" — forgetting all about the
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 203 
 
 dress-making, poor soul! but Phillis remembered it a moment 
 afterward, with a rush of bitter feeling. 
 
 Perhaps, after all, that was why he came in so often, be- 
 cause he was so sorry for them, and wished to help them, as 
 he said. A clergyman has more privileges than other men; 
 perhaps she was wrong to suspect him. He might not wish 
 his sister to visit them, except in a purely business-like way; 
 but with him it was different. Most likely he had tea with 
 Mrs. Trimmings sometimes. Just to show he was not proud; 
 he might even sit and chat with Mrs. Squails, and not feel 
 compromised in the least. Oh, yes! how stupid she was to 
 think he admired Nan, because she had intercepted a certain 
 glance! That was her mania, thinking every one must be 
 after Nan. Things were different now. 
 
 Of course he would be their only link with civilized society 
 — the only cultivated mind with which they could hold con- 
 verse; and here Phillis ceased to curl her lip, and her gray 
 eyes took a somber shade, and she sighed so audibly that 
 Archie broke off an interesting discussion on last Commemo- 
 ration, and looked at her in unfeigned surprise. 
 
 " Oh, yes! we were there," returned Nan, innocently, who 
 loved to talk of those dear old times; "and we were at the 
 fete at Oriel, and at the concert at Magdalen also. Ah! do 
 you remember, Dulce?" And then she faltered a little and 
 flushed — not because Mr. Drummond was looking at her so in- 
 tently, but at certain thoughts that began to intrude them- 
 selves, which intwined themselves with the moonlighted 
 cloisters. 
 
 " I was to have been there, too, only at the last moment I 
 was prevented," replied Archie; but his tone was inexplicable 
 to the girl, it was at once so regretful and awe-struck. Good 
 heavens! If he had met them, and been introduced to them 
 in proper form! They had mentioned a Mr. Hamilton; well, 
 Hamilton had been a pupil of his; -he had coached him during 
 a term. " You know Hamilton?" he had said, staring at her; 
 and then he wondered what Hamilton would say if he came 
 down to stay with him next vacation. 
 
 These reflections made him rather absent; and even when 
 he took his leave, which was not until the falling dews and 
 the glimmer of a late dusk drove Mrs. Challoner into the 
 house, these thoughts still pursued him. Nothing else seemed 
 to have taken so strong a hold on him as this. 
 
 " Good heavens!" he kept repeating to himself; " to think 
 that the merest chance — just the incidental business of a 
 friend — prevented me from occupying my old rooms during
 
 204 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Commemoration! to think I might have met them in com- 
 pany with Hamilton and the other fellows!'* 
 
 The sudden sense of disappointment, of something lost ir- 
 remediably in his life, of wasted opportunities, of denied pleas- 
 ure, came over the young man's mind. He could not have 
 danced with Nan at the University ball, it is true; clergymen, 
 according to his creed, must not dance. But there was the 
 fete at Oriel, and the Magdalen concert, and the Long Walk 
 in the Christchurch meadows, and doubtless other opportuni- 
 ties. 
 
 He never asked himself if these girls would have interested 
 him so much if he had met them first in ordinary society; 
 from the very first moment they had attracted him strangely. 
 Had he known them only a fortnight? Good heavens! it seemed 
 months, years, a life-time! These revolutions of mind are not 
 to be measured by time. It had come to this, that the late 
 fellow of Oriel, so aristocratic in his tastes, so temperate in his 
 likings, had entered certain devious paths, where hidden pit- 
 falls and thorny inclosures warn the unwary traveler of un- 
 known dangers, and in which he was walking, not blindfold, 
 but by strongest will atid intent, led by impulse like a mere 
 boy, and not daring to raise his eyes to the future. " And 
 what Grace would have said!" And for the first time in his 
 life Archie felt that in this case he could not ask Grace's ad- 
 vice. He was loath to turn in at his own gate, but Mattie 
 was standing there watching for him. She ran out into the 
 road to meet him, and then he could see there were letters 
 in her hands. 
 
 " Oh, dear, Archie, I thought you were never coming 
 home!" she exclaimed. " And I have such news to tell 
 you! There is a letter for you from Grace, and mother has 
 written to me; and there is a note from Isabel inside, and she 
 is engaged — really and truly engaged — to Mr. Ellis Burton; 
 and the wedding is to be in six weeks, and you and I are to 
 go down to it, and — oh, dear — " Here Mattie broke down, 
 and began to sob with excitement and pleasure and the long- 
 ing for sympathy. 
 
 " Well, well, there is nothing to cry about!" returned 
 Archie, roughly; and then his manner changed and softened 
 in spite of himself; for, after all, Isabel was his sister and this 
 was the first wedding in the family, and he could not hear 
 such a piece of news unmoved. " Let me hear all about 
 it," he said; and then he took poor little Mattie into the 
 house, and gave her some wine, and was very kind to her, and 
 listened to his mother's letter and Isabel's gushing eftusion
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 205 
 
 without a single sneer. " Puor little Belle, she does seem 
 very happy!" he saiJ, quite affectionately, as he turned up the 
 lamp still more, and began Grace's letter. 
 
 Mattie sat and gazed at him in a sort ot ecstasv, bnt she did 
 not venture to ask him to read it to her. How nice he was 
 to-night, and how handsome he looked I there never was such 
 a brother as Archie. But suddenly, as though he was con- 
 scious of being svatched, he sat down by the table and shaded 
 his face with his hand. 
 
 No, Mattie was right in her surmise: he would uot have 
 cared to sliow that If tier to any one. 
 
 The first sheet was all about Isabel. " Dear little Isabel 
 has just left me," wrote Grace. " The child looks so pretty 
 in her new happiness, you would hardly know her. She has 
 just been showing me the magnificent hoop of diamonds Ellis 
 has given her. She says we must all call him Ellis now. 
 ' Chaciin a son gout.' Poor Ellis is not very brilliant, cer- 
 tainly. 1 remember we used to call him clownish and uncul- 
 tivated. But he has a good heart, and he is really very fond 
 of Isabel; and, as she is satisfied, I suppose we need not doubt 
 the wisdom of her choice. Mother is radiant, and makes so 
 much of the little bride-elect that she declares her head is 
 quite turned. The house is quite topsy-turvy with the excite- 
 ment of this first wedding in the familv. Isabel is very young 
 to be married, and I tell mother six weeks is far too short 
 for an engagement; but it seems Ellis will not listen to reason, 
 and he has talked mother over. Perhaps I am rather fastid- 
 ious, but, if I were Isabel, 1 should hate to receive my trous- 
 seau from my lover; and yet Ellis wants his mother to get 
 everything for his fiancee. I believe there is to be a sort of 
 compromise, and Mrs. Burton is to select heaps of pretty 
 things — dresses and mantles and Paris bonnets. They are 
 rolling in riches. Ellis has taken a large house in Sloane 
 Square, and his father has bought Iwm a landau and a splendid 
 pair of horses; everything — furniture, plate, and ornaments — 
 is to be as massive and expensive as possible. If I were Isabel 
 I should feel smothered by all these grand things, but the lit- 
 tle lady takes it all quite coolly. 
 
 " When I get a moment to myself I sit down and say, ' In 
 six weeks I shall see Archiel' Oh, my darling! this is almost 
 too good news to be true! Only six weeks, and then I shall 
 really see you! Now, do you know, I am longing for a good 
 clearing-up talk? for your hitters lately have not satisfied me 
 at all. Perhaps I am growing fanciful, but I can not help 
 feeling as though something has come between us. The cur-
 
 206 KOT LIKR OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 rent of sympathy seems turned asiile, souithow. Xo, do not 
 laugh, or put me off with a jest, for 1 am reully m earnest; 
 and, but for fear of your suol iiiig me, I bhouKl own to being 
 just a little unbappy. Forgive me, Areiiie, if I vex _\ou; but 
 tiiere is someihiiig; I am thorougbly convinced of ibat. You 
 have some new interests or worry tbat you are keeping from 
 me. Is this quite in accordance vvitb our uhi cini)[)iict, deai.'* 
 Who are these Challouers Mat tie mentions in her leiters? She 
 told me a strange rigmarole about them the otber day — tluit 
 they were young ladies who had turned dress- makers. What 
 an eccentric idea! They must be very odd young ladies, I 
 should think, to emancipate themselves so completely from 
 all conventionalities. 1 whh lh> y had not established them- 
 selves at Iladleigh and so near the vicarage Mattie says you 
 are so kind to them. Oh, Aichie! my dear brother! do be 
 careful! I do not half like the idea of these girls; they sound 
 rash and designing, and you are so chivalrous in your notions. 
 VV^iv not let Mattie be kind to them, instead of you? In a 
 parish like Hadleigh you need to be careful. Mother is call- 
 ing me, so 1 will just close this with my fondest love. 
 
 "Grace.'* 
 
 Archie threw down the letter with a frown. For the first 
 time he was aimoyed with Grace. 
 
 Nan and her sisters rash and designing! *' Odd young 
 ladies!^' She was sorry they had established t'.emselves at 
 Hadleigh! It was really too bad of Grace to condemn them 
 in this fashion. But of course it must be Mattie's fault; she 
 had written a pack of nonsense, exaggerating things as much 
 as possible. 
 
 Poor Mattie would have had to bear the brunt of his wrath, 
 as usual, only, as he turned to her with the frown black on his 
 forehead, his eyes caught sight of her dress. Hitherto the 
 room had been very dimly lighted; but now, as he looked at 
 her in the soft lamp-light, his anger vanished in amazement. 
 
 " Why, Mattie, what have you done to yourself.^ We are 
 not expecting company this evening; it is nearly ten o'clock." 
 
 Mattie blushed and laughed, and then she actually bridled 
 with pleasure: 
 
 " Oh, no, Archie; of course not. I oidy put on my new 
 dress just to see how it would tit; and then I thought you might 
 like to see it. It is the one uncle gave me, r.nd is it not 
 beautifully made? I am su e Mrs. Oheyne's dresses never fit 
 better. You and Grace muy say what you like about the Chal- 
 loners, but if thej can make dresses like this, it would be
 
 y mt LtKt: OtHFjl GIRLS. ^09* 
 
 tempting Providence not to use such a talent,.aud just because 
 they were too iiiie ladies to work/' 
 
 " I do believe you are rigiit, Mattie/' returned Archie, in 
 a low voice. " Turn round and let me look at you, girl. Do 
 you mean that she — that they made that?" 
 
 Mattie nodiied as she slowly pivoted on one foot, and then 
 revolved like the figures one used to see on old-fashioned bar- 
 rel-organs; then, as she stood still, she panted out the words: 
 
 " Is it not just lovely, Archie?'^ for m all the thirty years 
 of her unassuming life, Mattie had never had such a dress, so 
 no wonder her head was a little turned. 
 
 " Yes, indeed; I like it excessively,'* was Archie's com- 
 ment; and then he added, with the delicious frankness com- 
 mon to brothers: " It makes you look quite a different per- 
 son, Mattie; you are almost nice looking to-night." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, dear!" cried poor Mattie, quite moved 
 by this compliment; for if Archie thought her almost nice 
 looking he must be pleased with her. Indeed, she even vent- 
 ured to raise herself on tiptoe and kiss him in gratitude, 
 which was taking a great liberty, only Archie bore it for once. 
 
 " She really looked very well, poor little woman!" thought 
 Archie, when Mattie had at last CAhausted her raptures and 
 bidden him good-night. " She would not be half so bad look- 
 ing if someone would take her in hand and dress her properly. 
 The women must be right, after all, and there is a power in 
 dress. Those girls do nothing by halves," he continued, 
 walking up and down the room. " 1 would not have believed 
 they had made it, if Mattie had not told me. ' Rash and de- 
 signing,' indeed! just because they are not like other girls — 
 because they are more natural, more industrious, more coura- 
 geous, more religious, in fact." And then the young clergy- 
 man softly quoted to himself the words of the old wise king, 
 words that Nan and her sisters had ever loved and sought to 
 practice: '* Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy 
 might." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 " OH, YOU ARE proud!" 
 
 On the following Monday morning Nan said in rather a 
 curious voice to Phillis: 
 
 " If no customers call to-day, our work-room will be empty. 
 1 wonder what we shall do with ourselves?" 
 
 To which Phillis replied, without a moment's hesitation: 
 
 " We will go down and bathe, and Dulce and I will have a
 
 208 itOT LIKE OTiiER GlilLS. 
 
 swiniming-uiatcl]; and after that we will sit on the beach and 
 quiz tliB people. Most likely there will be a troupe of colored 
 minstrels on the Parade, and that will be fun/' 
 
 " Oh, I hope no one will cotne!" observed Dulce, overjoyed 
 at the idea of a holiday; but, seeing Nan's face was full of 
 rebuke at this outburst of frivolity, she said no more. 
 
 It was decided at last that they should wait for an hour or 
 so to see if any orders arrived, and after that they would con- 
 sider themselves at liberty to amuse themselves for the re- 
 mainder of the day. But, alas for Dulce's hopes! long before 
 the appointed hour had expired, the gate-bell rang, and Miss 
 Druinmond made her appearance with a large parcel, which 
 she deposited on the table with a radiant face. 
 
 The story was soon told. Her silk dress was such a success, 
 and dear Archie was so charmed with it — here Mattie, with a 
 blush, deposited a neatly sealed package in Nan's band — that 
 he had actually proposed that she should have another gown 
 made after the same pattern for every-day wear. And he had 
 taken her himself directly after breakfast down to Mordant's 
 and had chosen her this dress. He had never done such a 
 thing before, even for Grace; so no wonder Mattie was in the 
 seventh heaven of delight. 
 
 " It s very pretty," observed Nan, critically; " your brother 
 has good taste." Which speech was of course retailed to 
 Arcliie. 
 
 Mattie had only just left the cottage when another cus- 
 tomer appeared in the person of Miss Middleton. 
 
 Nan, who had just begun her cutting-out, met her with a 
 pleased glance of recognition, and then, remembering her er- 
 rand, bowed rather gravely. But Miss Middleton, after a mo- 
 ment's hesitation, held out her hand. 
 
 She had not been able to make up her mind about these 
 girls. Her father's shocked sense of decorum, and her old- 
 fash oned gentlewoman's ideas, had raised certain difficulties 
 in her mind which she had found it hard to overcome. 
 " Recollect, Elizabeth, I will not have those girls brought here," 
 the colonel had said to her that very morning. " They 
 may be all very well in their way, but I have changed my opin- 
 ion of them. There's poor Drummoud; now mark my 
 words, there will be trouble by and by in that quarter." For 
 Colonel Middleton had groaned in spirit ever since the 
 morningf he had seen the young vicar walking with Phillis down 
 the Biaidwood Road, when she was carrying Mrs. Trim- 
 mings's dress. Elizabeth answf red this gentle jirotest by one 
 of her gentle smiles. " Very well, dear father; 1 will ask no
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER G1RL8. S09 
 
 one to Brooklyn against your wish, you may be sure of that; 
 but 1 suppose they may make my new dress? Mat tie's has 
 been such a success; they certainly understand their business." 
 
 " You have a right to select your own dress-maker, Eliza- 
 beth,*' returned the colonel, with a frigid wave of his hand, 
 for he had not got over his di!<appoiutment abuut the girls. 
 '* I only warn you because you are very quixotic in your no- 
 tions; but we must take the world as we find it, and make the 
 best of it; and there is your brother coming home b}- and by. 
 We must be careful for Hammond's sake." And, as Eliza- 
 beth's good sense owned the justice of her father's remark, 
 there was nothing more said on the subject. 
 
 But it was not without a feeling of embarrassment that 
 Miss Middleton entered the cottage; her great heart was yearn- 
 ing over these girls, whom she was couipelled to keep at a 
 distance. True, her father was right, Hammond was comuig 
 home, and a young officer of seven-ana-twenty was not to be 
 trusted where three pretty girls were concerned; it would 
 never do to invite them to Brooklyn or to make too mach of 
 them. Miss Middleton had ranged herself completely on her 
 father's side, but at the sight of Nan's sweet face and her 
 grave little bow she forgot all her prudent resolutions, and her 
 hand was held out as though to an equal. 
 
 " 1 have come to ask you if you will be good enough to 
 make me a dress," she said, with a charming smile. " You 
 have succeeded so well with Miss Drumuiond that I can not 
 help wishing to have one too." And when she had said (his 
 she looked quietly round her, and surveyed the pretty work- 
 room, and Dulce sitting at the sewing-machine, and lasily 
 Phillis's bright, intelligent face, as she stood by the table 
 turning over some fashion-books. 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Challoner entered the room with her 
 little work-basket, and placed herself at the other window. 
 Miss Middleton began talking to her at once, while Nan meas- 
 ured and pinned. 
 
 " 1 don't think 1 ever spent a pleasanter half hour," she 
 told her father afterward. " Mattie was right in what she 
 said: they have made the work-room perfectly lovely with 
 pictures and old china; and nothing could be nicer than their 
 manners — so simple and unassuming, yet with a touch of in- 
 dependence too." 
 
 " And the old lady?" inquired the colonel, maliciously, for 
 he had seen Mrs. Challoner in church, and knew better than to 
 apeak of her so disrespectfully. 
 ^ "Old lady, father! why, she is not old at all. She is au
 
 SIO irOt LIKE OTHER GIRLg. 
 
 exceedingly pleasing person, only a little stately in her man- 
 ner; one would not venture to take a liberty with her. We 
 had such a nice talk while the eldest daughter was fitting me. 
 Is it not strange, father, dear, that they know the Paines? 
 and Mrs. Satoris is an old acquaintance of theirs. I think 
 they were a little sorry when they heard we knew them too, 
 for' the second girl colored up so when I said Adelaide was 
 your goddaughter.^' 
 
 " Humph! we will have Adelaide down here, and hear all 
 about them," responded her father, briskly. 
 
 " Well, I douH know; I am afraid that would be painful to 
 them, under their changed circumstances. Just as we were 
 talking about Adelaide, Miss Mewlstone came in, and then 
 they were so busy that 1 did not like to stay any longer. Ah, 
 there is Mr. Drummond coming to interrupt us, as usual.*' 
 
 And then the colonel retailed all this for Archie's benefit. 
 He had come in to glean a crumb of intelligence, if he could, 
 about the Challoners' movements, and the colonel's garrulity 
 furnished him with a rich harvest. 
 
 Phillis had taken Miss Mewlstone in hand at once in the in- 
 tervals of business; she had inquired casually after Mrs. 
 Cheyne's injured ankle. 
 
 " It is going on well; she can stand now," returned Miss 
 Mewlstone. " The confinement has been very trying for her, 
 poor thing, and she looks sadly the worse for it. Don't take 
 out those pins, my dear; what is the good of taking so much 
 pains with a fat old thing like me and pricking your pretty 
 fingers? Well, she is always asking me if I have seen any of 
 you when 1 come home." 
 
 " Mrs. Cheyne asks after us!" exclaimed Phillis, in a tone 
 of astonishment. 
 
 " Ah! just so. She has not forgotten you. Magdalene 
 never forgets anyone in whom she takes an interest; not that 
 she likes many people, poor dear! but then so few understand 
 her. They will not believe that it is all on the surface, and 
 that there is a good heart underneath." 
 
 " You call her Magdalene," observed Phillis, rather curi- 
 ously, looking up into Miss Mewlstone's placid face. 
 
 " Ah! just so; I forgot. You see, 1 knew her as a child — 
 oh, such a wee toddling mite! younger than dear little Janie. 
 1 remember her as tiiuugh it were yesterday; the loveliest 
 little creature — prettier even than Janie!" 
 
 " Was Janie the child who died?" 
 
 "Yes, the darling! She was just three years old; a per- 
 fect angel of a child! and Bertie was a year older. Poor
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 211 
 
 Magdalene! it is no wonder she is as she is — no husl>and nnd 
 no children! When she sent for me I came ai once, though 1 
 knew how it would be.'* 
 
 " You knew how it would be?" repeated Philh's, in a ques- 
 tioning voice, for Miss Mewlstone bad come to a full tidp here. 
 She looked a little confused at this repetition of her words. 
 
 "Oh! just so — just so. Thank you, my dear. You have 
 done that beautifully, I am sure. Never mind what an old 
 woman says. When people are in trouble like that lliey are 
 often ill to live with. Magdalene has her moods; so have we 
 all, my dear, though you are too young to know lliat; but no 
 one understands her belter than her old Bath^licba; thtit is 
 my name, and a funny old name too, is it not?" coniinutd 
 Miss Mewlstone, blinking at Phillis wilh her little blue eyes. 
 " The worst of having such a natue is that no one will use it; 
 even father and mother called me Barby, as Magdalene does 
 sometimes still." 
 
 Bathsheba Mewlstone! Phillis's lip curled with suppressed 
 amusement. What a droll old thing she was! and yet she 
 liked her, somehow. 
 
 " If she takes it into her head to come and see you, you 
 will try and put up with her sharp speeches?" continued 
 Miss Mewlstone, a little anxiously, as she tied on her bonnet. 
 " Mr. Drummond does not understand her at all; and I will 
 not deny that she is hard on the poor young man, and makes 
 fun of him a bit; but, bless you, it is only her way! She tor- 
 ments herself and other people, just because time will not 
 pass quickly enough and let her forget. If we had children 
 ourselves we should understand it better, and how in Eamah 
 there must be lamentation," finished Miss Mewlstone, with a 
 vague and peculiar reference to the martyred innocents which 
 was rather inexplicable to Phillis, as in this case there was 
 certainly no Herod, but an ordinary visitation of Providence; 
 but then she did not know that Miss Mewlstone was often a 
 little vague. 
 
 After this hint, Phillis was not greatly surprised when, one 
 morning, a pair of gray ponies stopped before the Friary, and 
 Mrs. Cheyne's tall figure came slowly up the flagged path. 
 
 It must be owned that Phillis's first feelings were not 
 wholly pleasurable. Nan had gone oat; an invalid lady 
 staying at Seaview Cottage had sent for a dress m;tker rather 
 hurriedly, and Miss Milner had of course recpmnu nded them. 
 Nan had gone at once, and, as Dulce looked pale, she had 
 taken her with her for a walk. They might not be back foy
 
 212 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 another hour; and a tete-a-tete with Mrs. Cheyne, after their 
 last iiitervieiv, was ratlier foimidable. 
 
 Dorothy preceded her with a parcel, which she deposited 
 rather g^igerly on the table. As Mrs. Cheyue entered the 
 room she looked at Phillis in a cool, off-hand manner. 
 
 *' 1 am come on business," she said, wiih a little nod. 
 *' How do yon do. Miss Challoner? You are looking rather 
 pale, I think." And then her keen gJance traveled round 
 the room. 
 
 The girl flushed a little over this abruptness, but she did 
 not lose her courage. 
 
 " Is this the dress?" she asked, opening the parcel; but 
 her fingers would tremble a little, in spite of lier will. And 
 then, as the rich folds of the black brocade came into view, 
 she asked, in a business-like tone, in what style Mrs. Oheyne 
 would wish it. male, and how soon she required it. To all of 
 which Mrs. Cheyne reyponded in the same dry, curt manner; 
 and then the usual process of fitting began. 
 
 Never luid her task seemed so tedious and distasteful to 
 Phillis, Even Mrs. Trimmings was preferable to this; she 
 hardly ventured to raise her eyes, for fear of meeting Mrs. 
 Cheyne's cold, satirical glance; and yet all the time she knew 
 she was being watched. Mrs. Cheyne's vigilant silence meant 
 something. 
 
 If only her mother would come in! but she was shelling 
 pease for Dorothy. To think Nan sho.ild have failed her on 
 such an occasion! Even L)ulce would have been a comfort, 
 though she was so easily frightened. She started almost nerv- 
 ously when Mrs. Cheyne at last broke the silence: 
 
 *' Yes, you are decidedly paler — a little thinner, I think, 
 and that after only a fortnight's work." 
 
 Phillis looked up a little indignantly at this, but she found 
 Mrs, Cheyne was regarding her not unkindly. 
 
 "I am well enough,'' she returned, rather ungraciously; 
 " but we are not used to so much confinement, and the weather 
 is hot. We shall grow accustomed to it in time." 
 
 " You think restlessness is so easily subdued?" with a sneer. 
 
 " No, but I believe it can be controlled," replied [)oor 
 Phillis, who suffered more than any one guessed from this re- 
 straint on her sweet freedom. 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne was right; even in this short time she was 
 certainly paler and thinner. 
 
 " You mean to persevere, then, in your moral suicide?" 
 
 " We mean to persevere in our duty," corrected Phillis, as 
 ehe pinned up a sleeve.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 213 
 
 " Father a high moral tone for a dress-maker to take; 
 don't you think bo?" returned Mrs. Cheyne, in the voice 
 Archie hated. The woman certainly had a double nature; 
 there was a twist in her sotuawhere. 
 
 Tliis was too much for Phillis; she fired up in a moment. 
 
 " Why should not dress-makers take a high moral tone? 
 You make me feel glad I am one when you talk like tiiiit. 
 Tills is our ambition — Nan's and mine, for Dulce is too young 
 to think much about it — to show by our example that there is 
 no degradation in work. Oh, it is hard! First Mr. Drum- 
 mond comes, and talks to us as though we were doing wrong; 
 and then you, to cry down nur honest labor, and call it 
 suicide! Is it suicide to work wiHi these hands, that God lias 
 maile clever, for my mother?" cried Phillis, and her great 
 gray eyes filled up with sudden tears. 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne did not look displeased at the girl's outburst. 
 If she had led up to this point, she could not have received it 
 more calmly. 
 
 "There, there! you need not excite yourself, child!" she 
 said, more gently. " I only wanted to know what you would 
 say. So Miss Mewlstone has been to you, I hear? — and Miss 
 Middleton, too? but that's her benevolence. Of course Miss 
 Mattie comss out of curiosity. How I do detest a fussy wom- 
 an, with a tongue that chatters faster than a purling biook! 
 AVhat do you say? No harm in her?" for Pliillis had mut- 
 tered something to this effect. " Oh, that is nt-gaiive praise! 
 I like people to have a little harm in them; it is so much 
 more amusujg. " 
 
 " 1 can not say I am of your opinion," returned Phillis, 
 coldly; she was ralhor ashamed of her fit of enthusiasm, and 
 cross in consequence. 
 
 " My dear, I always thought Lucifer must have been rather 
 an interesting person." Tlien, as Phillis looked scandalized 
 and drew herself up, she said, in a fuimy voice: " Now, don't 
 tell your mother what I said, or she will think me an improper 
 character; and 1 want to be introduced to her." 
 
 " You want to be introduced to my mother!" Phillis could 
 hardly believe her ears. Certainly Mrs. Cheyne was a most 
 inexplicable person. 
 
 " Dress-makers don't often have mothers, do they?" re- 
 turned Mrs. Cheyne, with a laugh; " at least, they are never 
 on view. I suppose they are in the back premises doing 
 something." 
 
 " Shellmg pease, for example," replied Phillis, roused to 
 mischief by this: " that is mother's work this morning.
 
 214: NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Dorothy is old and single-handed, and needs^ all the help we 
 can give her. Oh, yes! I will take you to hei- at once." 
 
 " Indeed you must not, if it will inconvenience her," re- 
 turned Mrs. Oheyne, drawing back a little at this, iShe was 
 full of curiosity to see the mother of these singular gii'ls, but 
 she did not wish to have her illusion too roughly diqielled; 
 and the notion of Mrs. Challoner's homely employment grated 
 a little on (he feelings of the fine laJy who had never done 
 anything useful in her life. 
 
 " Oh, nothing puts mother out," returned Phillis, in an 
 indifferent tone. The old spirit of fun was waking up in 
 her, and she led the way pronjptly to the parlor. 
 
 " Mother, Mrs. Cheyne wishes to see you," she announced, 
 in a most matter-of-fact voice, as though that lady were a 
 daily visitor. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner looked up in a little surprise. One of Doro- 
 thy's rough aprons was tied over her nice black gown, and the 
 yellow earthenware bowl was on her lap. Phillis took up 
 some of the green pods and began playing with them. 
 
 " Will you excuse my rising? you see my employment," 
 observed Mrs Challoner, with a smile that was almost as 
 charming as Nan's; and she held out a white soft hand to her 
 visitor. 
 
 The perfect ease of her manner, the absence of all flurry, 
 produced an instant effect on Mrs. Cheyne. For a moment 
 she stood as though at a loss to explain her intrusion, but 
 the next minute one of her rare, sunshiny smiles crossed her 
 face. 
 
 " I mast seem impertinent, but your daughters have in- 
 terested me so much that 1 was anxious to see their mother. 
 But I ought to apologize for disturbiiig you so early." 
 
 " Not at all; all hours are the same to me. We are always 
 glad to see our friends; are we not, Phillis? My dear, I wish 
 you would carry these away to Dorothy and ask her to finish 
 them. " 
 
 " Oh, no! pray do nothing of the kind," returned Mrs. 
 Cheyne, eagerly. " You must not punish me in this way. 
 Let me help you. Indeed, 1 am sure I can, if 1 only tried." 
 And, to Phillis's intense amusement, Mrs. Cheyne drew off 
 her delicate French gloves, and in another moment both 
 ladies were seated close together, shelling pease into the same 
 pan, and talking as though they had known each other for 
 years. 
 
 " Oh, it was too delicious!" exclaimed Phillis, when she 
 had retailed this interview for Nan's and Dulce's benefit. " I
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER 6IRL8. SlU 
 
 knew mother would behave beautifully. If I had taken the 
 Princess of Wales in to see her, she would not have had a word 
 of apology for her apron, though it was a horrid coarse thing 
 of iJorothy's. She would just have smiled at her as she did 
 at Mrs. Cheyne. Mother's behavior is always lovely." 
 
 " Darling old mammie!" put in Dulce, rapturously, at this 
 point. 
 
 " I made some excuse and left them together, because I 
 could see Mrs. Cheyne was dying to get rid of me; and I am 
 always amiable, and like to please people. Oh, it was the 
 funniest sight, 1 assure you! — Mrs. Cheyne with her long fin- 
 gers blazing with diamond rings, and the pease rolling down 
 her silk dress; and mother just going on with her business in 
 her quiet way. Oh, 1 had such a laugh when I was back in 
 the work-room!" 
 
 It cost Phil I is some trouble to be properly demure when 
 Mrs. Cheyne came into the work-room some time afterward 
 in search of her. Perhaps her mischievous eyes betrayed her, 
 for Mrs. Cheyne shook her head at her in pretended rebuke: 
 
 " Ah, I see; you will persist in treating things like a comedy. 
 "Well, that is better than putting on tragedy airs and making 
 ourselves miserable. Now 1 have seen your mother, I am not 
 quite so puzzled.'" 
 
 "Indeed!" and Phillis fixed her eyes innocently on Mrs. 
 Cheyne's face. 
 
 '* No; but I am not going to make you vain by telling you 
 what I think of her; indiscriminate praise is not wholesome. 
 Now, when are you coming to see me? — that is the point in 
 question. " 
 
 " Dorothy will bring home your dress on Saturday," replied 
 Phillis, a little dryly. "If it requires alteration, perhaps you 
 will let me know, and of course I will come up to the White 
 House at any time." 
 
 " But I do not mean to wait for that. You are misunder- 
 standing me purposely. Miss Challoner. 1 want you to come 
 and talk to me one evening — any evening. No one but Miss 
 Mewlstone will be there." 
 
 " Oh, no!" responded Phillis, suddenly turning very red; 
 " I do not think that would do at all, Mrs. Cheyne. 1 do 
 not mean to be rude or ungrateful for your kindness, but — 
 but — " Here the girl stammered and broke down. 
 
 " You wish, then, to confine our intercourse to a purely 
 businpss relation?" asked Mrs. Cheyne, and her voice had a 
 tone of the old bitterness.
 
 S16 KOT tIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " Wonld it not be better, under the circumstances? For- 
 give me if I am too proud, but — " 
 
 "Oh, you are proud, terribly proud!" returned Mrs. 
 Cheyne, taking up her words before she could complete her 
 sentence. " You owe me a grudge for what I said that night, 
 and now you are making me pay the penalty. Well, I am 
 not meek; there is not a human being living to whom I would 
 sue for friendship. If I were starving for a kind word 1 
 wodi 1 sooner die than ask for one. You see, I am proud too. 
 Miss Chal loner.'* 
 
 " Ob, 1 did not mean to hurt you,*' returned Phillis, dis- 
 tressed at tbis, but determined not to yield an inch or bend to 
 the sudden caprice of this extraordinary woman, who had 
 made ber suffer so once. 
 
 " To be burt, one must have feelings," returned this sin- 
 gular person. " Do not be afraid, I shall not attempt to 
 shake your resolution; if you come to me now it must be of 
 your own free will." 
 
 " And if I come, what then?" asked Phillis, standing very 
 straight and stiff, for she would not be patronized. 
 
 "If you come you will be welcome," returned Mrs. Cheyne; 
 and then, with a grave inclination of the head, she swept out 
 of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVll. 
 
 A DA15K HOUR. 
 
 '* T SHOULD go one evening, if I were you; it is easy to see 
 that Mrs. Cheyne has taken a fancy to you," said Nan, who 
 was much iuteresced by this recital; but to this Phillis replied, 
 with a very decided sliake of the bead: 
 
 " I shall do nothing of the kind; I was not made to be a 
 fine lady's protegee. Jf she patronized me, I should grow 
 savage and show my teeth; and, as I have no desire to break 
 the peace, we had better remain strangers. Dear Magdalene 
 certainly has a temper I" finished Phillis, with a wicked little 
 sneer. 
 
 Nan tried to combat this resolution, and used a great many 
 arguments; she was anxious that Phillis should avail herself 
 of this sudden fancy on the part of Mrs. Cheyne to lift herself 
 and perhaps all of them into society with their equals. Nan's 
 good sense told her that though at present the novelty and ex- 
 citement of their position prevented them from realizing the 
 full extent of their isolation, in time it must weigh on them
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIKLS. 21? 
 
 Tery heavily, and especially on Pliillis, who was bright and 
 clever and liked society; but all her words were powerless 
 against IMiillis's stubbornness; to the White Hou&e she could 
 not and would not go. 
 
 But one evening she changed her mind very suddenly, when 
 & note from Miss Mewlstoue reached her. A gardener's boy 
 brought it. " It was very particular, and was to be delivered 
 immediate to tlie young lady," he observed, holding the mis- 
 sive between a very grimy finger and thumb, 
 
 " My Dear Young Lady, — Pride is all very well, but 
 charity is often best in the long run, and a little kindness to 
 a sufifering human being is never out of place in a young creat- 
 ure like you. 
 
 " Poor Magdalene has been very sadly for days, and I have 
 got it into my stupid old head, that is always fancying things, 
 that she has been watching for folks who have been too proud 
 to come, though she would die sooner than tell me so; but 
 that is her way, poor dear! 
 
 "It is ill lio wake at nights with nothing but sad thoughts 
 for company, and it is ill wearing out the long days wiih only 
 a silly old body to cheer one up; and when there is nothing 
 fresh to say, and nothing to expect, and not a footstep or a 
 voice to break the silence, then it seems to me that a young 
 voice, that is, a kind voice, would be welcome. Take this hint, 
 my dear, and keep my counsel, for I am only a silly old wom- 
 an, as she often says. 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 " Bathsheba Mewlstone." 
 
 " Oh, I must go now!'* observed Phillis, in an embarrassed 
 voice, as she laid this singular note before Nan. 
 
 " Yes, dear; and you had belter p<it on your hat at once, 
 and Dulce and I will walk with you as far as the gate. It is 
 sad for you to miss the scramble on the shore; but, when other 
 people really want us, I feel as though it were a direct call," 
 finished Nan, solemnly. 
 
 " I am afraid there is a storm coming up," replied Phillis, 
 who had been oppressed all day by the heavy, thundery atmos- 
 phere. She had looked so heated and weary that Xan had 
 proposed a walk by the shore. Work was pouring upon them 
 from all sides; the townspeople, envious of Mrs. Trimmings's 
 stylish new dress, were besieging the Friary with orders, and 
 the young dress-makers would have been literally overwhelmed 
 with their labors, only that Kan, with admirable foresight,
 
 218 NOT LIKE OTHEK GIRLS. 
 
 insisted on taking in no more work than they felt themselves 
 able to complete. 
 
 '• No/' she ivoulil say to some disappointed customer, " our 
 hands are full just now, and we can not undertake any more 
 orders at present; we will not promise more than we can per- 
 form. Come to me again iu a fortnight's time, and we will 
 willingly make your dress, but now it is impossible." And in 
 most cases the dress was brought punctually at the time ap- 
 pointed. 
 
 Phillis used to grumble a little at this. 
 
 *' You ought not to refuse orders. Nan," she said, rather 
 fretfully, once. " Any other dress-maker would sit up half 
 the night rather than disappoint a customer." 
 
 "My dear," Nau returned, in her elder-sisterly voice, 
 which had always a great effect on Phillis, " 1 wonder what 
 use Dulce and you would be if you sat up sewing half the 
 night, and drinking strong tea to keep yourselves awake? 
 No, there shall be no burning the candle at both ends in this 
 fashion. Please God, we will keep our health and our cus- 
 tomers; and no one in their senses could call us idle. Why, 
 we are quite the fashion! Mrs. Squalls told me yesterday 
 that every one in Hadleigh was wild to have a gown made by 
 the ' lady dress-makers.' " 
 
 "Oh, I dare say!" replied Phillis, crossly, for the poor 
 thing was so hot and tired that she could have cried from pure 
 weariness and vexation of spirit; " but we shall not be the 
 fashion long when the novelty wears off. People will call us 
 independent, and get tired of us; and no wonder, if they are 
 to wait for their dresses in this way." 
 
 Nan's only answer was to look at Fhillis's pale face in a 
 pitying way; and then she took her hand, and led her to the 
 corner, where her mother's Bible always lay, and then with 
 ready fingers turned to the well-known passage, " Man goeth 
 forth unto his work and to his labor unto the evening." 
 
 " Well, Nan, what then?" 
 
 " Evening is for rest — for refreshment of mind and body; 
 I will not have it turned into a time of toil. I know you, 
 Phillis; you would work till your poor fingers got thin, and 
 your spirits were all flattened out, and every nerve was jarring 
 and sot on edge; and you would call that duty! No, darling 
 — never! Duloe shall keep her roses, and we will have battle- 
 door and shuttlecock every evening; but, if I have to keep the 
 key of the work-room in my pocket, you and Dulce shall 
 never enter it after tea." And Nan's good sense, as usual, 
 carried the day
 
 KOf Ltitil OTUER GiilLg. ^lO 
 
 Fhillis would much rather have joined her sisters in their 
 walk than have turned in at the gloomy lodge gates. 
 
 " ' All ye who enter here, leave hope behind,' " 
 
 she quoted, softly, as she waved her hand to Nan. 
 
 The servant who admitted her looked a little dubious over 
 his errand. 
 
 " His mistress was in her room," he believed, '* and was 
 far too unwell to see visitors. He would tell Miss Mewlstoue, 
 if the young lady liked to wait; but he was sure it was no 
 use '^ — all very civilly said. And as Phillis persisted in her 
 intention of seeing Mrs. Cheyne, if possible, he ushered her 
 into the library, a gloomy-looking room, with closed blinds, 
 one of which he drew up, and then went in search of Miss 
 Mewlstoue. 
 
 Phillis did not find her surroundings particularly cheerful. 
 The air was darkened by the approaching storm. A sullen 
 cloud hung over the sky. The library windows opened upon 
 the shrubberies. Here the trees were planted so thickly that 
 iheir shade obscured much of the light. The room was so 
 dark that she could only dimly discern the handsome bindings 
 of the books in the carved oak book-cases. The whole of the 
 furniture seemed somber and massive. The chair that the 
 footman had placed for her was covered with violet velvet, 
 and was in harmony with the rest of the furniture. 
 
 Dreary as the room looked, it was nothing to the shrubbery 
 walk. A narrow, winding path seemed to vanish into uiter 
 darkness. In some places the trees met overhead, so closely 
 had they grown. 
 
 " If 1 were the mistress of the White House," Phillis said 
 to herself, " 1 would cut every one of those trees down. They 
 must make this part of the house quite unhealthy. It really 
 looks like a ' ghost-walk ' that one reads about." But snarue- 
 ly had these thoughts passed through her mind when she ut- 
 tered a faint cry of alarm. The dark room, the impending 
 storm, and her own overwrought feelings were making her 
 nervous; but actually, through the gloom, she could see a fig- 
 ure in white approaching. 
 
 In another moment she would have sought refuge in the. 
 hall, but contempt at her own cowardice kept her rooted to 
 the spot. 
 
 " 8he was an utter goose to be so starlled! It was — yes, of 
 course it was Mrs. Cheyne. She could see her more plainly 
 now. She would step through tlin window and meet her." 
 
 Phillis's feelings of uueusiuess hud not quite vanished. The
 
 $30 KOf LtKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 obscurity was confusing, and invested everything with an un- 
 natural effect. Even Mrs. Cheyne's Ggure, c )ming out from 
 the dai-k background, seemed strange and unfamiliar. Pliillis 
 had always before seen her iu black; but now she wore a white 
 gowiK fashioned loosely, like a wrapper, and her hair, which 
 at other times had been most carefully arranged, was now 
 strained tisihtlyand unbecomingly from her face, which looked 
 pallid and drawn. She start^'d violently when she saw Phillis 
 coming toward her. and seemed inclined to draw back and re- 
 trace her steps. It evidently cost her a strong effort to re- 
 cover herself. She seemed to conquer her reluctance with 
 difficulty. 
 
 " So you have come at last, Miss Challoner," she said, fix- 
 ing her eyes, which looked unnaturally bright, on Phillis. 
 Her voice was cold, almost harsh, and her countenance ex- 
 pressed no pleasure. The hand she held out was so lim]) and 
 cold that Phillis relinquished it hastily. 
 
 " You said that I should be welcome," she faltered, and 
 trying not to appear alarmed. She was too young and healthy 
 to understand the meaning of the word hysteria, or to guess 
 at the existence of nervous maladies that make some people's 
 lives a long torment to them. Nevertheless, Mrs. Cheyne's 
 singular aspect filled her with vague fear. It did not enter 
 into her mind to connect the coming storm with Mrs. Cheyne's 
 condition, until she hinted at it herself. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you are welcome," she responded, wearily. " 1 
 have looked for you evening after evening, but you chose to 
 come with the storm. It is a pity, perhaps; but then you did 
 not know." 
 
 " What would you have me know?" asked Phillis, timidly. 
 
 Mis. Cheyne shrugged her shoulders a little flightily. 
 
 " Oh, you are young!" she returned; "you do not under- 
 stand what nerves mean; you sleep sweetly of a night, and 
 have no bad dreams; it does not matter to you happy people 
 if the air is full of sunshine or surcharged with electricity. 
 For me, when the sun ceases to shine I am in despair. Fogs 
 find me brooding. An impending storm suffocates me, and 
 yet tears me to pieces with restlessness; it drives me hither and 
 thither like a fallen leaf. I tire myself that I may sleep, and 
 yet I stare open-eyed for hours together into the darkness. I 
 wonder sometimes I do not go mad. But there! let us walk — 
 let lis walk." And she made a movement to retrace her steps; 
 but Phdli:^, with a courage for which she commended herself 
 afterward, pulled her back by her hanging sleeves. 
 
 " Oh, not there! it is not good for any one who is sad to
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS 22i 
 
 walk in that dark place. No wonder your Ihoaghts are 
 somber. Look! the heavy rain-drnpj are pattering among 
 the leaves. I do nut care to get weL; let us go buek to the 
 hiuse. " 
 
 " Prthaw! what does it matter getting wet?" she returned, 
 with a little scorn; but, nevertheless, she suileredPhiliis to take 
 her arm and draw her gently toward the house. Only as they 
 cam* near the library window, she pointed to it itidigiiantly. 
 " Who has dared to enter that room or open the window? 
 Have I not forbidden over and over again that that room 
 should be used? Do you think," she continued, in the same 
 exrited way, " that 1 would enter that room to-night of all 
 nights? vVhy, I should hear his angry voice pealing in every 
 corner! It was a good room for echoes; and he could speak 
 loudly if he chose. Come away! there is a door I always use 
 that leads to my private apartments. I am no recluse, but 
 in these moods 1 do not care to show myself to people. If you 
 are not afraid, you may come with me, unless you prefer Miss 
 Mewlstone's company." 
 
 " I would rather go with you," returned Phillis, gently, 
 yhe could not in truth say she was not afraid; but all the 
 same she must try and soothe the poor creature who was evi- 
 dently enduring such torments of mind: so she followed in 
 silence up the broad oak staircase. 
 
 A green-baize door admitted them into a long and somewhat 
 narrow corridor, lighted up by a row of high narrow windows 
 set prettily with flower-boxes. Here there were several doors. 
 Mrs. Cheyne paused before one a mf)ment. 
 
 " Look here! you shall see the mysteries of the west wing. 
 This is ray world: down-stairs I am a different creature — taci- 
 turn, harsh, and prone to sarcasm. Ask Mr. Drummond 
 what he thinks of me; but I never could endure a good young 
 man — especially that delicious compound of the worldling and 
 the saint — like the Reverend Archibald. See here, my dear: 
 here 1 am never captious or say naughty things!" 
 
 She threw open the door, and softly beckoned to Phillis to 
 enter. It was a large empty room — evidently a nursery. 
 Some canaries were twittering faintly in a gilded cage. There 
 were flowers in the two windows, and in the vases on the table: 
 evidently some loving hands had arranged them that very 
 morjn'ng. A large rocking-horse occupied the center of the 
 floor; a doll lay willi its face downward on the crimson carpet; 
 a pile of wooden soldiers strutted on their zigzag platform — 
 one or two had fallen ofl; a torn picture-book had been flung 
 beside them.
 
 ^^^ ifOT TJKE OTHER GTRLS. 
 
 " That was my Janie's picture-bonk,'' said Mrs. Cheyne, 
 mournfully; " she was leaching her doll out of it just before 
 she was taken ill. Nothing was touched; by a sort of inspira- 
 tion — a foreboding — I do not know what — I bade nurse leave 
 the toys as they were, ' It is only an interrupted game: let 
 the darlings find their toys as they put them/ I said to her that 
 morning. Look at the soldiers; Bertie was always for soldiers 
 — bless him!" 
 
 Her manner had grown calmer; and she spoke with such 
 touching tenderness that tears came to Phillis's eyes. But 
 Mrs. Cheyne never once looked at the girl; she lingered by 
 the table a moment, adjusting a leaf here and a bud there in 
 the bouquets, and then she opened an inner door leading to 
 the night-nursery. Here the associations were still more har- 
 rowing. The cots stood side by side under a muslin canopy, 
 with an alabaster angel between them; the little night-dress 
 lay folded on the pillows; on each quilt were the scarlet dress- 
 ing-gown and the pair of tiny slippers; the clothes were piled 
 neatly on two chairs — a boy's velvet tunic on one, a girl's 
 white frock, a little limp and discolored, huug over the rails 
 of the other. 
 
 " Everything just the same!" murmured the poor mother. 
 *' Look here, my dear " — with a faint smile — " these are Ber- 
 tie's slippers: there is the hole he kicked in them when he was 
 in his tempers, for my boy had the Cheyne temper. He was 
 Herbert's image — his very image." She sighed, paused, and 
 vent on: " Every night I come and sit beside their beds, and 
 then the darlings come to me. 1 can see their faces — oh, so 
 plainly! — and hear their voices. ' Good-night, dear mamma!* 
 thev seem to say to me, only Bertie's voice is always the 
 louder. 
 
 > > 
 
 Her manner was becoming a little excited again: only Phil- 
 lis toiik her hand and pressed it gently, and the touch seemed 
 to'sonth' her like magic. 
 
 " I am so glad you come here every night," she said, in her 
 sweet, serious voice, from wliich every trace of fear had gone. 
 " I think that a beautiful idea, to come and say your prayers 
 biiside one of these little beds." 
 
 " To say my prayers — 1 pray beside my darlings' beds!" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Cheyne, in a startled voice. "Oh, no! 1 
 nerer do that. God wu uld not hear such prayers as mine — 
 uover — never!" 
 
 " Dtiir Mrs Cheyne, why n t?" She moved restlessly away 
 at the questiju, auu tried lo disengage herself from Phillis's
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 2)23 
 
 firm grasp. *'The Divine Father hears all prayers," whis- 
 pered the girl. 
 
 " All — but not mine — not miue, or I should not be sitting 
 here alone. Do you know my husband left me in anger — that 
 his last words to me were the bitterest he ever spoke? ' Good- 
 bye, Magdalene; you have made my life so wretched that I do 
 not care if 1 never live to set foot in this house again!' And 
 that to me — his wedded wife, and the mother of his children 
 — who loved him so. Oh, Herbert! Herbert!" and, covering 
 her face, the unhappy woman suddenly burst into a passion of 
 tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVni. 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 
 
 Phillis kept a sad silence: not for worlds would she have 
 checked the flow of tears that must have been so healing to 
 the tortured brain. Besides, what was there that she, so 
 young and inexperienced, could say in the presence of a grief 
 so terrible, so overpowering? The whole thing was inexplic- 
 able to Phillis. Why were the outworks of conventionality so 
 suddenly thrown down? Why was she, a stranger, permitted 
 to be a witness of such a revelation? As she sat there speech- 
 less and sympathizing, a faint sound reached her ear — the 
 rustle of a dress in the adjoining room — footsteps that ap- 
 proached warily, and then paused; a moment afterward the 
 door closed softly behind them. Phillis looked round quickly, 
 but could see nothing; and the same instant a peal ot thunder 
 rolled over their heads. 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne started up with a hysterical scream, and 
 caught hold of Phillis. "Come," she said, almost wildly, 
 " we will not stay here. The children will not come to-night, 
 for who could hear their voices in such a storm? My little 
 angels — but they shall not see me like this. Come, come!" 
 And taking the girl by the arm, she almost dragged her from 
 the room, and led the way with rapid and disordered footsteps 
 to a large luxurious chamber, furnished evidently as a dress- 
 ing-room, and only divided from the sleeping- room by a cur- 
 tained aichway. 
 
 As Mrs. Cheyne threw herself down in an arm-chair and 
 hid her face in her hands, the curtain was drawn back, and 
 Miss Mewlstone came in with an anxious, almost frightened 
 expression on her good-natured countenance. She hurried up 
 to Mr3. Cheyne, and took her in her arms as though she wer§ 
 » oliJWt
 
 234 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " 'Now, Magdalene, now, my dear,** she said, coaxingly, 
 *' you will try to be good and command yourself before this 
 young lady. Look at her: she is not a bit afraid of the storm 
 — are you. Miss Challoner.^ No, just so; you are far too 
 sensible." 
 
 " Oh, that is what you always tell me," returned Mrs. 
 Cheyne. wrenching herself free with some violence. "Be 
 sensible — be good — when I am nearly mad with the op- 
 pression and suffocation, here, and here," pointing to her head 
 and breast. " Commonplaces, commonplaces; as well stop 
 a deluge with a tea-cup. Oh, you are an old fool, Barby: you 
 will never learn wisdom." 
 
 "My poor lamb! Barby never minds one word you say 
 when you are like this." 
 
 " Oh, I will beg your pardon to-morrow, or when the 
 thunder stops. Hark! there it is again," cowering down in 
 her chair. " Can't you pray for it to cease, Barby? Oh, it 
 is too horrible! Don't you recollect the night he rode away 
 — right into the storm, into the very teeth of the storm? 
 * Good-bye, Magdalene; who knows when we may meet again?' 
 and I never looked at him, never kissed him, never broke the 
 silence by one word; and the thunder came, and he was gone," 
 beating the air with her hands. 
 
 "Oh, hush, my dear, hush! Let me read to you a little, 
 and the fever will soon pass. You are frightening the poor 
 young lady with your wild talk, and no wonder!" 
 
 " Pshaw! who minds the girl? Let her go or stop; what 
 do I care? What is the world to me, when I am tormented 
 hke this? Three years, four years — more thaji a thousand 
 days— of this misery! Oh, Barby! do you think I have been 
 punished enough? do you think where he is, up in heaven 
 with tiiQ children, that he forgives and pities me, who was 
 such a ba.l wife to him?" 
 
 As Miss Mewlstone paused a moment to wipe (he tears that 
 were flowing over her old cheeks, Phillis's voice came to her 
 relief. 
 
 " Oh, can you doubt it?" she said, in much agination. 
 " Dear Mrs. Cheyne, can you have an instant's doubt? Do 
 you think the dead carry all these paltry earthly feelings into 
 the blight place yonder? Forgive you — oh, there is no need 
 of forgiveness there; he will only be loving you~he, and the 
 children too." 
 
 " God bless you!" whispered Miss Mewlstone. " Hush, thac 
 is enough! Go, my dear, go. and I will come to von presently. 
 Magdalene, put your poor head down here: I have thought
 
 NOT LIKE OTHEK GIRLS. 22C 
 
 of sompthing that will do you good." She waved Phillis away 
 almost impatieutly, and laid the poor sufferer's head on her 
 bosom, shielding it from the .flashes that darted through the 
 room. Phillis could see her bending over her, and her voice 
 was as tender as though she were soothing a sick infant. 
 
 Phillis was trembling with agitation, as she stole down the 
 dark corridor. Never in her happy young life had she wit- 
 nessed or imagined such a scene. The wild words, the half- 
 maddened gestures, the look of agonv stamped on the pale, al- 
 most distorted features, would haunt her for many a day. Oh, 
 hnw the poor soul must have suffered before she lost self-cou- 
 trul and balance like this! 
 
 It was not the death of her children that had so utterly un- 
 nerved her. ft must ha^e been that bitter parting with her 
 husband, and the remembrance of angry words never to be 
 atO!ied for in this life, that wascankering'the root of her peace, 
 and that brought about these moods of despair. 
 
 Phillis thought of Coleridge's lines: 
 
 " And to be wroth with one we love 
 
 Doth work like madness on the brain " — 
 
 as she took refuge in the dim drawing-room. Here, at leaat, 
 there were signs of human life and occupation. A little tea- 
 table had been set in one window, though the tea was cold. 
 The greyhounds came and laid their slender noses on her 
 g)wn, and one small Italian one coiled himself up on her lap. 
 Miss Mbwistone's work-basket stood open, and a tortoise-shell 
 kitten had helped itself to a ball of wool and was busily un- 
 winiling it. The dogs were evidently frightened at the storm, 
 for they all gathered round Phillis, shivering and whining, as 
 though missing their mistress; and she had much ado to com- 
 fort them, though she loved animals and understood their 
 dumb language better than most people. 
 
 It was not so very long, and yet it seemed hours before Miss 
 Mewlstoiie came down to her. 
 
 *' Are you here, my dear?" she asked, in a loud whisper, 
 for the room was dark. "Ah! just so. We must have 
 lights, and I must give you a glass of wine or a nice hot cup 
 of coffee." And, notwithstanding Phillis's protest that she 
 never took wine, and was not in need of anything, Miss Mewl- 
 stoue rang the bell, and desired the footman to bring in the 
 lamp. " And tell Bishop to send up some nice hot coffee and 
 sandwiches as soon as possible. For young people never know 
 what they want, and you are just worried and tired to death 
 with all you have gone through — not being an oW wowaq
 
 226 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 and seasoned to it like me," went on the good creature, and 
 slie patted Phillis's L-lieek eiicouraginglj as she spoke. 
 
 " But how IS slie? Oh, ihanli God, the storm has lulled at 
 last!" exelaimed the girl, breathlessly. 
 
 " Oh, yes; the stoi m is over. Wo have reason to dread 
 storms in this house," returned Miss Mewlstone, gravely. 
 *' She was quite exhausted, and let Charlotte and me help her 
 to bed. Now she ha^ had her composing draught, and Char- 
 lotte will sit by her till I go up. I always watch by her all 
 night after one of these attacks." 
 
 " Is it a nervous attack?" asked Phillis, timidly, for she 
 felt she was treading on delicate ground. 
 
 "I believe Doctor Parkes calls it hysteria/' replied Miss 
 Mewlstone, hesitating a little. " Ah, we have sad times with 
 her. You heard what she said, poor dear; she has been sorely 
 tried." 
 
 " Was not her husband good to her, then?" 
 
 *' I am sure he meant to be kind," returned Miss Mewl- 
 stone, sorrowfully, " for he loved her dearly; but he was pas- 
 sionate and masterful, and was one that would have his way. 
 As long as it was only courtship, he worshiped the ground she 
 walked upon, as the saying is. But poor Magdalene was not a 
 good wife. She was cold when she ought to have been caress- 
 ing, stubborn when she might have yielded; and sarcasm never 
 yet healed a wound. Ah, here comes your coffee! Thank 
 yon, Evans. Now, my dear, you must just eat and drink, 
 and put some color into those pale cheeks. Scenes like these 
 are not good for young creatures like you. But when Magda- 
 lene is in these moods, she would not care if the whole world 
 listened to her. To-morrow she will be herself, and remem- 
 ber and be ashamed; and then you must not mind if she be 
 harder and colder than ever. She will say bitter things all 
 the more, because she is angered at her own want of self-con- 
 trol." 
 
 '* I can understand that: that is just as 1 should feel," re- 
 turned Phillis, shuddering a little at the idea of encountering 
 Mrs. Cheyne's keen-edged sarcasms. " She will not like to 
 see me any more; she will think 1 had no right to witness such" 
 a scene." 
 
 " It is certainly a pity that I wrote that note," returned 
 Miss Mewlstone, reflectively. " 1 hoped that you would turn 
 her thoughts, and that we might avert the usual nervous 
 paroxysm. \Yhen I opened the door and saw you sitting to- 
 gether so peacefully beside the children's beds, I expected a 
 tnilder mood^ but it was the thunder. Poor Magdalene! skp
 
 K-OT LTKE OTHER GIRLS. W 
 
 has never been able to control herself in a storm since the 
 evening Herbert left her, and we went in and found her lying 
 insensible in the library, in the midst of one of the worst storms 
 I have ever witnessed. " 
 
 " That was when he said those cruel words to her?" ejacu- 
 lated Phillis. 
 
 " Yes. Did she repeat them? How often 1 have r)egged 
 her to forget them, and to believe that he repented of them 
 before an hour was over! Ah, well! the sting of death /ies in 
 this: if she had said one word, one little word, she would be a 
 different woman, in spite of the children's death. God's 
 strokes are less cruel than men's strokes: the reed may be 
 bruised by them, but is not broken. She had a long illness 
 after the children were gone; it was too much — too much for 
 any woman's heart to bear. You see, she wanted her hus- 
 band to comfort her. Doctor Parkes feared for her brain, but 
 we pulled her through. Ah, just so, my dear; we pulled her 
 through!" finished Miss Mewlstone, with a sigh. 
 
 "Oh, how good you are to her! she is happy to have such 
 a friend!" observed Phillis, enthusiastically. 
 
 Miss Mewlstone shook her head, and a tear rolled down her 
 face. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, I am only an old fool, as she said just now. 
 And, after all, the company of a stupid old woman is not much 
 to a proud bonny creature like that. Sometimes for days to- 
 gether she hardly opens her lips to me; we sit together, eat 
 together, drive together, and not a word for Barby. But 
 sometimes, poor dear! she will cling to me and cry, and say 
 her heart is breaking. And Solomon was right: but, it was 
 not only a brother that is good for adversity. When she 
 wants me, I am here, and there 's nothing 1 will not do for 
 her, and she knows it; and that is about the long and short 
 of it," finished Miss I\Iewlstone, dismissing the subject with 
 another sigh. And then she bade Plidiis finish her coffee and 
 put on her hat. " For your mother will be expecting you, 
 and wondering what has become of you; and Phillips or Evans 
 must walk with you, for it is past nine o'clock, and such a 
 pretty young lady must not go unattended," concluded tde 
 simple woman. 
 
 Phillis laughed and kissed her at this; but, though she said 
 nothing of her intentions, she determined to dismiss the serv- 
 ant as soon as possible, and run on alone to the Friaty, She 
 had not forgotten her ennounter with Mr. Drummond on iier 
 last visit to the White Housej but to-night the storm would 
 keep him in-doois.
 
 §28 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Evans, the new footman, was desired to escort her; but in 
 the middle of the avenue Phillis civilly dismissed him. 
 
 " There is no need for two of us to get wet; and the rain is 
 coming on very heavily," she said. 
 
 The young man hesitated; but he was slow-witted and new 
 to his duty, and the young lady had a peremptory way with 
 her, So he touched his hat, and went back to the house, 
 
 " Such nonsense, having a liveried servant at my heels, 
 when I am only a dress-maker!" thought Phillis, scurrying 
 down the avenue like a chased rabbit. 
 
 Hitherto, the trees had sheltered her; but a glance at the 
 open road and the driving rain made her resolve to take refuge 
 in the porch of the cottage that stood opposite the gate. Jt 
 was the place where Nan and her mother had once lodged; 
 and, though all the lights were exiinguished, and the people 
 had retired to bed, she felt a comfortable sense of safety as she 
 unlatched the little gate. Not even Mr. Drummoiid would dis- 
 cover her there. 
 
 But Phillis's satisfaction was of short duration: the foolish 
 girl was soon to repent of her fool-hardiness in dismissing her 
 escort. She little knew that her words to Evans had been 
 overheard, and that behind the dripping shrubbery she had 
 been watched and followed. Scarcely had she taken refuge 
 under ihe green porch, and placed her wet umbrella to dry, 
 before she heard the latch of the little gate unclosed, and a 
 tall dark figure came up the gravel walk. It was not Isaac 
 Williams's portly form — she could discern that in the darkness 
 — and, for the moment, a thrill of deadly terror came upon 
 the incautious girl; but the next minute her natural courage 
 returned to her aid. The porch was just underneath the 
 room where Isaac slept; a call of ' help ' would reach him at 
 once; there was no reason for this alaim at all. Neverthe- 
 less,, she shrunk back a little as the stranger came directly 
 toward her, then paused as though in some embarrassment: 
 
 " Pardon me, but you have poor shelter here. 1 am Mrs. 
 Williams's lodger. I could easily let you into the cottage. 1 
 am afraid the rain comes through the trellis work." 
 
 Phillis's htarl gave a great thump of relief. In the first 
 place, Mrs. Williams's lodger must be a respectable person, 
 and no dangerous loafer or pickpocket; in ihe second place, 
 the refined, cultured tones of the stranger pleased her ear. 
 Piiillis had a craze on this point. " You may be deceived in a 
 face, but in a voice, never!" yhe would say; and, as she told 
 Nan afterward, the m imeiit that voice greeted her iu the 
 darkness she felt no further fear.
 
 NOT MKE OTHER 6IRL8. '^29 
 
 *' 1 have a dry corner here," she returned, quietly; " it ia 
 only a thunder-shower, and I am close to home — only down 
 the road, and just round the corner, past the vicarage." 
 
 "Past the vicarage I" in atone of surprise: " why, there 
 are no houses there!" 
 
 "There is a very small one called the Friary," returned 
 Phillis, feeling herself color in the darkness, as she mentioned 
 their humble abode. There was no answer for a moment, 
 and then her mysterious neighbor continued: 
 
 " My good landlord seems to retire early: the whole place 
 looks deserted. They are very early risers, and perhaps that 
 is the reason. If you will allow me to pass, I will open the 
 door and light a lamp in my little parlor. Even if you prefer 
 to remain in the porch, it will look more cheerful." And, 
 without waiting for her reply, he took a key from his pocket, 
 and let himself into the house. 
 
 Their voices had disturbed the owners of the cottage, and 
 Phillis overheard the following colloquy: 
 
 " Dear sakes alive! what a frightful storm! Is there any- 
 thing vou want, Mr. Dancy?" in Mrs. Williams's shrill tones. 
 " Not for myself, Mrs. Williams; but there is a young lady 
 sheltering in the porch. I should be glad if you could come 
 down and make her a little comfortable. The flood-gates of 
 heaven seem open to-night." 
 
 " Dear, dear!" in a still more perplexed voice; " a young 
 lady at this time of night — why, it must be half after nine! 
 Very well, Mr. Dancy; beg her to come in and sit in your 
 parlor a moment, and 1 will be down." 
 
 But Phillis absolutely refused to comply with the invitation. 
 " 1 am not tired, and I am not a bit wet, and I like watch- 
 ing the rain. This is a nice little porch, and 1 have taken 
 refuge here before. We all know Mrs. Williams very well." 
 
 " She is a good creature, if she were not always in a bustle," 
 returned Mr. Dancy. " There, the lamp is lighted; that looks 
 more comfortable." And as he spoke he tame out into the 
 little hall. 
 
 Phillis stole a curious glance at him. 
 
 He was a tall man, and was dressed somewhat strangely. A 
 long foreign-looking cloak, and a broad-brimmed felt hat, 
 which he had not yet removed, gave him tiie look of an artist; 
 but, except that he had a beard and a mustache, aud wore 
 blue spectacles, she could not gain the slightest clew to his 
 features. But his voice — it pleased Phillis's sensitive ear more 
 every moment; it was pleasant — rather foreign, too — and had 
 a sad ring iu it.
 
 830 NOT LXKt OtHER CURLS. 
 
 He leaned against the wall opposite to her, and looked out 
 thoughtfully at the driving rain. 
 
 " I think I saw you coming out from the White House/* he 
 observed, presently. " Are you a friend of Mrs. Cheyne? I 
 hope," hesitating a little, " that she is very well." 
 
 " Do you know her?" asked Phillis, in surprise. 
 
 " That is a very Irish way of answering my question; but 
 you shall have your turn first. Yes; I used to know her 
 many years ago, and Herbert Cheyne, too." 
 
 " Her poor husband! Oh! and did you like him?" rather 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " Pretty fairly," was the indifferent reply. " People used 
 to call him a pleasant fellow, but I never thought much 
 of him myself— not but what he was more sinned against than 
 sinning, poor devil. Anyhow, he paid dearly enough for his 
 faults." 
 
 " Yes, indeed; and one must always speak leniently of the 
 dead. " 
 
 " Ah, that is what they say — that he is dead. I suppose his 
 widow put on mourning, and made lamentation. She is well, 
 you say, and cheerful?" 
 
 " Oh, no! neither one nor the other. I am not her friend; 
 I only know her just a littie; but she strikes me as very sad. 
 She has lost her children, and — " 
 
 *' Ah!" Phillis thought she had heard a strange sound, 
 almost like a groan; but of course it was fancy; and just then 
 good Mrs. Williams came bustling down-stairs. 
 
 " Dear heart! why, if it is not Miss Challoner! To think 
 of you. my dear miss, being out so late, and alone! Oh, what 
 ever will your ma say?" 
 
 " Mv^ mother will scold me, of course," returned Phillis, 
 langliitig; " but you must not scold me too, Mrs. Williams, 
 though I deserve all I get. Miss Mewlstone sent Evans with 
 me, but I made him go back. Country girls are fearless, and 
 it is only just a step to tlie P^-iary. " 
 
 *' The rain is stopping now, if you will permit me to escort 
 you. Mrs, Williams will be the voucher for my respectabil- 
 ity," observed Mr. Dancy, very gravely and without a smilej 
 and, as Pnillis seemed inclined to put him off with an excuse, 
 he continued, more seriously: "Pardon me, but it is far too 
 late, and the road far too lonely for a young lady to go unat- 
 tended. If you prefer it 1 will go to the VVhite House, and 
 bri'ig out the recreant Evans by force." 
 
 " Oh, no! there is no need for that," observed Phillis, hast- 
 ily; and Mrs. Williams interposed volubly:
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIELS. 231 
 
 ** Goorliieas' sakes. Miss Cliallnuer, you have no call to be 
 afraiil of Mr. Daiicy! Wliy, Mr. Frank Blunt, tliat nice young 
 gentleman vvlio lodged vviih tne ever so aiauy years, recom- 
 mended him to me as one of his best and oldest friends. Your 
 ma kuesv Mr. Blunt, for he was here with her, aud a uicer- 
 spokeii young geiitlemau she said she never saw," 
 
 "That will do, Mrs. Williams," returned Mr. Dancy, in 
 rather a peremptory tone; and then, turning to Phillis, he said, 
 more civilly, but still a little abruptly, as though he were dis- 
 pleased : 
 
 " Well, Miss Challoner, do you feel inclined to trust your- 
 self with me for a few hundred yards, or shall I fetch Evans?'* 
 And Phillis, feeling herself rebuked, unfurled her umbrella 
 at once, aud bade Mrs. Williams good-night by way of answer. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 MRS. Williams's lodger. 
 
 Phillis felt rather shy and uncomfortable as she picked 
 her way warily among the rain-pools in the semi-darkness. 
 Her companion was inclined to be silent; most likely he con- 
 sidered her churlish in repelling his civil offers of help; so, to 
 make amends, aud set herself at her ease, she began to talk to 
 him with an attempt at her old sprightliness. 
 
 " Do you know this neighborhood well, Mr. Dancy? Have 
 you been long at Ivy Cottage?" 
 
 " Only a few days; but I know the place well enough," he 
 responded, quietly. " It depends upon circumstances how 
 long I remain here.'* 
 
 " Hadleigh is very quiet," returned Pnillis, quickly. " It 
 does not offer many attractions to strangers unless they have 
 very moderate views of enjoyment. It is select, and bathing 
 is good, and the country tolerable; but when you have said 
 that you have said all in its favor." 
 
 " I have always liked the place," with a checked sigh. 
 " Quiet — that is what I want, and rest also. I have been 
 rather a wanderer over the face uf the earth, and one wants a 
 little breathing-time occasionally to recruit one's exhausted 
 energies. I like Ivy Cottage, aud I like Mrs. Williams; both 
 suit me for the present. Are you a visitor to Hadleigh — a 
 mere bird of passage like myself. Miss Challoner?" 
 
 " Oh, dear, no! we have come here to live." 
 
 " And — and you are intimate with Mrs. Cheyne?" coming 
 a little closer to her side in the darkness.
 
 233 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS, 
 
 it 
 
 "Nothing of the kind," retorted Phillis: " we are mere aG. 
 quaintaiices. 1 do not feel to know her at all; she is not a 
 person with whom one could get intimate all at once; she is a 
 little difficult. Besides, in our position — " And here she 
 pulled herself up suddenly. 
 
 " Pardon me," returned Mr. Dancy, in an interested voice, 
 " perhaps I have no right to inquire, but your words are a lit- 
 tle mysterious. Why should you not be intimate with Mrs. 
 Cheyne?'' 
 
 Phillis grew hot in the darkness. What right had he, a 
 perfect stranger, to question her so closely? And yet, if he 
 were interested in his old friends, perhaps he meant to call at 
 the White House, and then he would hear all about them; and, 
 after all, perfect frankness always answered best in the long 
 run. Phillis hesitated so long over her rejoinder that Mr. 
 Dancy said, rather apologetically: 
 
 " 1 see I have been incautious; but you must not attribute 
 my question to impertinent curiosity. I am anxious to learn 
 all I can about a very old friend, of whom I have long lost 
 sight, and I hoped that you might have been able to satisfy 
 
 me. 
 
 Miss Middleton would tell you far more than I." 
 
 " What! Elizabeth Middleton? Oh, no: she is far too 
 much of a saint for me." 
 
 " You know her, too!" exclaimed Phillis, in surprise. 
 *' ISIo, 1 do not think you are curious, Mr. Dancy; it was only 
 a little awkward forme to tell you about our acquaintance with 
 Mrs. Oheyne. My sister and f rendered her a trifling service, 
 and she took a fancy to us, and wished to be friends; but in 
 our present position any close intimacy would be impossible, 
 as we are only dress-makers." 
 
 " Dress-makers!" It is impossible to describe the genuine 
 astonishment, almost dismay, in Mr. Dancy's voice. " Dress- 
 makers! Pardon me, Miss Challoner, but when one has seen 
 and spoken to a lady like yourself, it is almost incredible." 
 
 This put Phillis on her mettle at once, and in a moment she 
 laid bv all her reserve. 
 
 " You have been a traveler, Mr. Dancy, and must have 
 seen strange things by this time. It surely can not be such a 
 matter of surprise that when gentlepeople are poor they must 
 work for their bread. When one has ten clever fingers, it is 
 better to use them than to starve. 1 am not ashamed of my 
 position; my sisters and 1 are very independent; but, as we 
 do not like to cause other people embarrassment, we prefer to 
 lead hermit lives,"
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. ^3^ 
 
 Phillis's silvery tones were rather fierce, but it was well that 
 she did Lot see her conipauioii's expression of suppressed 
 amusement; there was a little smothered laugh, too, ihut was 
 turned into a cough. 
 
 " Are your sisters young like yourself?" he asked, rather 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, we are all much of an age." 
 
 " And you have parents?" 
 
 " Only one parent," she corrected — " a mother. Ah, here 
 we are at the Friary! Many thanks for your escort, Mr. 
 Dancy. " 
 
 " Many thanks for allowing me to escort you," he returned, 
 
 Eointedly: "after what you have told me, 1 esteem it an 
 onor, Miss Challoner. No, you have no need to be ashamed 
 of your position; 1 wish more English ladies would follow such 
 a noble example. Good-nigbt. 1 trust we shall meet again." 
 And, lifting his felt hat, he withdrew, just as Nan appeared on 
 the threshold, holding a lamp in her hand. 
 
 " You naughty girl, what has kept you so late?" she asked, 
 as Phillis came slowly and meditatively up the flagged path. 
 
 *' Hush, Nannie! Have they all gone to bed? Let me 
 come into your room and talk to you. Oh, 1 have had such 
 an evening!" And thereupon she poured into her sister's 
 astonished ears the recital of her adventure — the storm, the 
 figure in the shrubbery, the scene in the west corridor, the 
 porch at Ivy Cottage, and the arrival of Mrs. Williams's mys- 
 terious lodger. 
 
 " Oh, Phillis, 1 shall never trust you out of my sight again! 
 How can you be so reckless — so incautious? Mother would 
 be dreadfully shocked if she knew it." 
 
 "Mother must not know a single word: promise. Nan. 
 You know how nervous she is. 1 will tell her, if you like, 
 that I took refuge from the rain in Mrs. Williams's porch, and 
 that her lodger walked home with me; but I think it would be 
 better to suppress the scene at the White House." 
 
 Nan thought over this a moment, and then she agreed. 
 
 " It would make mother feel uneasy and timid in Mrs. 
 Cheyne's presence," she observed. " She never likes that 
 sort of hysterical attacks. We could not make her under- 
 stand. Poor thing! I hope she is asleep by this time. Shall 
 you go to-morrow, Phil, and ask after her?" 
 
 Phillis made a wry face at this, and owned she had had 
 enough adventures to last her for a long time. But she ad- 
 mitted, too, that she would be anxious to know how Mrs. 
 Cheyne would be.
 
 234 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose I must go and just ask after her " she said, 
 as she rose rather wearily aud lighted her caudle. " There is 
 not the least chance of my seeing her. Good-night, Nannie! 
 Don't let all this keep you awake; but I do not expect to sleep 
 a wink myself.'' 
 
 Which dismal prophecy was not fulfilled, as Phillis dropped 
 into a heavy slumber the moment her head touched the pillow. 
 
 But her dreams were hardly pleasant. She thought she was 
 walking down the " Ghost's Walk," between the yews and 
 cypresses., with Mr. Dancy, and that in the darkest part he 
 threw off his cloak and felt hat, and showed the grinning skull 
 of a skeleton, while a bony arm tried to seize her. She woke 
 moaning with fright, to find Dulce's long hair streaming over 
 her face, and the birds singing in the sweet breezy dawn; after 
 which she fell into a dreamless, refreshing sleep. 
 
 Phillis had to submit to rather a severe reproof from her 
 mother in return for her frankness. Mrs. Challoner's prud- 
 ery was up in arms the moment she heard of Mrs. Williams's 
 lodger. 
 
 " Mrs. Williams ought to have come with you herself; but 
 a strange man at that time of night — what would Mr. Drum- 
 mond have said to you?" 
 
 " Whatever Mr. Drummond liked to say!" returned Phillis, 
 pettishly, for this was stroking her already ruffled feelings de- 
 cidedly the wrong way. 
 
 Phillis always turned captious whenever Mr. Drummond 
 was mentioned; but she subsided into meekness again when 
 her mother fell to crying and bemoaning her hard fate and her 
 darlings' unprotected position. 
 
 "Oil, what would your dear father have said?" she cried, 
 in such utter misery of tone, that Phillis began kissing her, 
 and promising that she would never, never be out so late again, 
 and that on no account would she walk up the Braid wood Road 
 in the evening with a strange man who wore an outlandish 
 cloak and a felt hat that only wanted a feather to remind her 
 of Guy Fawkes, only Guy Fawkes did not wear blue spectacles. 
 
 When Phillis had at last soothed her mother— always a 
 lengthy process, for Mrs. Challoner, like other sensitive and 
 feeble natures, could only be quieted by much talk — she fell 
 to her work in vigorous silence; but by a stroke of ill luck, 
 Mr. Drummond chose to make another pastoral visitation; and, 
 to her secret cnagrin, her mother at once repeated the whole 
 story. 
 
 Mrs. Williams's lodger saw Miss Phillis home I Why, I 
 
 ((
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 235 
 
 did not know Mrs. Williams had a lodger/' returned Mr. 
 Druuimond, iu a perplexed voice. 
 
 This made matters worse. 
 
 " 1 suppose Mrs. Williams is uot bound to let the vicarage 
 know directly she lets her rooms?" observed Phillis, rather 
 impatiently; for she was vexed with her mother for repeating 
 all this. 
 
 *' No, of course not; but 1 was at Ivy Cottage myself yes- 
 terday, and Mrs. Williams knows I always call on her lodgers, 
 and she never mentioned the fellow's existence to me." 
 
 "Fellow, indeed!" observed Phillis, softo voce j for she had 
 a vivid rememb'ance of the stranger's commanding presence 
 and pleasant voice. 
 
 " When did he come?" inquired the young vicar, cuiiously. 
 "He must keep himself pretty close by daylight; for I have 
 passed and repassed Ivy Cottage at least half a dozen times a 
 day, and have never caught a glimpse of any one;" to which 
 Phillis replied, reluctantly, that he had not been there long — 
 that be wanted rest and quiet, and was most likely an invalid. 
 
 *' And bis name is Dancy, you say?" 
 
 Phillis bowed. She was far too much taken up iu her work 
 to volunteer uunecessary words; and all this maternal fuss and 
 fidget was odious to her. 
 
 '* Then I will go and call upon him this very afternoon," 
 returned Archie, with cheerful alacrity. lie had no idea that 
 his curiosity on the subject was disagreeable to the girl: so he 
 and Mrs. Cballoner discussed the matter fully, and at some 
 length. " I don't like the description of your mysterious 
 stranger. Miss Challoner," he said, laughing, as he stood up 
 to take his leave. " When novelists want to paint a villain, 
 they generally bring in a long cloak and beard, and sometimes 
 a disguising pair of blue spectacles. Well, I will catch him 
 by dayligbt, and see what I can make of bim. " 
 
 *' You may disguise a face, but you can not disguise a 
 voice," returned Phillis, bluntly. " I do uot want to see Mr. 
 Dancy to know he is a gentleman and a true man." And 
 this speech, that piqued Archie, though he did not know why, 
 made him ail the more bent on calling on Mrs. Williams's 
 lodger. 
 
 But Mr. Drummond's curiosity was destined to be baffled. 
 Mrs. Williams turned very red wheu she heard the vicar "s in- 
 quiries. 
 
 " You never told me you had let your rooms," he said, re- 
 proacbfuliy; " and yet you know X always make a practice of 
 calling on your lodgers."
 
 236 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " 'Deed, and it is very kind and thoughtful of you, too," 
 returned the good woman, dropping an old-fashioned courtesy; 
 " and me that prizes my clergyman's visits and thinks no end 
 of thjm! But Mr. Dancy he says to me, ' Now, my good Mrs. 
 Williams, I have come here for quiet — for absolute quiet; and 
 I do not want to see or hear of any one. Tell no tales about 
 me, and leave me in peace; and then we shall get on together.' 
 Aud it was more than 1 ventured to give you the hint, hearing 
 him speak so positive; for he is a bit masterful, aud no mis- 
 take." 
 
 " Well, never mind; a clergyman never intrudes, and I will 
 thank you to take Mr. Dancy my card," returned Archie, im- 
 patiently; but his look of assurance soon faded when Mrs. 
 Williams returned with her lodger's compliments, and he was 
 very much obliged to Mr. Drummoud for his civility, but he 
 did not wish to receive visitors. 
 
 Phillis was a little contrary all the remainder of the day; 
 she was not exactly cross— all the Challoners were sweet-tem- 
 pered — but nothing quite suited her. Mrs. Challoner had pro- 
 posed going: that evening into the town with her youngest 
 daughter to execute some commissions. 
 
 Just before they started, Phillis observed rather shortly that 
 she should call at the V\''hite House to make inquiries after Mrs. 
 Clieyne, and that she would come back to the Friarv to felch 
 Nan for a country walk. " It I do not appear in half an hour, 
 you must come in search of me," finished Phillis, with a 
 naughty curl of her lip, to whiuh Nan with admirable tact re- 
 turned no answer, but all the same she fully intended to carry 
 out the injunction; for Nan had imbibed her mother's simple 
 oLl-fashioned notions, and a lurking dislike of Mrs. Williams's 
 lodger had already entered her mind. 
 
 As Phillis did not enjoy her errand, she put on the best face 
 she could, and hurried down tiie Braid wood Road as though 
 her feet were winged like a female Mercury; and Mr. Dancy, 
 who happened to be looking over the wire blind in the little 
 parlor, much admired the girl's free swift gait as she sped 
 down the avenue. Evans, the young footman, admitted her, 
 and conducted her at once to the drawing-room; and great 
 was Phillis's surprise and discomposure when she saw Mrs. 
 Clieyne sitting alone reading by one of the windows, with her 
 greyhounds grouped around her. 
 
 She started slightly at the announcement of Phillis's name, 
 and, as she came forward to greet her, a dark flush crossed 
 her face for a moment; then her features settled into their
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 237 
 
 usual impassive calm, ouly there was markeJ coldness in her 
 voice: 
 
 '' Good-evening, Miss Challoner; you have chosen a fine 
 evening for your visit. Let me beg of you never again to vent- 
 ure to the White House in such a storm.'' 
 
 Phillis stammered out something about hoping that she v^as 
 better, but she interrupted her almost abruptly: 
 
 " Much better, thank you. I am afraid you found me de- 
 cidedly strange yesterday. I had what people call a nervous 
 attack: electricity in the air, a brooding storm, brings it on. 
 It is a pity one should be so childish as to dread thunder: but 
 we are oddly constituted, some of us." She shrugged her 
 shoulders, as thougli to dismiss the subject, and stroked the 
 head of the greyhound that lay at her feet. 
 
 Poor Phillis found her position decidedly embarrassing. To 
 be sure, Miss Meivlstone liad warned her of the reception that 
 she might expect; but all the same she found it very unpleas- 
 ant. She must not abridge her visit so muuh as to excite sus- 
 piL'ion; aud yet it seemed impossible to carry on a comfortable 
 conversation with Mrs. Cheyne in this freezing mood, and, as 
 Phdiis could think of nothing to say, she asked after Miss 
 Mewlstone. 
 
 " Oh, she is very well," Mrs. Cheyne answered, indiffer- 
 ently. " Nothing ever aih Barby: she is one of those easy- 
 going people who take life as they find it, without fuss and 
 grumbling." 
 
 " 1 think she is very nice and sympathetic," hazarded 
 Phillis. 
 
 "Oh, yes, Miss Mewlstone has a feeling heart," returned 
 Mrs. Cheyne; but she said it in a sarcastic voice. " We have 
 all our special endowments. Miss Mewlstone is made by nat- 
 ure to be a moral feather-bed to bteak other people's awk- 
 ward tumbles. She hinders broken bones, aud interposes a 
 soft surface of sympathy between unlucky folks. There is 
 not much in common between us, but all the same old 
 Barby is a sort of necessity to me. We are a droll household 
 at the White House, Miss Challoner, are we not — Barby and 
 the greyhounds and 1? — oh, quite a happy family!" And ahe 
 gave a short laugh, very much the reverse of merriment. 
 
 Phillis began to feel that it was time to go. 
 
 " Well, how does the dress-making progress?" asked her 
 hostess, suddenly. " Miss Middleton tells me the Challoner 
 tit is quite the rage in Hadleigh. " 
 
 " We have more orders than we can execute," returned 
 Phillis, curtly.
 
 238 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 ** Humph! that sounds promising. I hope your mother is 
 careful of you, aud forbids any expenditure of miduight oil, 
 or you will be reduced to a thread-paper. As 1 has^e told you, 
 you are not the same giil that you were when you came to the 
 relief of my injured ankle.*' 
 
 " I feel tolerably substantial, thank .you," returnee! Phillis, 
 ungraciously, for, in common with other girls, she hated to 
 be pitied for her looks, and she had a notion that, Mrs. Cheyne 
 only said this to plague her. " JMan is our head and task- 
 mistress. We leal regular lives, have stated hours f r work, 
 take plenty of exercise, aud, on the whole, are doing as well 
 as possible." 
 
 " There speaks the Challoner spirit.'* 
 
 " Oh, yes; that never fails us. But now Nan will be wait- 
 ing for me, and I only just called to inquire aftt-r you." 
 
 " And you did not expect to see me. Well, come again 
 when r am in a better humor for conversation. If you stay 
 longer now I might not be sparing of my sarcasms. By the 
 bye, what has become of our young vicar? Tell him he has 
 not CDiiverted lae yet, and I quite miss his pastoral visits. Do 
 you know,'' looking so keenly at Phillis that she blushed with 
 annoyance, " a little bird tells me that our pastor has under- 
 taken the supervision of the Friary. Which is it, my dear, 
 that he is trying to convert?" 
 
 The tone and manner were intolerable to Phillis. 
 
 "1 don't understand you. Mis. Cheyne," she returned, 
 with supeib youthful haughtiness. " Mr. Drummond is a 
 kind neighbor, and so is Miss Mattie. You may keep these 
 insinuations for him, if you will." Then she would have 
 esuaped without another glance at her tormentor, but Mrs. 
 Chi-yne detained her. 
 
 " There, never mind. I will take back my naughty speech. 
 It was rude and impertinent of me, I know that. But 1 like 
 you all the better for your spirit; and, my dear, take care of 
 yourself and your pretty sisters, for he is not worthy of one of 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Cheyne! for shame!" And Phillis's gray eyes 
 sparkled with lively indignation. 
 
 " He is a very ordinary good man; and you and your sisters 
 are real metal, and worth your weight in gold. There! go 
 away, child; and come and see me again, for it does me good 
 to torment you!" And the singular woman drew the girl 
 into her arms suddenly and kissed her forehead, and then 
 pushed her away. " To-morrow, or the next day, but not 
 to-night," she said, hurriedly, "i should make you cross
 
 5?0T LTKE OTfiER GTRLS. 239 
 
 fifty times if you stay longer to-night.'* And Phillis was too 
 thankful to be released to linger any longer; but her cheeks 
 were burning as she walked down the avenue. 
 
 " Why do people always put these things into girls' heads?" 
 she said to herself. " A young man can not come into the 
 house, can not say pleasant words, or do kind, neighborly 
 actions, but one must at once attribute motives of this kind. 
 1 have not been free from blame myself in this matter, for 1 
 have feared more than once that Nan's sweet face attracted 
 him— poor Mr. Drummond! I hope not, for he would not 
 have a chance against Dick. I wonder if I ought to say a 
 word? if it would be premature or unnecessary? But 1 should 
 hate him to be unhappy "—here Phillis sighed, and then threw 
 up her head proudly: " I might say just a word, mentioning 
 Dick — for he does not know of his existence. I wonder if he 
 would take the hint. 1 could do it very cleverly, 1 know. I 
 hate to see people burning their fingers for nothing: 1 always 
 want to go to their rescue. He is tiresome, but he is very 
 nice. And, heigh-ho! what a crooked world we live in — 
 nothing goes quite straight in it." And Phillis sighed again. 
 
 " Miss Challoner!" The voice sounded so near her that 
 Phillis gave a great start. She had nearly reached the gate, 
 and there was Mr. Dancy walking beside her, just as though 
 he had emerged from the ground; and yet Phillis had not 
 heard a sound. "Have I startled you?" he continued, 
 gravely. *' You were in such a brown study that I had to 
 call you by your name to rouse you. There is nothing wrong 
 at the White House, I hope?" 
 
 " Oh, no! Mrs. Cheyne is better; her nervous attack has 
 quite passed off." 
 
 " Magdalene suffering from a nervous attack?" and then 
 Mr. Dancy stopped, and bit his lip. *' Excuse me, I knew 
 her before she was married, when she was Magdalene Daven- 
 port—before she and poor Herbert Cheyne unfortunately 
 came together. I doubt whether things have happened for 
 the best; there— 1 mean," as Phillis looked at him in some 
 perplexity, " that there is little fear of her being an inconsol- 
 able widow." 
 
 " How can you say such a thing!" returned Phillis, indig- 
 nantly. " That is the way with you men, you judge bo 
 harshly of women. Mrs. Cheyne is singular in her ways. 
 She wears no mourning, and yet a more unhappy creature 
 never existed on this earth. Not inconsolable — and yet no 
 one dares speak a word of comfort to her, so great is her 
 
 misery. "
 
 ^40 KOT LIKE OTHKR GIRLS. 
 
 " Excuse me one moment; I have been ill, and am still sub- 
 ject to fits of giddiness. A mere vertigo; nothing more." 
 But he said the word gasping for breath, and looked so deathly 
 pale that Phillis felt quite frightened as she stood beside him. 
 
 They had been walking a few steps down the Braidwood 
 Road, and Phillis had looked out anxiously for Nan who had 
 not yet appeared in sight. But now Mr. Dancy had come to 
 an abrupt pause, and was leaning for support against the low 
 wall that shut in the grounds of the White House. Phillis 
 looked at him a little curiously, in spite of her sympathy. He 
 still wore his loose cloak, though the evening was warm; but 
 he had loosened it, and taken off his felt hat for air. 
 
 In figure, he was a tall, powerful-looking man, only thin 
 and almost emaciated, as though from recent illness. His 
 features were handsome, but singularly bronzed and weather- 
 beaten, as though from constant exposure to sun and 
 wind; and even the blue spectacles could not hide a pair of 
 keen blue eyes. By daylight Phillis could see that his brown 
 beard and mustache were tinged with gray, and the hair on the 
 temples was almost white; and yet he seemed still in the 
 prime of life. It was a far handsomer face than Archie 
 Drummond's; but the deep lines and gray hair spoke of 
 trouble more than age, and one thing especially impressed 
 Phillis — the face was as refined as the voice. 
 
 If Mr. Dancy were aware of her close scrutiny, he took no 
 notice of it. He leaned liis arm against the wall and rested 
 his head against it; and the thin brown hand was plainly vis- 
 ible, with a deep red scar just above the wrist. 
 
 And Phillis regarded it with sudden horror, wondering what 
 had inflicted it, he suddenly aroused himself with an apology: 
 
 " There! it has passed: it never lasts long. Shall we walk 
 on? I am so ashamed of detaining you in this way; but when 
 a man has had a sunstroke — " 
 
 "Oh, that is sad!" returned Phillis, in a sympathizing 
 voice. " Is that why you keep in-doors so much in the day- 
 light? at least" — correcting herself in haste, for she had 
 spoken without thought — " one never sees you about," which 
 was a foolish speech, and showed she took notice of his move- 
 ments; but she could not betray Mr. Drummond. 
 
 " Some one else only cornea out in the evening," he re- 
 joined, rather pointedly. " Who told you I kept in-doors in 
 the duylight? Oh, I know!" the frown passing from his face, 
 for he had spoken quickly and in an annoyed fashion. " This 
 f\ounds like a parson's prating; 1 know the language of old«
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 241 
 
 By the bye, did you set the clergy on mv track?" turning the 
 blue spectacles full on the embarrassed Philiis. 
 
 "1? no indeed!" and then she went on frankly: "Mr. 
 Drummond was at our house, and he told us ihat he always 
 called on Mrs. Williams's lodgers.*' 
 
 " True, Miss Challoner; but how did his reverence know 
 Mrs. Williams had a lodger?" 
 
 This was awkward, but Philiis steered her way through the 
 difficulty with her usual dexterity. 
 
 " I mentioned to my mother that you were kind enough to 
 see me home, and she repeated the faot to Mr. Drummond." 
 
 " Thank you. Miss Challoner; now I understand. 1 won- 
 der if your mother would be very shocked if a stranger in- 
 truded upon her? but you and I must have some more con- 
 versation together, and'l do not sue how it is to be mtinaged 
 in accordance with what you ladies call les convenances." 
 
 "My mother — " began Philiis, demurely; and then she 
 paused, and looked up at him in asloni»hmeut. " What, Mr. 
 i)ancy! you purpose to call on my mother, and yet you re- 
 fused Mr. Drummond's visit?" for the news of Archie's defeat 
 had already reached the Friary through Miss Mattie. 
 
 Mr. Dancy seemed rather nonplused at this, and then he 
 laughed : 
 
 " Ah, you are shrewd, Miss Challoner; there is no deceiv- 
 ing you! I have see Mr. Drummond pass and repass often 
 enough; and — pardon me, if he be a friend— I thnughl from 
 the cut of his coat that he was a prig, and 1 have a horror of 
 clerical prigs." 
 
 " He is not priggish in the least," was Phillis's annoyed re- 
 joinder. 
 
 " No? Well, appearances are sometimes deceptive; perhaps 
 1 was too hasty in my dread of being bored. But here comes 
 your sister, I think — at least, I have seen you together: so I 
 am leaving you in good hands. " And, before Philiis could 
 reply, he had lifted his hat and turned away, just as Nan, 
 whose vigilant eyes were upon him, was hurrying Lo join her 
 sister. 
 
 " Oh, Philiis, was that Mr. Duncy?" she asked; in a re- 
 proachful voice, as she hurried up to her. 
 
 " Yes, Nannie, it was Mr. Dancy," returned Philiis, com- 
 
 fosedly; " and 1 wish I could have introduced him to you, for 
 belie«fe he is coming to call on mother." And, when she 
 had related 'his astounding piece of intelligence, she looked in 
 Nan's face and laughed, and, in high good humor, proceeded 
 to relate their couversaLion.
 
 34§ NOT LIKE OftiER GIRLl. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ** NOW WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER." 
 
 One fine morning in September, Mr. Drummond was stand- 
 ing at the back of Milner's Library, turning over the last new 
 assortment of booiis from Mudie, when two gentlemen entered 
 the shop. 
 
 Strangers were always interesting to Archie, and he criti- 
 cised them under a twofold aspect — pastoral and social. In 
 this way curiosity becomes a virtue, and a man with a mission 
 is not without his interests in life. Hadleigh was Mr. Drum- 
 mond's sheep-walk, where he shepherded his lambs, and looked 
 after his black sheep and tried to wash them white, or, in de- 
 fault of that, at least to make out that their Heece was not so 
 sable after all: so he now considered it his duty to leave off 
 turning over the pages of a seductive-looking novel, and to 
 inspect the strangers. 
 
 They were both dressed in tweed traveling costumes, and 
 looked sunburned, as though they had just returned from a 
 walking-tour. The elder was a short, wir}- man, with a shrewd 
 face andquiraical eyes; and he asked in a sharp, clipping voice, 
 that was not free from accent, for the last number of the local 
 paper, containing lists of inhabitants, visitors, etc. 
 
 Meanwhile, the younger man walked about the shop, whis- 
 tling softly to himself, as though he had a fund of cheerful- 
 ness on hand which must find vent somewhere. When he 
 came opposite Archie, he took a brief survey of him in a 
 careless, good-humored fashion, and then turned on his heel, 
 bestowing a very cursory glance on Miss Masham, who stood 
 shakiiig her black ringlets after the fashion of shop-women, 
 and waiting to know the gentleman's pleasure. 
 
 No one would have called this young man very good looking, 
 unless such a one had a secret predilection for decidedly red- 
 dish hair and a sandy mustache; but there was an air of bon- 
 hommie, of frank kindness, of boyish fun and pleasantry, that 
 attracted even strangers, and Archie looked after him with 
 considerable interest. 
 
 "Oxford cut, father and son: father looks rather a queer 
 customer," thought x\rchie to himself. 
 
 "Dick, come here! why, where is that fellow?" suddenly 
 exclaimed the elder man, beginning to put on his eyeglasses 
 very nervously. 
 
 ** Coming, father. AU right: wh&t is itl" returned the
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 2id 
 
 imperturbable Dick. He was still whistling " Twickeiihum 
 Ferry," under his breath, as he came to the countei-aud leuuid 
 with both elbows upou it. 
 
 " Good gracious, boy, what does this mean?" went on the 
 other, in an irritable, perturbed voice; and he read a short ad- 
 vertisement, written in a neat, lady-like hand: " ' Drtss-mak- 
 ing undertakeo. Terms moderate, and all orders proui[)!ly 
 executed. Apply to the Misses Challoner, the F,iary, 
 Braid wood Road. Ladies waited upon at their own residences. ' 
 What the — " he was about to aad a stronoer term, but, in 
 deference to Miss Milner, substituted— " dickens does this 
 mean, Dick?" 
 
 The young man's reply was to snatch (he paper out of his 
 father's hand and study it intently, wilh his elbows still on 
 the counter, and the last bar of " Twickenham Ferry " died 
 away uncompleted on his lips; and if any one could ha^e seen 
 his face they would have remarked a curious redness spread- 
 ing to his forehead. 
 
 "Nan's handwriting, by Jovel" he muttered, but still in- 
 audibly; and then he stared at the paper, and his face grew 
 redder. 
 
 *' Well, Dick, can't you answer? What does this piece of 
 tomfoolery mean — 'dress-making undertaken — ladies waited 
 upon at Llitiir own residences ? Can there he two families of 
 Challoner, and two Friaries? and why don't you speak and 
 say soniL'thing?" 
 
 " Because 1 know as little as yourself, father," returned the 
 young man, without lifting his head; and he surreptitiously 
 conveyed the paper to his pocket. " Perhaps this lady," in- 
 dicating Miss Milner, " could inform us?" 
 
 " 1 beg your pardon," observed a gentlemanly voice near 
 them; an 1, looking up, Dick found himself confronted by the 
 young clergyman. ' I overheard your inquiries, and, as I am 
 acquainted with the ladies in question, I may be able to satisfy 
 you." 
 
 _ " 1 should be extremely obliged, to you if you would do so, 
 sir," returned the elder man, with alacrity; but Dick turned 
 away rather ungraciously, and his cheerful face grew sullen. 
 
 " Confound him! what does he mean by his interference? 
 Knows them, indeed! such a handsome beggar, too — a prig, 
 one can see that from the cut; of his clothes and beard I'" — 
 And again he planted his elbows on the counter, and began 
 pulling his rough little stubblj mustache. 
 
 "If you are referring to a mother and three daughters who 
 live m the Friary and eke out a scanty income by takmg m
 
 244 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 dress-making, I am happy to say 1 know them well,*' went on 
 Archie. " My sisier and 1 visit at the cottage, and they at- 
 tend my church; and, as Miss Milner can tell you, they work 
 hard enough all the six days of the week." 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Drummond, there are few that work harder!'* 
 broke in Miss Milner, volubly. " Such pretty creatures, too, 
 to earn their own living; and yet they have a bright word and 
 a smile for everybody! Ever since Miss Phillis " (here Dick 
 groaned) " made that blue dress for Mrs. Trimmings — she is 
 the butcher's wife, and a dressy woman, though not flashy 
 like Mrs. Squalls— they have been quite the rage in Hadleigh. 
 All the townspeople, and the resident gentry, and even the 
 visitors, want their gowns made by the Miss Challoners. 
 Their fit is perfect, atid they have such taste. And — " But 
 here the luckless Dick could bear no more. 
 
 " If you will excuse me, sir," he said, addressing his bewil- 
 dered father, " I have left something particular at the hotel; I 
 must just run and fetch it." 
 
 Dick did uot specifv whether it was his handkerchief or hia 
 cigar-case, or liis purse, of which he stood so urgently in need; 
 but before Mr. Mayne could remonstrate he had gone out of 
 the shop. He went as far as the d tor of the hotel, and there 
 he seized on a passing waiter, and questioned him in a breath- 
 less manner. Having obtained his information, he set off at 
 a walk that was almost a run through the town, and down the 
 Braid wood Road. The few foot-passengers l hat he met shrunk 
 out of the way of this young man; for he walked, lo king 
 mither to the right nor to the left, as though he saw nothing 
 before him. And his eyes wore gloomy, and he did not whistle; 
 and the only words he said to himself were, " Oh, Nan, never 
 to have told me of this!" over and over again. 
 
 The gate of (he Friarv stood open, for a small boy had been 
 washing the flags, and had left his pail, and gone off to play 
 marbles in the road with a younger brother. Dick, who un- 
 derstood the bearings of the case at once, shook his fist at the 
 truant behind his back, and fhfii turned in at the gate. 
 
 lie peeped in at the hall door first; but Dorothy was peel- 
 ing [lotatoes in the kitchen, and would see him as he passed, 
 go lie skirted the little path under the yews. And if Dulce 
 had been at her sewing machine as usual, she would have seen 
 him at once; but this morning the machine was silent. 
 
 A few steps further he came to a full stop, and his eyes be- 
 gan to glisten, and he pricked up his ears after the manner of 
 lovers; for, through auopeu window just behind him ho could
 
 250T LIKE OTHER GIEL8. 245 
 
 hear Nan's voice, sweet and musical, reading aloud to her sis- 
 ters. 
 
 " Oh, the darling!" he murmured, and composed himself 
 for a feiv moments' ecstasy, for no doubt she was reading Ten- 
 nyson, or Barrett Browning, or one of the poetry books he had 
 given her; but he was a little disappointed when he found it 
 "was prose. 
 
 " ' With regard to washing-dresses,* read Nan, in her 
 clear tones, ' cottons, as a general thing, have another ma- 
 terial made up with them; the underskirt may be of foulard 
 or satin — ' " 
 
 " Oh. I dare say! What nonsensical extravagance!" ob- 
 served Phi His. 
 
 " ' Or the bodice of surah, satin, cashmere or llama, and the 
 skirt of cotton. . . . The skirts are nearly always made with 
 single box-plaits, with a flat surface in the center, and a flat 
 band of trimming is often stitched on at about five inches frnm 
 the edge of the flounce.' I should say that would be sweetly 
 pretty, dear: we might try it for Mrs. Peulip's dress. And 
 just listen to a little more." 
 
 " 1 shall do nothing of the kind," blurted out Dick. " Oh, 
 Kan! Nan! how could you be such a traitor — wa:;hing- Presses, 
 indeed, and me left in ignorance!" And there was Dick, his 
 face glowing and indignant, standing in the window, with 
 Laddie barking furiously at him, and his outstretched hand 
 nearly touching Nan. 
 
 Phillis and Dulce screamed with surprise, being young and 
 easily excited; but Nan only said, " Oh, Dii-k!" very family; 
 and her sweet face grew red and pale by turns, and her fingers 
 fluttered a little in his grasp, but only for joy and the sheer 
 delight of seeing him. 
 
 As for Dick, his eyes shone, but his manner was masterful. 
 
 " Look here!" he said, drawing Nan's advertisement from 
 his pocket; '* we had come down here to surprise you girls, 
 ai]d to have a little fun and tennis; and I meant to have treated 
 you to the public ground at the hotel, as I knew you had only 
 a scrubby little bit of lawn; and this is what has met my eyes 
 this morning! You have deceived mother and me; you have 
 let us enjoy our holiday, which 1 didn't a bit, for I had a sort 
 of nasty presentiment and a heap of uncomfortable thoughts; 
 and all the while you were slaving away at this hideous dress- 
 making — I wish I could burn the whole rag, tag, and bobtail 
 — and never let us know you wanted anything. And you call 
 that being friends!" 
 
 " Yes, and the best of friends, too," responded Phillis,
 
 £46 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 cheerfully, for Nan was too much crushed by all this eloquence 
 to answer. " Come along, Dulce! don't listen any more to 
 this nonsense, when you know your mother is wanting us. 
 Dick is all very well when he is in a good humor, but time and 
 dress-making wait for no man." And the young hjijocrite 
 drag:ged the unwilling Dulce away. " Can't you leave them 
 alone to come to an understanding?" whispered Phillis in her 
 ear, when they got outside the door. "I can see it in his 
 eyes; and Nan is on the verge of crying, she is so upset with 
 surprise. And, you goose, where are jon going now?" 
 " To mother. Did you not say she wanted us?" 
 
 " Oh, you silly child!" returned Phillis, calmly: " does not 
 moiher always want us? One must say what comes uppermost 
 in one's mind in emergemies of this sort. But for me, you 
 would have sto^ d there for an hour staring at them. Mother 
 is out, as it happens: if you like we will go and meet her. 
 Oh, no, I forgot: Dick is a young man, and it would not be 
 proper. Let us go into the kitchen and help Dorothy. " And 
 away ihev went. 
 
 " Phillis is a trump!" thought Dick, as he shut the door. 
 " I love that girl." And then he marched up to Nan and 
 took her hands boldly. 
 
 " N(-w, Nan, you owe me amends for this; at least you will 
 say you are sorry." 
 
 " No, Dick," Iianging her head, for she could not face his 
 look, he was so masterful and determined with her, and so un- 
 like the easy Dick of old. "I am not a bit sorry: I would 
 not have spoiled your holiday for worlds." 
 
 " My holiday! a precious holiday it was without, you! A lot 
 of stupid climbing, with grinning idiots for company. Well, 
 never mind that," his wrathful tone changing in a moment. 
 " So you kept me in the dark just for my own good?'^ 
 
 " Yes, of course, Dick. What an unnecessary question!" 
 
 " And you wanted me. Nan?" 
 
 *' Yes," very faintly, and there was a little tear-drop on one 
 of Nan's lashes. 
 
 She had been so miserable — how miserable he would never 
 know; but he need not have asked her that. 
 
 "Oh, very well: then I won't bother you with any more 
 questions. Now we understand each other, and can just go 
 to business." 
 
 Nan looked up in his face in alarm. She anticipated an- 
 other lecture, but nothing of the sort came, Dick cleared his 
 throaty got a little red, and went ou;
 
 IfOT LTKE OTHER GIRLS. ^4*? 
 
 *' 7 say gel fie our business, because we have been as good as 
 engaged '^all iliese years. You know you belong to me, Nan?" 
 
 " Yes, Dick," she returned, obediently; for she was too 
 much taken by surprise to know what she ought to say, and 
 the two words escaped from her almost unconsciously. 
 
 " Tiiere never was a time we were not fond of each other — 
 ever since you were so high," pointing to what would repre- 
 sent the height of an extremely dwarfish infant of seven or 
 eight months. 
 
 " Oh, not so long ago as that," returned Nan, laughing a lit- 
 tle. 
 
 " Quite as long," repeated Dick, solemnly. " I declare, 1 
 have been so fond of you all my life, Nau, that 1 have been 
 the happiest fellow in the world. Now, look here: just say 
 after me, ' Dick, I promise on my word and honor to marry 
 you.'" 
 
 Nan repeated the words, and then she paused in affright. 
 
 " But your father!" she gasped — '* and the dress-makingi 
 Oh, Dick! what have you made me say? You have startled 
 me into forgetting everything. Oh, dear! what shall 1 do?" 
 continued Nan, in the most innocent way. " We shall be en- 
 gaged all our lives, for he will never allow you to marry me. 
 Dick, dear Dick, please let me off ! I never meant to give in 
 hke this." 
 
 " Never mind what you meant to do," returned Dick, with 
 the utmost gravity: " the thing is, you have done it. On your 
 word and honor, Nan, remember. Now we are engaged." 
 
 " Oh, but Dick, please don't take such advantage of me, 
 just because 1 said— or, at least, you said — I was fond of you. 
 What will mother say? She will be so dreadfully shocked; 
 and it is so cruel to your father. I will be engaged to you in 
 a way. 1 will promise — I will vow, if you will — never to 
 marry any one else." 
 
 "I should think not," interrupted Dick, fiercely. "I 
 would murder the fellow, whoever he was!" and in spite of 
 himself, his thoughts reverted to the fair beard and handsome 
 face of the young clergyman. 
 
 Nan saw from his obstinate face that her eloquence was all 
 wasted; but she made one more attempt, blushing like a rose: 
 
 " I will even promise to marry you, if your father gives his 
 consent. You know, Dick, I would never go against him.^* 
 
 " Nor I. You ought to know me better, Nan, than to 
 think 1 should act shabbily and leave the dear old fellow in the 
 dark."
 
 HB NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " Then you will set me free/' marveling a little over hef 
 lover's good sense and filial submission. 
 
 "As free as an engagement permits. Why, what do you 
 mean, Nan? Have I not just told you we are engaged 
 for good and all? Do you suppose I do not mean to tell my 
 father so on the first opportunity? There becomes! bless the 
 man, 1 knew he would follow me! Now you shall see how I 
 uao stick up for the girl I love.'* But Dick thought it better 
 to release tbe hand he had been holding all this time. 
 
 There are certain moments in life when one is in too exalted 
 a mood to feel the usual sensations that circumstances might 
 warrant. At another time Nan would have been shocked at 
 the condition of her work-room, being a tidy little soul, and 
 thiifty as to pins and other odds and ends; and the thought 
 of Mr. Mayne coming upon them unexpectedly would have 
 friglitened her out of her senses. 
 
 The room was certainly not in its usual order. There had 
 been much business transacted there that morning. The table 
 was strewn with breadths of gay hroche silk; an unfinished 
 gauzy-looking dress hung over a chair; the door of the ward- 
 robe was open, and a row of dark-looking shapes — like Blue- 
 beard's decapitated wives — were dimly revealed to view. A 
 sort of lay figure, draped in calico, was in one corner. As 
 Nail observed to Phillis afterward, " There was not a tidy cor- 
 ner in the whole room." 
 
 Nevertheless, the presence of Dick so glorified the place that 
 Nan looked around at the chaos quite calmly, as she heard Mr. 
 Mayne's sharp vuice first inquiring; for her mother and then 
 for herself. Dorothy, with her usual tact, would have shown 
 him into the little parlor; but Nan, who wished for no dis- 
 guise, stepped forward and threw open the door. 
 
 " I am here, Dorothy. Come in, Mr. Mayne. Dick is here 
 too, and 1 am so sorry mother is out/' 
 
 " I might have known that scapegrace would have given me 
 the slip!" muttered Mr. Mavne, as he shook hands ungra- 
 ciously with Nan, and then followed her into the work-room. 
 
 Dick, who was examining the wardrobe, turned round and 
 saluted his father with a condescending nod: 
 
 " You were too long with the parson: I could not wait, you 
 see. Did you make all these dresses, Nan? You are awfully 
 clever, you girls! They look first rate — this greeny-browny- 
 yeilowish one, for example," pulling out a much furbelowed 
 garment destined for Mrs. Squails. 
 
 " Oh, Dick, do please leave them alone!" and Nan author- 
 itatively waved him away and closed the wardrobe.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIULS. 2i9 
 
 t( 
 
 I was only arlrairing your handin^ork," returned Dick, 
 imperturbably, " Does she uot look a charming little dress- 
 maker, father?" regarding Nati with undisguised pleasure, as 
 she stood in her pretty bib-apron before them. 
 
 But Mr. Mayue only drew his heavy eyebrows together and 
 said : 
 
 " Pshaw, Dick! don't chatter such folly. 1 want to have 
 some talk with Miss Xancy myself." 
 
 " All right: I have had my innings,'* returned naughty 
 Dick; but he shot a look at Nan that made her blush to her 
 finger-ends, and that was uot lost on Mr. Mayne. 
 
 " Well, now, Miss Nancy, what does all this mean?" he 
 asked, harshly. " Here we have run down just in a friendly 
 way — Dick and I — leaving the mother rather knocked up after 
 her travels at Longmead, to look you up and see how you are 
 getting on. And now we find you have been deceiving us all 
 along, and keeping us in the dark, and that you are making 
 yourselves the talk of the place, sewing a parcel of gowns for 
 all the towns- people. " 
 
 Mr. Mayne did not add that his son had so bothered him 
 for the last three weeks to run down to Badleigh that he had 
 acceded at last to his request, in the hope of enjoying a little 
 peace. 
 
 " Draw it mild!" muttered Dick, who did not much admire 
 this opening tirade; but Kan answered with much dignity: 
 
 " If people talk about us it is because of the novelty. They 
 have never heard of gentlepeople doing this sort of work be- 
 fore — " 
 
 " I should think not!" wrathfully from Mr. Mayne. 
 
 " Things were so bad with us that we should have all had 
 to separate if Phillis had not planned this scheme; and then 
 mother would have broken her heart; but now we are getting 
 on famously. Our work gives satisfaction, we have plenty of 
 orders; we do not forfeit people's good opinions, for we have 
 nothing but respect shown us, and — " 
 
 But here Mr. Mayne interrupted her flow of quiet eloquence 
 somewhat rudely. 
 
 " Pack of nonsense!" he exclaimed, angrily. " I wonder 
 at your mother — 1 do indeed. I thought she had more sense. 
 You have no right to outrage your friends in this way! it is 
 treating us badly. What will your mother say, Dick? She 
 will be dreadfully shocked. I am sorry for you, my boy — 
 I am indeed: but, under the circumstances — " 
 
 But what he was about to add was checked by a very singu-
 
 250 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 lar proceeding on the part of his sou; for Dick suddenly took 
 Nan's hand, and drew her forward. 
 
 " Don't be sorry for me, father; I am the happiest fellow 
 alive. Nan and 1 have come to an understanding at last, 
 after all these years. Allow me to present to you the future 
 Mrs. Richard. Mayiie." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 DICK THINKS OF THE CITY. 
 
 When Dick had uttered this audacious speech, Mr. Mayne 
 started back, and his expression of mingled wrath and dismay 
 was so ludicrous that under any other circumstances his son 
 would have found it difficult to keep his countenance. 
 
 " What! what I" he almost shouted, losing all sense of po- 
 liteness, and even of Nan's presence; "you young fool, what 
 do you mean by trumping up this nonsense and presuming to 
 talk to me in this way?" 
 
 Dick thought it prudent to drop Nan's hand — and, indeed, 
 the girl shrunk away from them both in alarm at this out- 
 burst: nevertheless, his countenance and bearing maintained 
 the same admirable sang froid as he confronted his angry 
 parent. 
 
 " Now, father, what is the use of calling me names? When 
 a fellow is of age, and knows his own mind, he does not care 
 a pin for being called a fool. ' Hard words break no bones,' 
 as our copy-leaves used to tell us — no, I have not got that 
 quite right, but that is about my meaning. Look here, fa- 
 ther," he continued, in a coaxing, boyish voice; " I have cared 
 for Nan ever since she was a little creature so high," again 
 reverting to the infantile measurement. " 1 have always 
 meant to marry her — that is, if she would have me," correct- 
 ing himself, as Nan drew herself up a little proudly. " Money 
 or no money, there is not another girl in England that 1 would 
 have for a wife. I would wait for her if 1 had to wait half 
 my life, just the same as she would wait for me; and so, as 1 
 said before, when a fellow has made up his mind, there is noth- 
 ing more to say." And here Dick j^ursed up his lips for a 
 whistle, but thought better of it, and fell to twisting and un- 
 twisting the ends of his sandy mustache. 
 
 Nan's downcast eyes revealed nothing. But if Dick could 
 ody have seen the happy look in them! What eloquence 
 ci^uld ever have been so dear to her as that clear rougli-and- 
 rPHdy statement of her lover's feelings for her? " There is 
 X^K another girl in England that I would have for a wife. "' 
 
 i)
 
 iroT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. fl6l 
 
 Could anything surpass the beauty of that sentence? Oh, how 
 manly, how true he was, this Dick of hers! 
 
 " Oh, indeed! I am to say nothing, am 1?'* returned Mr. 
 Mayne, with exquisite irony. " My son is to dictate to me; 
 and I am to be silent! Oh, you young fool!" he mutteied 
 under his breath; but then for the moment words seemed to 
 fail him. 
 
 In spite of the wrath that was boiling within him, and to 
 which he did not dare give vent in Nan's presence, in spite of 
 the grief anddisappoiutment that his son's defiance had caused 
 him, Dicii's bearing filled him with admiration and amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 This boy of his was worth something, he thought. He had 
 a clear head of his own and could speak to some purpose. 
 Was a likely young fellow like this to be thrown away on that 
 Challoner girl? Poor Nan! Pretty and blooming as she 
 looked, Mr. Mayne felt almost as though he hated her. Why 
 had she come between his boy and him? Had he a dozen 
 sons, that he could spare one of them? Was not Dick his 
 only one — the son of his right hand, his sole hope and ambi- 
 tion? Mr. Mayne could have wept as these thoughts passed 
 through his mind. 
 
 It was at this moment that Nan thought it right to speak. 
 Dick had had his say, but it was not for her to be silent. 
 
 " Mr. Mayne, please listen to me a moment," she said, 
 pleadingly. " No; I must speak to your father," as Dick, 
 much alarmed, tried to silence her. " He must not think 
 hard things of us, and misunderstand us." 
 
 " No, dear; indeed you had better be silent!" implored 
 Dick, anxiously; but Nan for once turned a deaf ear to him. 
 
 "I must speak," she persisted. " Mr. Mayne, it is quite 
 true what Dick says: we have been together all our lives, and 
 have grown to care for each other. 1 can not remember the 
 time," the tears coming into her bright eyes, " when Dick 
 was not more to me than a brother; it is all of such long 
 standing, it is far, far too late to stop it now." 
 
 " We shall see about that, Miss Nancy," muttered Mr. 
 Mayne, between his teeth; but the girl did not seem to hear 
 him. 
 
 " Dick took me by surprise just now. I ought to have been 
 more on my guard, and not have given him that promise." 
 
 " What promise?" demanded Mr. Mayne, harshly; and Nan 
 hung her head, and returned, shyly: 
 
 " That I would marry him some time; but, indeed — indeed 
 he made me say it, and 1 was so taken by surprise. No, Dick;
 
 259 Kot UKt oftitn girls. 
 
 you must let me finish/' for Dick was looking at her with 
 piteous entreaty in his eyes. " I know we were wrong to say 
 so much without your leave; but indeed I will do your sou no 
 harm. I can not marry any one else, because I am engaged 
 to him; but as far as he is concerned he is free. I will never 
 marry liim without your permission; he shall not come here if 
 you do not wish; but do not be so atjgry with us;" and here her 
 lip quivered. " If you did not mean this to happen, you 
 should have kept us apart all these years." 
 
 " Oh, hush, dear!" whispered Dick in her ear; but Mr. 
 Mayne almost thrust him aside, and laid a rough grasp on the 
 girl's wrist. '* Never mind him: answer me one question. 
 Are you serious in what you say, that you will never marry 
 him without my permission?" 
 
 " Of course I will not," answered Nan, quite shocked. 
 " Dick would not ask me to do such a thing; he is far too 
 honorable, and — and — no one would think of such thing." 
 
 " Very well; that is all I wanted toknow;'^ and he released 
 her, not overgently: " the rest I can settle with Master Dick 
 himself. Good-morning, Miss Nancy: under the circum- 
 stances, I do not think I will wait to see your mother. I am 
 not quite in the mood for ladies; perhaps, later on, I may have 
 something to say to her." 
 
 " Don't you mean to shake hands with me, Mr. Mayne?" 
 asked poor Nan, much distressed at the evil temper of Dick's 
 father; but there was no sign of softening. 
 
 " Yq&; I will shake hands with you, and gladly, if you will 
 promise to be sensible, and send this boy of mine about his 
 business. Cooie now. Nan; own for my comfort that it is 
 only a bit of boy-and-girl nonsense that means nothing, lam 
 not overparticular, and do not object to a bit of flirting with 
 young folk." 
 
 " You had better go with your father, Dick," returned 
 Nan, with much dignity, and quite ignoring his speech. 
 
 Dick seized the little hand that had been so rudely rejected, 
 and kissed it under his father's eyes. 
 
 *' 1 will see you again somehow," he whispered; and Nan 
 was quite content with this promise. Dick would keep his 
 word, she knew: he w'ould not leave Hadleigh without seeing 
 her. 
 
 A very unpleasant hour ensued for poor Dick. Mr. Mayne 
 was in one of his worst tempers; he had conducted himself to 
 Nan in an ungeutlemaiily manner, and he knew it; as Dick 
 said •^■0 liimself :
 
 NOT LIKE- OTHER 6IRLS. §53 
 
 ** It is very hard ou a fellow when one's father acts like a 
 cad. " 
 
 Mr. Mayne had shown himself a cad. Ko gentleman by 
 birth or breeding would have conducted himself in ihut 
 otfensive way. Bad temper had broken down the trammels 
 of conventionality; never before in his life had Dick IVlt so ut- 
 terly ashamed of his father. Mr. Mayne was conscious of his 
 son's crilic-ism, and it mude things worse. It spoke well for 
 Diek's prudence and self-commiind that he let the stoim of 
 his father's anger break over his head, and said no word. Mr. 
 Mayne ranted and raved; 1 am afraid he even swoie once or 
 twice — at least his language was undesirably strong — and Dick 
 walked beside him and held his peace. " Poor old buy, he is 
 terribly cut up about this!" he thought once. 
 
 Mr. Drumniond saw them coming along, and wondered al; 
 the energy of the older man. Was it the visit to the Fiiary 
 that had put him out? and then he fell anew to cogitation. 
 Who were these people who were so cucious about ihe Chal- 
 loners? At least that sulky young fellow had taken no a[ipar- 
 ent interest, for he had made an excuse to leave them; but 
 the other one had persisted in very close investigation. Per- 
 haps he was some relation — an uncle or a distant cousin; evi- 
 dently he had some right or claim to be displeased. Archie 
 determined to solve the mystery as soon as possible. 
 
 " Well, sir, have you nothing to say for yourself?" de- 
 manded Mr. Mayne, when he had fairly exhausted himself. 
 He bad disiidieriied i^ick half a dozen times; he had deprived 
 him of his liberal allowance; he had spoken of a projected 
 voyage to New Zealand; and Dick had only walked on stead- 
 ily, and thought of the cold, trembling little hand he had 
 kissed. " Have you nothing to say for yourself?" he vocif- 
 erated. 
 
 Dick woke up at this. 
 
 " Oh, yes, 1 have plenty to say," he returned, cheerfully; 
 "but two can not talk at once, you know. It was right for 
 you to have the first innings, and all that; and I say, father " 
 — his filial feelings coming to the surface — " I am awfully 
 sorry, and so is Nan, to see you so vexed. " 
 
 '* Speak for yourself," was the wrathful answer. " D;n^t 
 mention that girl's name in my hearing for the present." 
 
 '* Whose name? Nan's?" returned Dick, innocently. " 7 
 don't see how we are to keep it out of the conversatinu, when 
 the row is all about hpr. L 'fik here, father: I say again 1 am 
 awfully sorry you aie' vexed; but, as N — she says, it is too
 
 154 NOT UKT; OtHKil GIRL§. 
 
 late to mend matters now. I have made my choice, for 
 better for worse, and 1 am sorry it does not please you/' 
 
 "Please me!" retorted Mr. Mayne; and then he added, 
 venomously: " The girl said yon would not marry without my 
 permissiou; but I will never give it. Come, Dick, it is no 
 use thwarting me in this: you are our only child, and we have 
 other plans for you. Pshaw! you are only a boy! You have 
 not seen the world yet. There arfi dozens of girls far prettier 
 than this Nan. Give this nonsense up, and there is nothing 
 I will not do for you: you shall travel, have your liberty, 
 do as you like for the next two or three years, and 1 will not 
 worry you about marrying. Why, you are only one-and- 
 tiventy; and you have two more years of University life! 
 What an idea — a tine young fellow like you talking of tying 
 yourself down to matrimony!" 
 
 " There is no use of my going back to Oxford, father,'^ re- 
 turned Dick, steadily; " thank you kindly all the same, but 
 it would be sheer waste of money. I have made up my mind 
 to go into the city: it is the fashionable thing nowadays. And 
 one does not need Greek and Latin for that, though, of course, 
 it is an advantage to a fellow, and gives him a standing; but, 
 as I have to get my own living, I can not afford the two years. 
 Your old chums, Stanfield & IStan field, would give me a berth 
 at once." 
 
 " Is the boy mad? What on earth do you mean by all this 
 tomfoolery?" demanded Mr. Mayne, unable to believe his 
 ears. His small gray eyes opened widely and irately on his 
 son; but Dick took no notice. He walked on, with his 
 shouldeis looking rather square and determined; the corners 
 of his mouth were working rebelliously; evidently he did not 
 care to lo >k at his father, for fear of breaking into incontroi- 
 lablo laughter. Ee-illy, the dear old boy was getting too ab- 
 surd; he — Dick — could not stand it mm-h longer. " What in 
 the name of all that is foolish do you mean, sir?'*' thundered 
 Mr. Mciyne. 
 
 D'nm executed a low whistle, and then he said, in an ag- 
 grieved voice: 
 
 *' Well, faiher, 1 don't call you very consistent. I suppose 
 I know what being disinherited means. In plain language, 
 yon have told me about half a dozen times that if I stiuk to 
 Nan f am not to expent a shilling of your money. Now, in 
 my own miml. of coarse I call tbat precious hard on a fellow. 
 Colloid ri' g I have not b ■en sii' h a bud 8 irt of son afiei- all. 
 But 1 am not going to qnar , I with you about that: a maa 
 has a right, t,o do as lie inied wiih. his own money.' 
 
 )>
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 256 
 
 " Yes; but, Dick, you are going to be sensible, you know, 
 and drop the girl?" in a wheedling sort of tone. 
 
 " Excuse me, father; I am going to do nothing of the 
 kind," returned Dick, with suddeu firmness. " I am going 
 to sticK to her, as you did to my mother; and for just as long, 
 if it must be so. 1 am not a bit afraid that you will not give 
 your permission, if we only wait long enough to prove that 
 we are in earnest. The only thing I am anxious about is how 
 I am to get my living; and that is why 1 will not consent to 
 waste any more time at the Unversity. The bar is too up-hill 
 work; money is made quickest in the city: so, if you will be 
 good enough to give me an introduction to Stanfield & Stan- 
 field — I know they are a rattling good sort of people — that is 
 all I will trouble you about at present." And Dick drew in 
 a long breath of relief after this weighty speech. 
 
 " Do you mean this, Dick?" asked Mr. Mayne, rather 
 feebly. 
 
 They had reached the hotel now, and, as they entered the 
 private room where their luncheon was awaiting them, he sat 
 down as though he had grown suddenly old and tired, and 
 rested his head on his hands, perhaps to hide the moisture that 
 had gathered under his shaggy eyebrows. 
 
 " Yes, father, I do," returned Dick; but he spoke very 
 gently, and his hand touched his father's shoulder caressingly. 
 " Let me give you some wine: all this business has taken it 
 out of you." 
 
 " Yes, I have had a blow, Dick — my only boy has given me 
 a blow," returned Mr, Mayne, pathetically; but as he took 
 the wine his hand trembled. 
 
 "I am awfully sorry," answered Dick, penitently. *' If 
 it were anything else you had asked me but this — but 1 
 can not give up Nan." And, as he pronounced the name, 
 Dick's eyes shone with pride and tenderness. He was a soft- 
 hearted, affectionate young fellow, and this quarrel with his 
 father was costing him a great deal of pain. In everything 
 else he would have been submissive to his parents; but now 
 he had a purpose and responsibility in his life: he had to be 
 faithful to the girl whom ho had won; he must think for her 
 now as well as for himself. How sweet was this sense of dual 
 existence, this unity of heart and aimi 
 
 Mr. Mayne fairly groaned as he read the expression on his 
 sou's face. Dick's youthful countenance was stamped with 
 honest resolution. " I am going to stick to her, as yon did 
 to my mother" — that was what he had said. If this were 
 true, it w?is ail over with Dick'§ chances with the pretty little
 
 26Q NOT LlkL OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 heiress; he would never look at her or her thirty thousand! 
 pounds; " but all the same he, Kichaid Mayne, would never 
 consent to bis son marrying a dress-maker. If she had only 
 not disgraced herself, if she had not brought this humiliation 
 on them, he might have been brought to listen to their plead- 
 hig in good time ana at his own pleasure; but now, never! 
 never!" he muttered, and set his teeth hard. 
 
 " Dick," he said, suddenly, for there had been utter silence 
 for a space. 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 " You have upset me very much, and made me very un- 
 happy; but I wish you to say nothing to your moilier, and we 
 will talk about this again. Promise me one thing — that you 
 will go back to Oxford, at least until Christmas." 
 
 " What is the good of that, sii?" asked his son, dubiously. 
 
 " What is the good of anything? for you have taken every 
 bit of pleasure out of my life; but at least you can do as much 
 as this for me." 
 
 "Oh, yes, father, if you wish it," returned Dick, more 
 cheerfully; " but all the same I have fixed upon a city life." 
 
 "We will talk of that again," replied his father; "and 
 Dick, we go home to-morrow, and, unless you promise me not 
 to come down to HaJleigh between this and Christmas, I shall 
 be obliged to speak to Mrs. Challoner. " 
 
 " Oh, there is no need for that," returned Dick, sulkily. 
 
 *' You give me your word?" 
 
 ** Oh, yes," pushnig aside his chair with a kick. " It would 
 be no use coming down to Hadleigh, for Nan would not speak 
 to me. I know her too well for that. She has got such a con- 
 science, you know. I shall write to her, but 1 do not know if 
 she will answer my letters; but it does not matter: we shall 
 both be true as steel. If you don't want me any more, I 
 think I will have a cigar on the beach, for this room is con- 
 foundedly hot." And, without waiting for permission, Dick 
 strode off, still sulkily, and fully aware that his father meant 
 to follow him, for fear of his footsteps straying again down 
 the Braid wood Eoad. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 '* mCK IS TO BE OUR REAL BROTHER." 
 
 Never was a father more devoted to his sou's company than 
 Mr. Mayne was tnat day. Dit'k's cigar was hardly alight be- 
 fore his father had joined him. When Dick grew weary of 
 throwing stones aimlessly at imaginary objects, and voted th§
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 257 
 
 beach slow, Mr. Mayne proposed a walk with alacrity. They 
 dined together — not talking much, it is true, for Dick was 
 still sulky, and his father tired and inclined to headache, 
 but keeping up a show of conversation for tiie waiter's benefit. 
 But when that functionary had retired, and the wine was on 
 the table, Dick made no further effort to be agreeable, but 
 placed himself in the window-seat and stared moodily at the 
 sea, while his father watched him and drank his wine in 
 silence, 
 
 Mr. Mayne was fighting against drowsiness valiantly. 
 
 Dick knew this, and was waiting for an opportunity to make 
 his escape. 
 
 " Had we not better ring for lights and coffee?" asked his 
 father, as he felt the first ominous sensations stealing over him. 
 
 " Not just yet. 1 feel rather disposed for a nap myself; and 
 it is a shame to shut out the moonlight,'^ returned that wicked 
 Dick, calling up a fib to his aid, and closing his eyes as he 
 spoke. 
 
 The bait took. In another five minutes Mr. Mayne was 
 nodding in earnest, and Dick on tiptoe had just softly closed 
 the door behind him, and was taking his straw hat from its 
 peg: 
 
 ^■.au was walking up and down the little dark lawn, feeling 
 restless and out of sorts after the agitation of the morning, 
 when she heard a low whistle at the other side of the wall, and 
 her heart felt suddenly as light as a feather. 
 
 Dick saw her white gown as she came down the flagged jjath 
 to the gate to let him in. The moonlight seemed to light it 
 up with a sort of glory. 
 
 " You are a darling not to keep me wai^ng, for we have 
 not a moment to lose," he whispered, as slie came up close to 
 him. " He is asleep now, but he will wake up as soon as he 
 misses me. Have you expected me before, Xau.^ But indeed 
 I have not been left to myself a moment. " 
 
 " Oh, 1 knew all about it, my poor Dick," she answered, 
 looking at him so softly. " Phillis is reading to mother in the 
 parlor, and Dulce is in the work-room. 1 have nowhere to 
 ask you unless you come in and talk to them. But mother is 
 too upset to see you, I am afraid. " 
 
 " Let us wait here," returned Dick, boldly. " No one can 
 hear what we say, and I must speak to you alone. No; I had 
 better not see your mother to-night, and the girls would be in 
 the way. Shall you be tired, dear, if you stand out here a 
 moment talking to me? for I dare not wait long." 
 
 "Oh, no, 1 shall not be tired," answered Nan, gently.
 
 ^5§ NOT LlE^. 05*H-RU OmLS. 
 
 Tired, when she had her ov/n Uick near her — when she could 
 speak to him — look at him! 
 
 " All right; but it is my duty to look after ycu, now yon 
 belong to me," returned Dick, p^oudl^^ " Whatever happens 
 — however long we may be separated — you must remember 
 that — that you belong to me — that you will have to account 
 to me if you do not take care of yourself." 
 
 Nan smiled happily at this, and then she said: 
 
 " I have told mother all about it, and she is dreadfully dis- 
 tressed about your father's auger. She cried so, and took his 
 part, and said'she did not ivonder that he would not listen to 
 us; he would feel it such a disgrace, his sou wanting to marry 
 a dress-maker. 8ho made me unhappy, too, when &he put it 
 all before me in that way," and here Nan's face paled per- 
 ceptibly in the moonlight: " for she made me see how hard it 
 is on him, and on your mother, too! Oh, Dick, don't you 
 think you ought to listen to them, and not have anything 
 more to do with me?" 
 
 " Nan, I am shocked at you!" 
 
 "But, Dick!" 
 
 " 1 tell you 1 am utterly shocked! You to say such a thing 
 to my face, when we have been as good as engaged to each 
 other all our lives! Who cares for the trumpery dress-mak- 
 ing? Not I!" 
 
 " But your father! ' persisted Nan, but very faintly, for 
 Dick's eyes were blazi g with anger. 
 
 " Not another word! Nan, how dare you — after what you 
 have promised this morning! Have I not been worried and 
 badgered enough, without your turning on me in this way? 
 n you won't marry me, you won't; but I shall be a bachelor 
 all my life for your sake!" and Dick, who was so sore, poor 
 fellow, that he was ready to quarrel with her out of the very 
 fullness of his love, actually made a movement as though to 
 leave her, only Nan caught him by the arm in quite a fright- 
 ened way. 
 
 "Dick! dear Dick!" 
 
 "Well?" rather sullenly. 
 
 " Oh, don't leave me like this! It would break my heart! 
 1 did not mean to make you angry. I was only pleading with 
 you for your own good. Of course 1 will keep my promise. 
 Have I not been true to you all my life? Oh, Dick! how can 
 you turn from me like this?" And Nan actually began to sob 
 in earnest, oidy Dick's sweet temper returned in a moment at 
 the sight of her distress, and he fell to comforting her with all 
 his might; and after this things went on more smoothly.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 259 
 
 He told lier about his conversation v\-i(li liis father, and how 
 lie liad planned a city life for himself; but hcio Xan timidly 
 interposed : 
 
 " Would that not be a pity, when you had always meant to 
 study for the bar?'" 
 
 '• Not a bit of it," was the confident answer. " That was 
 my father's wish, not mine. 1 don't mind telling you in con- 
 fidence that I am not at all a shining light. I am .ifraid I am 
 rather a dutTer, and shall not make my mark in tbe world. 1 
 have always thought desk-work must be rather a bore; but, 
 after all, with a good introduction and a tolerable berth, one is 
 pretty sure of getting on in the cit3\ Wl;at 1 want is to make 
 a cozv little nest for somebody, and as quick as possible — eh, 
 Kan?" 
 
 " I do not mind waiting," faltered Nun. But she felt at 
 this moment that no lover could have bien so absolutely per- 
 fect as her Diek, 
 
 " Oh, that is what girls always say,'" returned Dick, rather 
 loftily. " They arc never in a hurry. They would wait seven 
 — ten years — half a life-time. But with us men it is different. 
 1 am not a bit afraid of you. 1 know you will stick to me like 
 a brick, and all that; and father will come round when he 
 sees we are in earnest. But all the same I want to have yon 
 to myself as soon as possible. A fellow likes the feeling of 
 working for his wife. I hate to think of these pretty fingers 
 stitching away for other people. 1 want them to work for me' 
 do you understand, Xan?" And Nan, of course, understood. 
 
 Dick, poor fellow, had not much time for his love-making, 
 he and Nan had too much business to settle. Nan had to ex- 
 plain to him that her mother was of opinion that, under 
 tbe present circumstances, nothing ought to be done to excite 
 Mr. Mayne's wrath. Dick might write to her mother some- 
 times, just to let them know how he was getting on, but be- 
 tween the young people themselves there must be no corre- 
 spondence. 
 
 " Mother says it will not be honorable, and that we are not 
 properly engaged." And, though Dick combated this rather 
 stoutly, he gave in at last, and agreed that, until the new 
 year, he would not claim his rights, or infringe the sacred 
 privacy of the Friary. 
 
 " And now 1 must go," said Dick, with a great sigh; " and 
 it is good-bye for months. Now, I do not mean to ask your 
 leave — for you are such a girl for scruples, and all that, and 
 you might take it into your head to refuse me — so there!"
 
 260 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Dick's words were mysterious; but he very soon made his 
 meauing plain. 
 
 Nail said, " Oh, Dick!" but made no further protest. After 
 all, whatever Mr. Mayue and her mother said, they were en- 
 gaged. 
 
 As Dick closed the little gate behind him, he was aware of 
 a tall figure looming in the darkness. 
 
 " Confound that parson! What does he mean by loaSng 
 about here?" he thought, feeling something like a pugnacious 
 bull-dog ai the prospect of a possible rival. " I forgot to ask 
 Nan about him, but I dare say he is after one of the other 
 girls." But these reflections were nipped in the bud, as Ihe 
 short, sturdy form of Mr. Mayne was dimly visible in the road. 
 
 Dick chuckled softly: he could not help it. 
 
 " All rifiht, dear old boy," he said to himself; and then he 
 stepped up briskly, and took his father's arm. 
 
 *' Do you call this honorable, sir?" began Mr. Mayne, in a 
 most irascible voice. 
 
 "I call it very neat," returned Dick, cheerfully. "My 
 dear pater, everything is fair in love and war; and if you will 
 nap at unseasonable times — but that comes of early rising, as 
 I have often told you." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, sir!" was the violent rejoinder. " It 
 is a mean trick you have served me, and you know it. We 
 will go back to-night; nothing will induce me to sleep in this 
 place. You are not to be trusted. You told me a downright 
 lie. You were humbugging me, sir, with your naps." 
 
 " 1 plead guilty to a fib, if you like," was Dick's careless 
 answer. " What a fuss you are making, father! Did you 
 never tell one in your life? Now, what is the use of putting 
 yourself out? it is not good at your age, sir. What would 
 my mother say? It might bring on apoplex}', after that port 
 wine." 
 
 " CoTifound your impertinence!" rejoined Mr. Mayne, an- 
 grily; but Dick patted his coat-sleeve pleasantly. 
 
 " There, that will do. I think you have relieved your feel- 
 ings sufficiently. Now we will go to business. I have seen 
 Nan, and told her all about it; and she has had it out with 
 her mother. Mrs. Challoner will not hear of our writing to 
 each other; and 1 am not to show my face at the Friary with- 
 out your permission. There is no fibbing or want of honor 
 there: Nan is not the girl to encourage a fellow to take lib- 
 erties." 
 
 " OU; indeed!" sueered lU- Mayne; but he listened utteut-
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 261 
 
 ively for all that. And his gloomy eyebrows relaxed in the 
 darlaiess. The girl was not behaving so badly, after all. 
 
 " So we said good-bye/' continued Uick, keeping the latter 
 part of the interview to himself; " and in October I shall go 
 back for the term, as I promised. We can settle about the 
 other things after Christmas." 
 
 " Oh, yes, we can talk about that by and by," replied his 
 father, hastily; and then he waxed cheerful all at once, and 
 called his son's attention to some new houses they were build- 
 ing. "After all, Hadleigh is not such a bad little place," 
 he observed; "and they gave us a very good dinner at the 
 hotel. It is not every one who can cook fish like thaf And 
 then Dick knew that the storm had blown over for the pres- 
 ent, and that his father intended to make himself pleasant 
 .and ignore all troublesome topics. 
 
 Dick was a little tired when he went to bed; but, on the 
 whole, he was not unhappy. Jt was quite true that the idea 
 of a city life was repugnant to him, but the thought of Nan 
 sweetened even that. Nothing else remained to him if his fa- 
 ther chose to be disagreeable and withdraw his allowance, or 
 threaten to cut himolf with a shilling, as other fellows' fathers 
 did in novels. 
 
 " It is uncommonly unpleasant, having to wage war with 
 one's own father," thought Dick, as he laid his sandy head on 
 the pillow. "He is such an old trump, too, that it goes 
 against the grain. But when it comes to his wanting to 
 choose a wife for me, it is too much of a good thing; it is 
 tyranny fit for the Middle Ages. Let him threaten if he likes. 
 He will find 1 shall take his threats in earnest. After Christ- 
 mas I will have it out with him again; and if he will not listen 
 to reason, I will go up to Mr. James Stanfield myself, and 
 then he will see that 1 mean what 1 say. Heigho! I am not 
 such a lucky fellow as Hamilton always thinks me." And at 
 this juncture of his sad cogitations Dick forgot all about it, 
 and fell asleep. 
 
 Yes, Dick slept the sleep of the just. It was Mr. Drum- 
 mond who was wakeful and uneasy that night. A vague 
 sense of something wrong tormented him waking and sleep- 
 
 ing 
 
 Who was that sandy-headed young fellow who had been 
 twice to the Friary that day? What business had he to be 
 shutting the gate after him in that free-and-easy way at ten 
 o'clock at night? He must find it out somehow;^ he must 
 make an excuse for culling there, and put the question as in-
 
 202 KOT LIK1-: (JTIIL:; Gi:;LS. 
 
 differently as he could; but even when he made up his mind to 
 pursue this course, Archia felt just as restless as ever. 
 
 He made his way to the cottage as early as possible. Phil- 
 lis, who was alone in the work-room, colored a little as she saw 
 him comiiig in at the gate. He came so often, he was so kind, 
 so attentive to them all, and yet she had a dim doubt in her 
 mind that troubled her at times. Was it for Kan's sake that 
 he came? Could she speak and undeceive him before things 
 went too far wiih him? Yes, when the opportunity offered, 
 she thought she could speak, even though the speaking would 
 be painful to her. 
 
 Mr. Drummond looked round the room with a disappointed 
 air as he entered, and then he came up to Phillis. 
 
 "You are alone?" he said, with a regretful accent in his 
 voice; at least Phillis fancied she detected it. " How is that? 
 Are your sisters out, or busy?" 
 
 " Oh, we are always busy," returned Phillis, lightly; but, 
 curiously enough, she felt a little sore at his tone. " Nan has 
 gone down to Albert Terrace to take a fresh order, and Dulce 
 is in the town somewhere with mother. Don't you mean to 
 sit down, Mr. Drummonii? oris your business with mother? 
 She will not be back just yet, but I could give her any mes- 
 sage." Phillis said this as she stitched away with energy; but 
 one quick glance had shown her that Mr. Drummond was 
 looking irresolute and ill at ease as he stood beside her. 
 
 " Thank you, but 1 must not stay and hinder you. Yes, 
 my business was with your mother; but. it is of no conse- 
 quence, and I can call again.'" Nevertheless, he sat down and 
 deposited his felt hat awkwardly enough on the table. He 
 liked Phillis, but he vvas a little afraid of her; she was shrewd, 
 and seemed to have the knack of reading one's thoughts. He 
 was wondering how he should bring his question on the tapis: 
 but Phillis, by some marvelous intuition that really surprised 
 her, had already come to the conclusion that this visit meant 
 something. He had seen Dick; perhaps he wanted to find out 
 all about him. Certainly he was not quite himself to-day. 
 Yes, that must be what he wanted. Phillis's kind heart and 
 mother-wit were always ready for an emergency. 
 
 " How full Hadleigh is getting!" she remarked, pleasantly, 
 as she adjusted the trimming of a sleeve. "Do you know, 
 some old neighbors of ours from Oldfield turned up unexpect- 
 edly yesterday? They are going away to-day, though," she 
 added, with a littlo regret in her voice. 
 
 Archie brightened up visibly at this.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 26S 
 
 *' Oh, indeed I"' he observed, with alacrity. "Not a very 
 long visit. Perhaps they came down purposely to see you?" 
 
 "Yes, of course," returned Phillis, confusedly. "They 
 had intended staying some days at the hotel, but Mr. Mayne 
 suddenly changed his mind, much to our and Dick's disap- 
 pointment; but it could not be helped." 
 
 " Dick," echoed Arcbie, a little surprised at this familiar- 
 ity; and then he added, somewhat awkv/ardly: " I think I saw 
 the young man and his father at the library yesterday; and 
 last night as 1 was coming from the station 1 encountered him 
 again at your gate." 
 
 "Yes, that was Dick," answered Phillis, stooping a little 
 over her work. " He is not handsome, poor fellowl but he is 
 as nice as possible. They live at Longmead ; that is next door 
 to our dear old Glen Cottage, and the gardens adjoin. We 
 call him Dick because we have knowii him all our lives, and 
 he has been a sort of brother to us." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I see," drawled Archie, slowly. " That sort of 
 thing is very nice when you have not a man belonging to you. 
 It is a little awkward sometimes, for people do not always see 
 this sort of relationship. He seemed a nice sort of fellow, I 
 should say," he continued, in his patronizing way, stroking 
 his beard complacently. After all, the sandy-headed youth 
 was no possible rival. 
 
 " Oh, Dick is ever so nice," answered Phillis, enthusiast- 
 ically; " not good enough for — " and then she stopped and 
 broke her thread. " I am glad we are so fond of him," she 
 continued, rather hurriedly, " because Dick is to be our real 
 brother some day. He and Xau have cared for each other all 
 their lives, and, though Mr. Mayne is dreadfully angry about 
 it, they consider themselves as good as engaged, and mean to 
 live down his opposition. They came to an understanding 
 yesterday," finished Phillis, who was determined to bring it 
 all out. 
 
 "Oh, indeedl" returned Archie: "that must be a great 
 relief, I am sure. There is your little dog whining at the 
 door; may I let him in?'* And, without wailing for an an- 
 swer, Archie had darted out in pursuit of Laddie, but not be- 
 fore Phillis's swift upward glance had shown her a face that 
 had grown perceptibly paler in the last few minutes. 
 
 " Oh, poor fellow! 1 was right!" thought Phillis, and the 
 tears rushed to her eyes. " It was best to speak. I see that 
 now; and he will get over it if he thinks no one knows it. 
 How I wish I could help him! but it will never do to show the 
 least sympathy. 1 have no right." And here Phillis sighed.
 
 ^64 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLg, 
 
 aud her gray eyes grew dark vvilh pain for a moment. Archie 
 was I'ather a long time absent; aud then he came back with 
 Laddie in his arms, and stood by the window. 
 
 "Your news has interested me very much," he said, aud 
 his voice was quite steady. " I suppose, as this — this engage- 
 ment is not public, I had better not wish your sister 303', un- 
 less you do it for me." 
 
 " Oh, no; there is no need of that," returned Phillis, in 
 alow voice. " Mother might not like my mentioning it; but 
 1 thought you might wonder about Dick, and — " here Phillis 
 got confused. 
 
 " Thank you," replied Archie, quietly; but now he looked 
 at her. "You are very kind. Yes, it was best for me to 
 know." And then, as Phillis rose aud gave him her hand, 
 for he had taken up his hat as he spoke, she read at once that 
 her caution had been in vain — that he had full understanding 
 why the news had been told to him, and to him only, and that 
 he was grateful to her for so teliing him. 
 
 Poor Phillis! she had accomplished her task; and yet, as the 
 door closed behind the young clergyman, two or three tears 
 fell on her work. He was not angry witii her; on the con- 
 trary, he had thanked her, and the grasp of his hand had been 
 as cordial as ever. But, in spite of the steadiness of his voice 
 and look, the arrow had pierced between the joints of his 
 armor. He might not be fatally wounded — that was not in 
 the girl's power to know; but that he was in some way hurt 
 — made miserable with a man's misery — of this she was 
 acutely sensible; and the strongest longing to comfort him — 
 to tell him how much she admired his fortitude — came over 
 her, with a strong, stinging pain that surprised her. 
 
 Archie had the longest walk that day that he had ever had 
 in his life. He came in quite fagged aud foot-sore to his din- 
 ner, and far too tired to eat. Mattie told him he looked ill 
 and worn out; but, though he generally resented any such 
 persona] remarks, he merely told her very gently that he was 
 tired, and tiiat he would like a cup of coffee in his study, and 
 not to be disturbed. And when she took in the coffee pres- 
 ently, she found him buried in the depths of his easy-chair, 
 and evidently half asleep, and stole out of the room on tiptoe. 
 
 But his eyes opened very speedily as soon as the door closed 
 upon her. It was not sleep he wanted, but some moral 
 strength to bear a pain that threatened to be unendurable. 
 How luid that girl read his secret? Surely he had not be- 
 trayed himself! Nan had not discovered it, for her calmness 
 and sweet unconsciousness had never varied in his presence.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 205 
 
 Never for an instant had lior changing color testified to tho 
 faintest uneasiness. He understood the reason of her reserve 
 now. Her thoughts had been with this Dick; and here Archie 
 groaned and hid iiis face. 
 
 Not mortally hurt, perhaps; but still the pain and the sense 
 of loss R'ere very bitter to this young man, who had felt for 
 weeks past that his life was permeated by the sweetness and 
 graciousness of Nan's presence. How lovely she had seemed 
 to him — the ideal girl of his dreams! It was love as first sight. 
 He knew that now. His man's heart had been set on the hope 
 of winning her, and now she was lost to him. 
 
 Never for one moment had she belonged to him, or could 
 belong to him. " He and Nan had cared for each other all 
 their lives " — that was what her sister had told him; and what 
 remained but for him to stamp out this craze and fever before 
 it mastered him and robbed him of his peace? 
 
 " I am not the only man who has had to suffer/' thought 
 Archie, as hours after he stumbled up to bed in the darkness. 
 " At least, it makes it easier to know that no one shares my 
 pain. These things are better battled out alone. I could 
 not bear even Grace's sympathy in this." And yet as Archie 
 said this to himself, he recalled without any bitterness the 
 half-tender, half-pitying look in Phillis's eyes. " She was 
 sorry for me. She saw it all; and it was kind of her to tell 
 me," thought the young man. 
 
 He had no idea that Phillis was at that moment whispering 
 little wistful prayers in the darkness that he might soon be 
 comforted. 
 
 Who knows how many such prayers are flung out into (he 
 deep of God's mercy — comfort for such a one wtiom we would 
 fain comfort ourselves; feebte utterances and cries of pity; the 
 stretching out of helpless hands, which nevertheless may bring 
 down blessings? But so it shall be while men and women 
 struggle and fall, and v/eep the tears common to humanity, 
 " unlil idl eyes are dried in the clear light of eternity, and tlie 
 sorest heart shall then own the wisdom of the cross that had 
 been laid upon them. ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXHI. 
 "this is life and death to me." 
 Phillis found it difficult during the next few days to rec- 
 oncile divided sympathies; a nice adjustment of conflicting 
 feelings seemed ^almost impossible. Nan was so simply, so 
 transparently happy, that no sister wor,thy of the name could
 
 266 N"OT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 1 
 
 refuse to rejoice with liev: a creature so brimming over with 
 gladness, with contented love, was certain to reflect heart- 
 sunsliine. On the other hand, there was Mr. Drummond! To 
 be glad and sorry in a breath was provoking to a feeling wom- 
 an, as the traveler's blowing hot and cold was to the satyr iu 
 the fable. 
 
 In trying to preserve an even balance Phillis became de- 
 cidedly cross. She was one who liked a clear temperature — 
 neither torrid nor frigid. Too much susceptibility gave her 
 an east-windy feeling: to be always at the fever-point of sym- 
 pathy with one's fellow-creatures would not have suited her 
 at all. 
 
 Kan, who possessed more sweetness of temper than keenness 
 of psychological insight, could not understand what had come 
 to Phillis. She was absent, a trifle sad, and yet full of retort. 
 At times she seemed to brim over with a wordy wisdom that 
 made no sort of impression. 
 
 One evening, as they were retiring to bed, Nan beckoned 
 her into her little room and shut the door. Then she placed 
 a seat invitingly by tlie open window, which was pleasantly 
 framed by jasmine; and then she took hold of Phillis's 
 shoulders in a persuasive manner. 
 
 " Now, dear," she said, coaxingly, '* you shall just tell me 
 all about it," 
 
 Phillis looked up, a little startled. Then, as she met Nan's 
 gentle, penetrative glance, she presented a sudden blank of 
 non-comprehension, most telling on such occasions, and yawned 
 slightly. 
 
 " What do you mean, Nannie?" in a somewhat bored tone. 
 
 " Come, dear, tell me," continued Nan, with cheerful per- 
 tinacity. " You are never dull or touchy without some good 
 reason. What has been the matter the last few days? Are 
 you vexed or disappointed about anything? Are you sure — 
 quite sure you are pleased about Dick?" the idea occurring to 
 her suddenly that Phillis might not approve of their impru- 
 dent engagement. 
 
 " Oh, Nannie, how absurd you are!" returned Phillis, pet- 
 tishly. " Have I not told you a dozen times since Wednesday 
 hoiv delighted 1 am that you have come to an understanding? 
 Have I not sounded his praises until 1 was hoarse? Why, if 
 1 had been in love with Dick myself I could not have talked, 
 about him more." 
 
 " Yes, I know you have been very good, dear; but, still, I 
 felt there was something." 
 
 " Oh, dear, no!" returned Phillis, decidedly, and her voice
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GlIlLS. 26? 
 
 ivas a liille barLl. " The fact is, you are in the seventh heaven 
 yourself, and you expect us to be there too. Not that I won- 
 der at you, Nannie, because Dick — dear old fellow— is ever so 
 nice/' 
 
 She threw in this last clause not without intention, and, of 
 course, the tempting bait took at once. 
 
 " 1 never knew any one half so good/' replied Nan, in a 
 calmly satislied tone. " You have hmted once or twice, Phil, 
 that you thought him rather too young — that our being the 
 same age was a pity; but — do you know? — in Dick's case it does 
 not matter in the least. No man double his age could have 
 made his meaning more plain, or have spoken better to the 
 purpose, lie is so strong and self-reliant and manly; and, 
 with all his fan, he is so unselfish." 
 
 " lie will make you a very good husband. Nan; I am sure 
 of that." 
 
 " I think he will," returned Nan, with a far-away look in 
 her eyes. Sha was recalling Dick's speech about the nest that 
 he wanted to make cozy for some one. "Phil, dear," she 
 went on, after this blissful pause, " 1 wish you had a Dick 
 too." 
 
 " Good gracious, Nannie!" 
 
 " 1 mean — you know what I mean — some one to whom you 
 are first, and who has a right to care for you; it gives such a 
 moaning to one's life. Of course it will come in time; no 
 one can look at you and not prophesy a happy future: it is 
 only I who am impatient and want it to come soon." 
 
 Phillis wi-inkled her brows thoughtfully over this speech; 
 she seemed inclined to digest and assimilate it. 
 
 "I dare say you are right," she replied, after a pause. 
 " Yes; it would be nice, no doubt." 
 
 " When the real lie comes, you will find how nice it is," 
 rejoined Nan, with sympathetic readiness. "Do you know, 
 Phil, the idea has once or twice occurred to me that Mr. 
 Drummond comes rather often?" But here Phillis shook off 
 her hand and started from her chair. 
 
 " There is a moth singeing its wings. Poor wee beastie! let 
 me save it, if it be not too late." And she chased the insect 
 most patiently until the blue-gray wings fluttered into her 
 hand. 
 
 "There,! have saved him from utter destruction!" she 
 cried, triumphantly, leaning out into the darkness. " He has 
 scorched him-^elf, that is alt;" then, as she walked back to her 
 sister, her head was erect, and there was a beautiful, earnest 
 look apoii her face.
 
 268 NOT LIKE OTHEK GIRLS. 
 
 " Nanule, I don't want to find fault with you, but don'fc 
 you remember how we used to pride ourselves^ iu the dear old 
 days, iu not being like other girls — the Paines, for example, 
 or even Adelaide Satoris, who used to gossip so much about 
 young men.'* 
 
 Nan opened her eyes widely at this, but made no answer. 
 
 " We must not be different now, because our life is nar- 
 rower, and more monotonous. 1 know, talking so much over 
 our work, we have terrible temptations to gossip; but I can't 
 bear to think that we should ever lower our standard, ever 
 degenerate into the feeble girlishness we abhor. We never 
 used to talk about young men, Nan, except Dick, and that 
 did not matter. Of course we liked them in their places, and 
 had plenty of fun, and tormented them a little; but you never 
 made such a speech as that at Glen Cottage.'' 
 
 " Oh, dear! oh, dear! What have I done?" exclaimed 
 Nan, much distressed at this rebuke. " I do think you are 
 riglit, Phil; and it was naughty of me to put such a thing into 
 your head." 
 
 " You have put no idea into my head," replied Phillis, with 
 crisp obstinacy. " There! I am only moralizing for my own 
 good, as well as yours. Small beginnings make great endings. 
 If we once began to gossip, we might end by flirting; and. 
 Nan, if you knew how I hate that sort of thing!" And Phil- 
 lis looked grand and scornftd. 
 
 " Yes, dear; and I know you are right," returned Nan, 
 huuibly. She was not quite sure what she had done to pro- 
 voke this outburst of high moral feeling, but she felt that 
 Phillis w'as dreadfully in earnest. They kissed each other 
 rather solemnly after that, and Phillis was suiiered to depart 
 in silence. 
 
 That night there was no wistftd little prayer that Mr. 
 Drummond might be comfoi'teu: Phillis had too many pe- 
 titions to ofiei- up on her own account. She was accusing 
 herself of pride, and Pharisaiom, and hypocrisy, in no meas- 
 ured terms. " Not like other giils! I am worse— worse," she 
 said to herself. And then, among other things, slie asked for 
 the gift of content— for a quiet, satisfied spirit, not craving or 
 imbittered — strcngih to bear her own and her friends' troubles, 
 and far-looking faith to discern " God's perfectness round our 
 uncompleteness — round our restlessness His rest." 
 
 The following evening, as Phillis was sorting out patterns 
 in the work-room, a note was brought to her from the White 
 House. It was in Mrs. Cheyne's handwriting, and, like her- 
 self, strangely abrupt.
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS* 2G9 
 
 "Your visits are like angels' visits — extremely rare," it 
 began. " 1 am afraid 1 have frightened you away, as 1 have 
 frightened the parson. I thought you had more wit than he 
 to discern between mannerism and downright ill humor. This 
 evening the temperature is equable — not the sign of a brood- 
 ing cloud; so put on your hat, like a good girl, and come over. 
 Miss Mewlstone and I will be prepared to welcome you." 
 
 " You had better go," observed I^an, who had read the 
 note over her sister's shoulder: "you have worked so dread- 
 fully hard all day, and it will be a little change." 
 
 " No one cares for east winds as a change," replied Phillis, 
 dryly; nevertheless, she made up her mind Ihat she would go. 
 She was beginning to dread being summoned to the White 
 House; she felt that Mrs. Cheyne alternately fascinated and 
 repelled her. She was growing fond of Miss Mewlstone; but 
 then, on these occasions, she had so little intercourse with her. 
 The charitable instinct that was always ready to be kindled in 
 Phillis's nature prompted her to pay these visits; and yet she 
 always went reluctantly. 
 
 She had two encounters on the road, both of which she had 
 foreseen with nice presentiment. 
 
 The first was with Mr. Drummond. 
 
 He was walking along slowly, with his eyes on the ground. 
 A sort of flush came to his face when he saw Phillis; and then 
 he stopped and shook hands, and asked after them all com- 
 prehensively, yet with constraint in his voice. Phillis told 
 him rather hurripdly that she was going to the White House: 
 Mrs. Cheyne had sent for her. 
 
 Archie smiled: 
 
 " I am glad she does not send for me. I have not been 
 there lor a long time. Sarcasm is not an attractive form of 
 welcome. It slams the door in a man's face. I hope you 
 will not get some hard hits. Miss Challoner." And then he 
 v/ent on his way. 
 
 As she approached Mrs. Williams's cottage, Mr. Dancy was, 
 as usual, leaning against the little gate. He stepped out in 
 the road and accosted her. 
 
 " I have not called on your mother," he began, rather 
 abruptly. " After all, I thought it best not to trouble her 
 just now. Can you spare me a few minutes? or are you go- 
 ing in there?" looking toward the White House. 
 
 " I am rather in a hurry," returned Phillis, surprised at his 
 manner, it seemed so agitated. " I am already late, and 
 Mrs. Cheyne will be expecting me." 
 
 " Very well, another time," he replied, stepping back with-
 
 S70 KOT tlKt OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 out further cei-emony; but until Pliillis's figure disapioeared IQ 
 the trees he watched her, leaning still upon the little gate. 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne received her with a frosty smile; but, on the 
 whole, her manner was more gracious than usual, and by and 
 by it thawed completely. 
 
 She was a little captious at first, it was true, and she snubbed 
 poor Miss Mevvlstone decidedly once or twice — but then Miss 
 MewlsLone was used to being snubbed — but with Phillis she 
 was sparing of sarcasm. After a lime she began to look 
 kindly at the girl; then she bade her talk, rather peremptorily, 
 because she liked her voice, and found it pleasant to listen to 
 her; and by and by Phillis grew more at her ease, and her 
 girlish talk rippled on as smoothly as possible. 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne's face softened and grew strangely handsomo 
 as she listened: she was drawing Phillis out — leading her to 
 speak of the old life, and of all their youthful source of hap- 
 piness. Then she fell into a retrospect of her own young 
 days, when she was a spoiled madcap girl and had all sorts of 
 daring adventures. 
 
 Phillis was quite fascinated; she was even disajipDinted when 
 Miss Mewlstone pointed out the lateness of (he hour. 
 
 " 1 have enjoyed myself so much," she said, as she put on 
 her hat. 
 
 " I meant you to enjoy yourself," returned Mrs. Cheyne, 
 quietly, as she drew the girl^s face down to hers. " 1 have 
 given you such a bad impression that you look on me as a sort 
 of moral bugbear. I can be very different, when I like, and I 
 have liked to be agreeable to-night." And then this strange 
 woman took up a rich cashmere shawl from the couch where 
 she was lying, and folded it round Phillis *s shoulders, " The 
 evenings are chilly. Jeffreys can bring this back with her;" 
 for Mrs. Choyne had already decided that this time her maid 
 should accompany Phillis to the cottage. 
 
 Phillis laughed in an amused fashion as she saw the reflec- 
 tion of herself in one of the mirrors: her figure looked quite 
 queenly enveloped in the real drapery. " She has forgotten 
 all about the dress-making," she thought to hei'self as she 
 tripped down-stairs. 
 
 It was a lovely moonlight evening; the avenue was white 
 and glistening in the soft light: the trees cast weird shadows 
 on the grass. Phillis was somewhat surprised to see in the 
 distance Mr. Dancy's tall figure pacing to and fro before the 
 lodge gate. He was evidently wailing for her, for as she ap- 
 proached he threw away his cigar and joined her at once.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. S*?! 
 
 Jeffreys, who thought he was some old acquaintance, dropped 
 behind very discreetly, after the maimer of waitiiig-womeu. 
 
 " How long you have stayed this eveningi I have been walk- 
 ing up and down for more than an hour, vvatchiug for you,'* 
 he began, with curious abruptness. 
 
 This and no more did Jeffreys hear before she lingered out 
 of ear-:>hot. The lady's-maid thought she perceived an in- 
 teresting situation, and being of a susceptible and sympathetic 
 temperament, with a blighted attachment of her own, there 
 was no fear of her intruding. Phillis looked around once, but 
 Jeffreys was absorbed in her contemplations of the clouds. 
 
 "I thought you were never coming,'Mie continued; and 
 then he stopped all at once, and caught hold of the fringe of 
 the shawl. " This is not yours; I am sure I have seen Mag- 
 dalene in it. Pshaw! what am I saying? the force of old habit. 
 1 knew her once as Magdalene." 
 
 " It is dreadfully heavy, and, after all, the evening is so 
 warm/' returned Phillis, taking no notice of this incoherent 
 speech. 
 
 " Let me carry it," he rejoined, with singular eagerness; 
 " it is absurd, a wrap like that on such anight." And, while 
 Phillis hesitated, he drew the shawl from her shoulders and 
 hung it over his arm, and ail the way his disengaged right 
 hand rested on the folds, touching it softly from lime to time, 
 as though the mere feeling of the texture pleased him. 
 
 " How was she to-night?" he asked, coming a little closer 
 to Phillis, and dropping his voice as he spoke. 
 
 " Who? Mrs. Cheyne? Oh, she was charming! just a little 
 cold and captious at first, but that is her way. But this even- 
 ing she was bent on fascinating me, and she quite succeeded; 
 she looked ill, though, but very, very beautiful." 
 
 " She never goes out. I can not catch a glimpse of her," 
 he returned, hurriedly. " Miss Challoner, 1 am going to 
 startle — shock you, perhaps; but 1 have thought about if un- 
 til my head is dizzy, and there is no other way. Please give 
 me your attention a moment," for Phillis, with a vague sense 
 of uneasiness, bad looked around for Jeft'reys. " 1 must see 
 you alone; I must speak to you where we shall not be inter- 
 rupted. To call on your mother will be no good; you, and 
 only you, can help me. And you are so strong and merciful 
 — 1 can read that in your eyes — that 1 am sure of your sym- 
 pathy, if you will only give me a hearing." 
 
 " Mr. Dancy! oh, what can you mean?" exclaimed Phillis. 
 She was dreadfully frightened at his earnestness, but her voice 
 was dignified, and she drew herself away with a movement full
 
 272 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 of pride and hauteur. " You are a stranger to me: you have 
 no right — " 
 
 " The good Samaritan w^as a stranger, too. Have you for- 
 gotten that?^' he returned, in a voice of grave rebuke. " Oh, 
 you are a girl; you are thinking of your mother! I have 
 shocked your sense of propriety, my child; for you seem a 
 child to me, who have lived and suffered so much. Would 
 you hesitate an instant if some poor famishing wretch were to 
 ask you for food or water? AVell, I am that poor wretch. 
 AVhat 1 have to tell you is a matter of life and death to me. 
 Only a woman — only you— can help me; and you shrink be- 
 cause we have not had a proper introJuctiou. My dear young 
 lady, you have nothing to fear from me. I am unfortunate, 
 bub a gentleman — a married man, if that v/ill satisfy your 
 scruples — " 
 
 " But my mother," faltered Phillis, not knowing what to 
 say to this unfortunate stranger, who terrified and yet at- 
 tracted her by turns. 
 
 Never had she heard a human voice so persuasive and yet 
 so agonized in its intensity. A conviction of the truth of his 
 words seized upon her as she listened — that he was unhappy, 
 that he needed her sympathy for some purpose of his own, and 
 yet that she herself had nothing to do with his purpose. But 
 what would Nan say if she consented — if she acceded to such 
 an extraordinary proposition — to appoint a meeting with a 
 stranger? 
 
 " It is life and death to me; remember that!" continued 
 Mr. Dancy, in that low, suppressed voice of agitation. " If 
 you refuse on the score of mere girlish propriety, you will re- 
 gret it. I am sure of that. Trust to your own brave heart, 
 and let it answer for you. Will you refuse this trifling act of 
 mercy — just to let me speak to you alone, and tell you my 
 story? When you have heard that, you will take things into 
 your own hands." 
 
 Phillis hesitated, and grew pale with anxiety; but the in- 
 slincls of her nature v.'ere stronger than her prudence. From 
 the first she had believed in this man, and felt interested in 
 him and his mysterious surroundings. " One may be deceived 
 in a face, but never in a voice," she had said, in her pretty, 
 dictatorial way; and now this voice was winning her over to 
 his side. 
 
 " It is not right, but what can I do? You say I can help 
 you — " And then she paused. " To-morrow morning I have 
 to take some work to liock Building. 1 shall not be long.
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 273 
 
 But I could go on flie beach for half au hour. Nau would 
 spare me. I miofht hear your story then." 
 
 She spoke rapidly, aud rather ungraciously, as though she 
 were dispensing largess to a troublesome mendicant; but Mr. 
 Dancy^s ans^^er was humble iu its intense gratitude. 
 
 " God bless you! I knew your kind heart was to be trust- 
 ed. There! I will not come any further. Good-night; good- 
 night. A thousand thanks!" And, before Phillis could re- 
 ply, this strange being had left her side, and was laying the 
 cashmere shawl in Jeffreys' arm, slowly and tenderly, as 
 though it were a child. 
 
 Phillis was glad that Dulce opened the door to her that 
 night, for she was afraid of Nan's questioning glance. Nan 
 was tired, and she had retired early; and, as Dulce was sleepy 
 too, Phillis was now leEt in peace. She passed the night rest- 
 lessly, waking up at all sorts of untimely hours, her conscience 
 pricking her into wakefulness. To her well-ordered nature 
 there was something terrifying in the thought that she should 
 be forced to take such a step. 
 
 " Oh, what would mother and Nan say?" was her one cry. 
 " I know I am dreadfully impulsive and imprudent, but 
 Nan would think I am not to be trusted;'' but she had passed 
 her word, and nothing now would have induced her to swerve 
 from it. 
 
 She eat her breakfast silently, and with a sense of ojjpression 
 and guilt quite new to her. She grew inwardly hot whenever 
 Nan looked at her, which she did continually and with the 
 utmost affection. Before the meal was over, however. Miss 
 Middletnn and Mattie made their appearance, and in the 
 slight bustle of entrance Phillis managed to effect her escape. 
 
 The hour that followed bore the unreality of a nightmare. 
 Outwardlj', Phillis was the grave, business-like dress-maker. 
 The lady who had sent for her, and who was a stranger to 
 Hadleigh, was much struck with her quiet, self-possessed man- 
 ners- and lady-like demeanor. 
 
 "Her voice was quite refined," she said afterward to her 
 daughter. " And she had such a nice face and beautiful figure. 
 I am sure she is a reduced gentlewoman, for her accent was per- 
 fect, 1 am quite obliged to Miss Milner for recommending us 
 such a person, for she evidently understands her business. One 
 thing 1 noticed, Ada, tlie way in which she quietly laid down 
 the parcel, and said it should be fetched presently. Any or- 
 dinary dress- maker in a small town like this would have car- 
 ried it home herself." 
 
 Poor Phillis! she had laid down the parcel and drawn on her
 
 274 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 well-fitting gloves with a curious sinking at her heart: from 
 the window of the house in Rook Building she could distinctly 
 see Mr. Dancy walking up and down the narrow plat of grass 
 before the houses, behind the tamarisk hedge, his foreign- 
 looking cloak and slouch hat making him conspicuous. 
 
 " There is that queer-looking man again, mamnia,^' ex- 
 claimed one of the young ladies, who was seated in the win- 
 dow. " I am sure he is some distinguished foreigner, he has 
 such an air with him. '^ 
 
 Phillis listened to no more, but hurried down the stairs, and 
 then prepared to cross the green with some degree of trepida- 
 tion. She was half afraid that Mr. Dancy would join her at 
 once, in the full view of curious eyes; but he knew better. He 
 sauntered on slowly until he reached the Parade, and was go- 
 ing toward a part of the beach where there was only a knot 
 of children wading knee-deep in the water, sailing a toy boat. 
 She stood and watched them dreamily, until the voice she ex- 
 pected sounded in her ear: 
 
 " True as steel! Ah, 1 was never deceived in a face yet. 
 Where shall we sit. Miss Challoner? Yes, this is a quiet cor- 
 ner, and the children will not disturb us. Look at that urchin, 
 with his bare brown legs and curly head: is he not a study? 
 Ah, if he had lived — my—'' And then he sighed and threw 
 himself on the beach. 
 
 " Well?" observed Phillis, interrogatively. She was in- 
 clined to be short with him this morning. She had kept her 
 word, and put herself into this annoying position; but there 
 must be no hesitation, no beating about the bush, no loss of 
 precious time. The story she had now to hear must be told, 
 and without delay. 
 
 Mr. Dancy raised his eyes as he heard the tone, and then he 
 took off his spectacles, as though he felt them an incumbrance. 
 Phillis had a very good view of a pair of handsome eyes, with 
 a lurking gleam of humor in them, which speedily died away 
 into sadness. 
 
 " You are in a hurry; but I was thinking how I could best 
 begin without startling you. But 1 may as well get it out 
 without any prelude. Miss Challoner, to Mrs, Williams I 
 am only Mr. Dancy, but my real name is Herbert Dancy 
 Clieyue."
 
 KOX LIKE OTHER GIRLS. ^75 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 mtss mewlstone has an" interruptioit. 
 
 "Herbert Dancy Chetne!" 
 
 As lie prouounced the name slowly and with marked em- 
 phasis a low cry of uncontrollable astonishment broke from 
 Phillis: it was so unexpected. She began to shiver a little 
 from the suddeu shock. 
 
 " There! 1 have startled you — and no wonder; and yet how 
 could I help it? Yes," he repeated, calmly, " I am that un- 
 fortunate Herbert Chevne whom his own wife believes to be 
 dead." 
 
 " Whom every one believes to be dead," corrected Phillis, 
 in a panting breath. 
 
 " Is it any wonder?" he returned, vehemently; and his eyes 
 darkened, aud his whole features worked, as though with the 
 recollection of some unbearable pain, " Have i not been 
 snatched from the very jaws of death? Has not mine been a 
 living death, a hideous grave, for these four years?" And 
 then, hurriedl}^ and almost disconnectedly, as though the mere 
 recalling of the past was torture to him, he poured into the 
 girl's shrinking ears fragments of a story so stern in its real- 
 ity, so terrible in its details, that, regardless of the children 
 that played on the margin of the water, Phillis hid her face in 
 her hands and wept for sheer pity. 
 
 Wounded, bereft of all his friends, and left apparently dy- 
 ing in the hands of a hostile tribe, Herbert Cheyue had owed 
 his life to the mercy of a woman, a poor, degraded, ill-used 
 creature, half-witted and ugly, but who had not lost all the 
 instincts of her womanhood, and who fed and nursed the white 
 stranger as tenderly as though he were her own son. 
 
 While the old negress lived, Herbert Cheyne had been left 
 in peace to languish back to life, through days and nights of 
 intolerable sutfering, until he had regained a portion of his 
 old strength; then a fever carried off his protectress, aud he 
 became virtually a slave. 
 
 Out of picy for the tender-hearted girl who listened to him, 
 Mr. Cheyne hurried over this part of his sorrowful past. He 
 spoke briefly of indignities, abuse, and at last of positive ill- 
 treatment. A.gain and again his life had been in danger from 
 biute violence; again and again he had striven to escape, anc} 
 had been recaptured with blows.
 
 ^fe NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Phillis pointed mutely to his scarred wrists^ and the tears 
 flowed down her cheeks. 
 
 " Yes, yes; these are the marks of my slavery," he replied, 
 bitterly. " They were a set of hideous brutes, and the fetich 
 they worshiped was cruelty. I carry about me other marks 
 that must go with me to my grave; but there is no need to 
 dwell ou these horrors. He sent His angel to deliver me," he 
 continued, reverently; " and again my benefactor was a 
 woman." 
 
 And then he went on to tell Phillis that one of the wives of 
 the chief in whose service he was took pity on him, and aided 
 him to escape on the very night before some great festival, 
 .when it had been determined to kill him. This time he had 
 succeeded; and, after a series of hair-breadth adventures, he 
 had fallen in with some Dutch traders, who had come far into 
 the interior in search of ivory tusks. He was so burned by 
 the su!i and disfigured by paint that he had great difliculty iu 
 proving his identity as an Englishman. But at last they had 
 suffered him to join them, and after some more months of 
 wandering he had worked his way to the coast. 
 
 There misfortune had again overtaken him, in the form of 
 a long and tedious illness. Fatigue, disaster, anguish of mind, 
 and a slight stmstroke had taken dire effect upon him; but 
 this time he had fallen into the hands of good Samaritans. 
 The widowed sister of the consul, a very Dorcas of good 
 works, had received the miserable sti anger iuto her house; and 
 she and her son, like Elijah's widow of Zarej^hath, had shared 
 with him their scanty all. 
 
 " They vvere very poor, but they pinched themselves for the 
 sake of the stricken wretch that was thrown on their mercy. 
 It Vv'as a woman again who succored me the third time," 
 continued Mr. Cheyne: "you may judge how sacred women 
 are in my eyes now! Dear, motherly Mrs. Van Hollick! when 
 she at last suffered me to depart, she kissed and blessed me 
 as though I vvere her own son. Never to my dying day shall 
 I forget her goodness. My one thought, after seeing Magda- 
 lene, will be howl 'am to repay her goodness — howl can make 
 prosperity flow in on the little household, that the cruse and. 
 cake may never faill" 
 
 " liut," interrupted Phillis, at this point, " did you not 
 write, or your friends write for you, to England i"' 
 
 Mr. Cheyne smiled bitterly: 
 
 " It seems as though some strange fatality were over me. 
 Yes, I wrote. I wrote to Magdalene, to my lawyer, and to 
 another friend who had known me all my life, but the ship
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIKLS. 277 
 
 that carried these letters was burned at sea. I only heard 
 that uiieu I at last worked my way to Porstinouth as a com- 
 mou sailor, aud in that guise presented myself at my lawyer's 
 chambers. Poor man! I thought he would have fainted when 
 he saw me. He owned afterward he was a believer in ghosts 
 at that moment." 
 
 " How long ago was that?" asked Phillis, gently. 
 " Two months; not louger. It was then I heard of my 
 children's death, of my wife's long illness and her strange 
 state. I was ill myself, and not tit to battle through any 
 mo^ scenes. Mr. Standish took me home until J had rested 
 and recovered myself a little; then I put on this disguise — 
 not that much of it is necessary, for few people would rec- 
 ognize me, 1 believe — and came down here and took posses- 
 sion of Mrs. Williams's lodgings." 
 
 Phillis looked at him with mute questioning in her eyes. 
 She did not venture to put it into v/ords, but he understood 
 her. 
 
 " Why have I waited so long, do you ask? aud why am I liv- 
 ing here within sight of my own house, a spy on my own thresh- 
 old and wife? My dear Miss Challoner, there is a bitter reason 
 for that! Four years ago I parted from my wife in anger. 
 There were words said that day that few women could forgive. 
 Has she forgiven them? That is what 1 am trying to find out. 
 • Will the husband that has been dead to her all these years be 
 welcome to her living?" His voice dropped into low vehe- 
 mence, and a pallor came over his face as he spoke. 
 
 Phillis laid her hand on his own. She looked strangely 
 eager: 
 
 " This is why you want my help. Ah! I see now! Oh. it 
 is all right — all that you can wish! It is she who is torment- 
 ing herself, who has no rest day or night! ^Vhen the thunder 
 came that evening — you reuiember — we sat beside the chil- 
 dren's empty beds, and she told me some of her thoughts. 
 When the lightning flashed, her nerves gave way, and she cried 
 out, in her pain, ' Did he forgive?' That was her one 
 thought. ' Her husband — who was up in heaven with the chil- 
 dren — did he think mercifully of her, and know how she loved 
 him? It was your name that was on her lips wh^n that good 
 woman, Miss Mewlstone, hushed her in her arms like a child. 
 Oh, be comforted!" faltered Phillis, " for she loves you, aud 
 mourns for you as though she were the most desolate creature 
 living!" But here she paused, for something that sounded 
 like a sob came to her ear, and, looking round, she saw the 
 bowed figure of her companion shaking with uncontrollable
 
 278 HOT LIKE OTHER GIULS. 
 
 emotion — those liard, tearless sobs that are ouly wrung from a 
 man's strono- agony. 
 
 "Oh, hushP' cried the girl, tenderly. "Be comforted: 
 there is no room for doubt. There! I will leave you; you 
 will be better by and by.'' And then instinctively she 
 turned away her face from a grief too sacred for a stranger to 
 touch, and walked down to the water, where the children had 
 ceased playing, and listened to the baby waves that lapped 
 about her feet. 
 
 And by and by he joined her; and on his pale face there 
 was a rapt, serious look, as of one who has despaired and has 
 just I'stened to an angel's tidings. 
 
 " Did I not say that you, and only you, could help me? 
 This is what 1 have wanted to know: had Magdalene forgiven 
 me? Now I need wait no longer. My wife and home are 
 mine, and I must take possession of my treasures." 
 
 He stopped, as though overcome by the prospect of such 
 happiness; but Phillis timidly interposed: 
 
 " But, Mr. Cheyne, think a moment. Hov/ is it to be man- 
 aged? If you are in too great a hurry, will not the shock be 
 too much for her? She is nervous — excitable. It would 
 hardly be safe." 
 
 " That is what troubles me," he returned, anxiously. " It 
 is too much for any woman to bear; and Magdalene — she was 
 always excitable. Tell me, you have such good sense; and, 
 though you are so young, one can always rely on a woman; 
 you understand her so well — I see you do — and she is fond of 
 you — how shall we act that my poor darling, who has under- 
 gone so much, may not be harmed by me any more?" 
 
 " Wait one moment," returned Phillis, earnestly. " I must 
 consider." And she set herself to revolve all manner of 
 possibilities, and then rejected them one by one. " There 
 seems no other way," she observed, at last, fixing her serious 
 glance on Mr. Cheyne, " I must seek for an opportunity to 
 speak to Miss Mewlstone. It must be broken carefully to 
 your poor wife; I am sure of that. Miss Mewlstone will help 
 us. She will tell us what to do and how to do it. Oh! she is 
 so kind, so thoughtful and tender, just as though Mrs. Cheyne 
 were a poor wayward child v/ho must be guided and helped 
 and shielded. 1 like her so much: we must go to her for 
 counsel." 
 
 " You must indeed, and at once!" he returned, rather per- 
 emptorily; and Phillis had a notion now what manner of man 
 ho had been before misfortunes had tamed and subdued him. 
 His eyes flashed with eagerness; he grew young, alert, full ot
 
 NOT LIKE OTHIiR GIRLS. 273 
 
 life in a moment " Forgive me if I am too impetuous; but 
 1 have waited so long, and now my patience seems exhausted 
 all at once during the last hour. I have been at fever-point 
 ever since you have proved to tue that my wife— my Magda- 
 lene—has been true to me. Fool that 1 was! why have I 
 doubted so long? Miss Challoner, you will not desert me? 
 you will be my good angel a little longer? You will go to 
 Miss Mewlstone now — this very moment — and ask her to pre- 
 pare my wife?'* 
 
 " It is time for me to be going home: mother and Nan will 
 think I am lost," returned Phillis, in a quiet, matter-of-fact 
 tone. "Come, Mr. Cheyne, we can talk as we go along." 
 For he was so wan and agitated that she felt uneasy for his 
 sake. She took his arm gently, and guided him as though he 
 were a child, and he obeyed her like one. 
 
 " Promise me that you will speak to her at once," he said, 
 as he walked beside her rather feebly; and his gait became all 
 at once like that of an old man. But Phillis fenced this re- 
 mark very discreetly. 
 
 " This afternoon or this evening, when I get the chance," 
 she said, very decidedly. " If I am to help you, it must be as 
 I think best, and at m}' own time. Do not think me unkind, 
 for I am doing this for your own good: it would not help you 
 if your wife were to be brought to Ihe brink of a nervous ill- 
 ness. Leave it to me. Miss Mewlstone will serve us best, and 
 she will know." And then she took her hand from his arm, 
 and bade him drop behind a little, that she might not be seen 
 in town walking with him. " Good-bye! keep up your cour- 
 age. I will help you all 1 can," she said, with a kindly smile, 
 as he reluctantly obeyed her behest. She was his good angel, 
 but he must not walk any longer in her shadow: angels do 
 their good deeds invisibly, as Phillis hoped to do hers. He 
 thought of this as he watched her disappearing in the distance. 
 
 Phillis walked rapidly toward the cottage. Archie, who was 
 letting himself in at his own door, saw the girl pass, carrying 
 her head high, and stepping lightly, as though she were tread- 
 ing on air. " Here comes Atalanta," he said to himself; but. 
 though a smile came over his tired face, he made no effort to 
 arrest her. The less he saw of any of them the better, he 
 thought, just now. 
 
 Nan looked up reproachfully as the truant entered the work- 
 room, and Mrs. Challoner wore her gravest expression: evi- 
 dently she had prepared a lecture for the occasion. Phillis 
 looked at them both with sparkling eyes. 
 
 " Listen to me. Nan and mother. Oh, I am. glad Dulce is
 
 S80 XOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 not here, she is so young and giddy; and she might talk. No, 
 not a word from either of you uutil I have had my turn." 
 And then she began her story. 
 
 Nan listened with rapt, speechless attention, but Mrs. Chal- 
 loner gave vent to little pitying moans and exclamations of 
 dismay. 
 
 " Oh, my child!" she kept saying, " to think of your being 
 mixed up in such an adventure! How could you be so im- 
 prudent and daring? Mrs. Williams's lodger — a strange man! 
 in that outlandish cloak, too! and you walked home with him 
 that dark night! Oh, Phillis, I shall never be at peace about 
 you again!" and so on. 
 
 Phillis bore all this patiently, for she knew she had been 
 incautious; and when her mother's excitement had calmed 
 down a little, she unfolded to them her plan. 
 
 " 1 must see Miss Mewlstone quite alone, and that unfin- 
 ished Frengh merino will be such a good excuse. Nan. I will 
 take the body with me this afternoon, and beg her to let me 
 try it on; the rest must come afterward, but this will be the 
 best way of getting iier to myself." And, as Nan approved of 
 this scheme, and Mrs. Ohalloner did not dissent, Phillis had 
 very soon made up her parcel, and was walking rapidly toward 
 the White House. 
 
 As she turned in at the gates she could see a shadow on the 
 blind in Mrs. Williams's little parlor, and waved her hand 
 toward it. He was watching her, she knew: she longed to go 
 back and give him a word of encouragement and exhortation 
 to patience; but some one, Mr. Drummond, perhaps, might 
 see her, and she dared not venture. 
 
 She sent her message by JefEreys, and Miss Mewlstone soon 
 came trotting into the room; but she wore a slightly disturbed 
 expression on her good-natured face. 
 
 She had been reading the third volume of a very interesting 
 novel, and had most unwillingly laid down her book at the 
 young dress-maker's unseasonable request. Like many other 
 stout people. Miss Mewlstone was more addicted to passivity 
 than activity after her luncheon; and, being a creature of 
 habit, this departure from her usual rule flurried her. 
 
 " Dear, dear! to think of your wanting to try on that French 
 merino again!" she observed; "and the other dress fitted so 
 beautifully, and no trouble at all. And there has Miss Mid- 
 dleton been calling just now, and saying they are expecting 
 her brother Hammond home from India in November; and it 
 is getting toward the end of September now. I was finishing 
 my book, but 1 could not help listening to her — she has such
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 28t 
 
 a sweet voice. Ah, just so — jnst sol But areu^t you going 
 to open your parcel, my dear?" 
 
 " Never mind the dress," returned Phillis, quickly. " Dear 
 Miss Mewlstone, I was sorry to disturb you, but it could not 
 be helped. Don't look at the parcel: that is only au excuse. 
 My business is far more important. I want you to put on 
 your bonnet, and come with me just a little way across the 
 road. There is some one's identity that you must jjrove." 
 
 Phillis was commencing her task in a somewhat lame 
 fashion: but xMiss Mewlstone was still too much engrossed 
 with her novel to notice her visitor's singular agitation. 
 
 " Ah, just so — just so," she responded; "that is exactly 
 what the last few chapters have been about. The real heir 
 has turned up, and is trying to prove his own identity; only 
 he is so changed that no one believes him. It is capitally 
 worked out. A very clever author, my dear — " 
 
 But Phillis interrupted her a littlt eagerly: 
 
 " Is that your tale, dear Miss Mewlstone? How often people 
 say truth is stranger than fiction! Do you know, I have heard 
 a story in real life far more wonderful than (hat? Some one 
 was telling me about it just now. There was a man whom 
 every one, even his own wife, believed to be dead; but after 
 four years of incredible dangers and hardships— oh, such hard- 
 ships!— he arrived safely in England, and took i^p his abode 
 just within sight of his old house, where he could see his wife 
 and find out all about her without being seen himself. He 
 put on some sort of disguise, 1 think, so that people could 
 not find him out." 
 
 " That must be a made-up story, I think," returned Miss 
 Mewlstone, a little provokingly; but her head was still full of 
 her book. Poor woman! she wanted to get back to it. She 
 looked at Phillis and the parcel a little plaintivel3\ "Ah, 
 just so— a very pretty story, butimprobable— very improbable, 
 my dear." 
 
 " Nevertheless, it is true!" returned Phillis, so vehemently 
 that Miss Mewlstone's little blue eyes opened more widely. 
 " Never mind your book. I tell you I have business so fmpor- 
 tant that nothing is of consequence beside it. Where is Mrs. 
 Cheyne? She must not know we are going out." 
 
 " Going out!" repeated Miss Mewlstone, helplessly. " My 
 dear, I never go out after luncheon, as Magdalene knows.*' " 
 
 " But vouare going out with me," replied Phillis, promptly. 
 " Dear Miss Mewlstone, 1 know I am perplexing and worry- 
 ing you; but what can I do? Think over what I have just 
 said — about — about that improbable story, as you called it;
 
 285 KOI LIKE OTHER GIULS. 
 
 and then you will iioi be so dreail fully startled. Yon must 
 come with me now to Mrs. Williams's cottage: I waut you to 
 see her lodger." 
 
 " Her lodger!" Miss Mewlstone was fully roused now; and, 
 indeed, Phillis's pale face and suppressed eager tones were not 
 without their due effect. Had the girl taken leave of her 
 senses? Why, the ladies at the White House led (he lives of 
 recluses. Why should she be asked to call upon any stranger, 
 but especially a gentleman — Mrs. Williams's lodger? "My 
 dear," she faltered, " you are very strange this afternoon. 
 Magdalene and I seldom call on any one, and certainly not 
 on gentlemen.'"' 
 
 " You must come with me," replied Phillis, half crying with 
 excitement. She found her task so diflficult. Miss Mewlstone 
 was as yielding as a feather-bed in appearance, and yet it was 
 impossible to move hei-. " He calls himself Mr. Dancy; but 
 now he says that is not all his name: let me whisper it in your 
 ear, if it will not startle you too much. Think of Mrs. 
 Cheyne, and try and command yourself. Mrs. Williams's 
 lodger says that he is Herbert Cheyne — poor Mrs. Cheyue's 
 husband!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 " BARBY, don't YOU RECOLLECT ME?" 
 
 " 1 DO not believe it — stuff and nonsense! You are crazy, 
 child, to come to me with this trumped-up story! The man 
 is an impostor. 1 will have the police to him. For Heaven's 
 sake, don't let Magdalene hear this nonsense!" 
 
 Phillis recoiled a few steps, speechless with amazement. Miss 
 Mevvlstone's face was crimson; her small eyes were sparkling 
 with angry excitement: all her softness and gentle inanity had 
 vanished. 
 
 " Give me a bonnet — shawl — anything, and 1 will put this 
 matter straight in a moment. Where is Jeffreys? King the 
 bell, please, Miss Challoner! I must speak to her." 
 
 Phillis obeyed without a word. 
 
 " Ah, just so! Jeffreys," resuming her old purring manner 
 as the maid appeared, " this young lady has a friend in 
 trouble, and wants me to go down to the cottage with her. 
 Keep it from your mistress if you can, for she hates hearing 
 of anything sad; say we are busy — I shall be in to tea — any- 
 thing. 1 know you will be discreet, Jeffreys." 
 
 'Yes, ma'am," returned Jeffreys, adjusting the shawl over 
 
 ii
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 283 
 
 Miss Mewlstone's shoulders; " but this is your garden-shawl, 
 surely?" 
 
 " Oh, it does not matter; it will do very well. Now, Miss 
 Challoner, I am ready." And so noiseless and rapid were her 
 movements that Phillis had much to do to keep up with her. 
 
 " Won't you listen to me?" she pleaded. " Dear Miss 
 Mewlstone, it is no made-up story; it is all true;" but, to her 
 astonishment. Miss Mewlstone faced round upon her in a most 
 indigjnaut manner: 
 
 " Be silent, child! I can not, and will not, hear any more. 
 How should you know anything about it? Have you ever seen 
 Herbert Cheyne? You are the tool of some impostor. But I 
 will guard Magdalene; she shall not be driven mad. No, no, 
 poor dear! she shall not, as loug as she has old Bathsheba to 
 watch over her." And Phillis, in despair, very wisely held 
 her peace. After all, she was a stranger: had she any proof 
 but Mr. Dancy's word? 
 
 Just toward the last. Miss Mewlstone's pace slackened; and 
 her hand shook so, as she tried to unlatch the little gate, that 
 Phillis was obliged to come to her assistance. The cottage 
 door stood open, as usual, but there was no tall figure lurking 
 in the background — no shadow on the blind. 
 
 " We had better go in there," whispered Phillis, pointing 
 to the closed door of the parlor; and Miss Mewlstone, without 
 knockijig, at once turned the handle and went in, while Phillis 
 followed trembling. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Miss Mewlstone, sternly, " I have come 
 to know what you mean by imposing your story on this child." 
 
 Mr. Dancy, who was standing with his back to them, lean- 
 ing for support against the little mantel-shelf, did not answer 
 for a moment; and then he turned slowly round, and looked 
 at her. 
 
 "Oh, Barby!" he said, "don't you recollect me?" And 
 then he held out his thin hands to her imploringly, and added, 
 " Dear old Barby! but you are not a bit changed." 
 
 "Herbert — why, good heavens! Ah, just so — just so!" 
 gasped the poor lady, rather feebly, as she sat down, feeling 
 her limbs were deserting her, and every scrap of color left her 
 face. Indeed, she looked so flabby and lifeless that Phillis was 
 alarmed, and flew to her assistance; only Mr. Cheyne waved 
 her aside rather impatiently. 
 
 " Let her be; she is all right. She knows me, you see: so 
 I can not be so much altered. Barby," he went on, in a coax- 
 ing voice, as he knelt beside her and chafed her hands, "you 
 thought I was an impostor, and were coming to threaten nie:
 
 284: NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 were you not? But now you see Miss Challoner was in the 
 right. Have you not got a word for me? Won't you talk to 
 me about Magdalene? \\''e have got to prepare her, you know. " 
 
 Then, as he spoke his wife's name, and she remembered her 
 sacred charge, the faithful creature suddenly fell on his neck 
 in piteous weeping. 
 
 " Oh, the bonny face," she wept, " that has grown so old, 
 v/ith the sorrow and the gray hair! My dear, this will just 
 kill her with joy, after all her years of bitter widowhood. " 
 And then she cried again, and stroked his face as though he 
 were a child, and then wrung her hands for pity at the changes 
 she saw. " It is the same face, and yet not the same," she 
 said, by and by. " I knew the look of your e3^es, my bonny 
 mun, for all they were so piercing with sadness. But what 
 have they done to you, Herbert — for it might be your own 
 ghost — 'SO thin; and yet you are brown, too; and your hair!" 
 And she touched the gray locks over the temples with tender, 
 fluttering fingers. 
 
 " Magdalene never liked gray hairs," he responded, with a 
 sigh. " She is as beautiful as ever, I hear; but 1 have not 
 caught a glimpse of her. Tell me, Barby — for I have grown 
 timorous with sorrow — will she hate the sight of such a miser- 
 able scarecrow?" 
 
 " My dear! hate the sight of her own husband, who is given 
 back to her from the dead? Ay, I have much to hear. Why 
 did you never write to us, Herbert? But there! you have all 
 that to explain to her by and by." 
 
 " Yes; and you must tell me about the children — my 
 little Janie," he returned, in a choked voice. 
 
 " Ah, the dear angels! But, Herbert, you must be careful. 
 Nobody speaks of them to Magdalene, unless she does herself. 
 You are impetuous, my dear; and Magdalene — well, she has 
 not been herself since you left her. It is pining, grief, and 
 the dead v/eight of loss that has ailed her, being childless and 
 widowed at once. There, there! just so. We must be tender 
 to her, poor dear! and things will soon come right." 
 
 " You need not fear me, Barby. I have learned my lesson 
 at last. 11 I only get my wife back, you shall see — you shall 
 see how I will make up to her for all I have ever made her 
 suffer! My poor girl! my poor girl!" And then he shaded 
 his face, and v/as silent. 
 
 Phillis had stolen out in the garden, and sat down on a little 
 bench outside, where passers-by could not discern her from the 
 road, and where only the sound of their voices reached her 
 laiutly. Now and then chance words fell on her ear — " Mag-
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 285 
 
 dalene " over and over again, and " Janie " and " Bertie " — 
 ahvays in the voice she had so admired. By and by she heard 
 her own name, and rose at once, and found them looking for 
 her. 
 
 " Here is my good angel, Barby," observed Mr. Cheyne, as 
 she came up smiling. " Not one girl in a thousand would 
 have acted as bravely and simply as she has done. We are 
 friends for life. Miss Challoner, are we not?'' And he 
 stretched out his hand to her, and Phillis laid her own in it. 
 
 " I was a bit harsh with you, dearie, was I not?" returned 
 Miss Mewlstone, apologetically; " but there: you were such a 
 child that I thought you had been deceived. But I ought to 
 have known better, craving your pardon, my dear. Now we 
 will just go back to Magdalene; and you must help my stupid 
 old head, for I am faidy crazy at the thought of telling her. 
 Go buck into, the parlor and lie down, Herbert, for you are 
 terribly exhausted. You must have patience, my man, a wee 
 bit longer, for we must be cautious — cautious, you see.'" 
 
 " Yes, I must have patience," he responded, rather bitterly. 
 But he went back into the room and watched them until they 
 disappeared into the gates of his own rightful paradise. 
 
 Miss Mawlstone was leaning on Phillis 's arm. Her gait was 
 still rather feeble, but the girl was talking energetically to her. 
 
 " What a spirit she has! just like Magdalene at her age,'* 
 he thought, " only Magdalene never possessed her even tem- 
 per. My poor girl! From what Barby says, she has grown 
 hard and bitter with trouble. But it shall be my aim in life 
 to comfort her for all she has been through!" And then, as 
 he thought of his dead children, and of the empty nursery, he 
 groaned and threw himself face downward upon the couch. 
 But a few minutes afterward he had started up again, unable 
 to rest, and began to pace the room; and then, as though the 
 narrow space confined him, he continued his restless walk into 
 the garden, and then into the shrubberies of the White House. 
 
 " My dear, I am not as young as I was. I feel as if all this 
 were too much for me," sighed Miss Mewlstone, as she jjressed 
 her companion's arm. " One needs so much vitality to bear 
 such scenes. I am terrified for Magdalene, she has so little 
 self-control! and to have him given back to her from the 
 dead! I thank God! but I am afraid, for all that." And a 
 few more quiet tears stole over her cheeks. 
 
 " Thinking of it only makes it worse," returned Phillis, 
 feverishly. She, too, dreaded the ordeal before them; but she 
 was young, and not easily daunted. All the way through the 
 shrubbery she talked ou breathlessly, trying to rally her own
 
 S86 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 courage. It was she who eutered the drawing-room first, for 
 poor Miss Mewlstoue had to efface Lhe sigus of her agitation. 
 Mrs. Cheyue looked surprised to see her alone. 
 
 "Jeffreys told me you and Miss Mewlstone had gone out 
 together on a little business. What have you done with poor 
 old Barby?" And, as Phillis answered as composedly and de- 
 murely as she could, Mrs. Cheyne arched her eyebrows in her 
 old satirical way: 
 
 " She is in the room, is she? Never mind answering, if you 
 prefer your own counsel. Your little mysteries are no busi- 
 ness of miue. I should have thought the world would have 
 come to" an end, though, before Barby had thrown down the 
 third volume of a novel for anything short of a fire. But you 
 and she know best."' And, as Phillis flushed and looked con- 
 fused under her scutiny, she gave a short laugh and turned 
 away. 
 
 It was a relief when Miss Mewlstoue came trotting into the 
 room Vv'itli her cap-strings awry. 
 
 " Dear, dear! have w^e kept you waiting for your tea, Mag- 
 daleiie?" she exclaimed, in a flurried tone, as she bustled up 
 to the table. " Miss Challouer iiad a little business, and she 
 thought I might help her. Yes; just so! I have brought 
 her in, for she is tired, poor thing! and I knew she would be 
 welcome." 
 
 " It seems to me that you are both tired. You are as hot 
 as though you had walked for miles, Barby. Oh, you have 
 your secrets too. But it is not for me to meddle with mys- 
 teries. " And then she laughed again, and threw herself back 
 on her couch, with a full understanding of the discomfort of 
 the two people before her. 
 
 Phillis saw directly she was in a hard, cynical mood. 
 
 " You shall know our business by and by," she said, very 
 quietly, " Dear Miss Mewlstoue, I am so thirsty, I must asic 
 you for another cup of tea, " But, as Miss Mewlstone took the 
 cup from her, the poor lady's hand shook so with suppressed 
 agitation that the saucer slipped from her grasp, and the next 
 moment the costly china lay in fragments at her feet. 
 
 " Dear! dear! how dreadfully careless of me!" fumed Miss 
 Mewlstone. 
 
 But Mrs. Cheyne made no observation. She only rang the 
 bell, and ordered another cup. But, when the servant had 
 withdrawn, she said, coldly: 
 
 " Your hand is not as steady as usual this evening, Barby;" 
 and somehow the sharp, incisive tone cut so keenly that^ to
 
 1!?0T LIKE OTfiEtl GIRLS. 28'J' 
 
 Phlllis's aiiinn. Miss Mewlstone became very pale, and then 
 suddenly burst into tears. 
 
 " This is too much!" observed Mrs. Cheyne, rising in seri- 
 ous displeasure. She had almost a masculine abhorrence of 
 tears o£ late years; the very sight of them excited her 
 strangely. 
 
 " Miss Challouer may keep her mysteries to herself if she 
 likes, but 1 insist on knowing what has upset you like this." 
 
 " Oh, dear! oh, dear!" sobbed the simple woman, wringing 
 her hands helplessly. " This is just too much for me! Poor 
 soul! how am I to tell her?" An'd then she looked at Phillis in 
 atf right at her own words, which revealed so much and so little. 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne turned exceedingly pale, and a shadow passed 
 over her face. 
 
 " ' Poor soul!' Does she mean me? Is it of me j^ou are 
 speaking, Barby? Is there something for me to know that you 
 dread to tell me? Poor soul, indeed!" And then her features 
 contracted and grew pinched. " But you need uot be afraid. 
 Is it not the Psalmist who says, ' All thy waves and thy bil- 
 lows have gone over me '? Drowned people have nothing to 
 fear: there is no fresh trouble for them." And her eyes took 
 an aivful, stony look that terrified Phillis. 
 
 " Oh, it is no fresh trouble!" stammered the girl. " People 
 are not tormented like that: they have not to suffer more than 
 they can bear. " 
 
 But Mrs. Cheyne turned upon her fiercely: 
 
 "You are wrong — altogether wrong. 1 could not bear it, 
 and it drove me mad — at least as nearly mad as a sane woman 
 could be. I felt my reason shaken; my brain was all aflame, 
 and 1 cried out to Heaven for mercy, and a blank answered 
 me. Barby, if there be fresh trouble, tell me instantly and 
 at once. What do I care? What is left tome, but a body 
 that will not die and a brain that will not cease to think? If 
 I could only stop the thoughts! if I could only go down into 
 silence and nothingness! but then I should not find Herbert 
 and the children. Where are they? I forget!" She stopped, 
 pressed her hands to her brow with a strange, bewildered ex- 
 pression; but Miss Mewlstone crept up to her and touched 
 her timidly. 
 
 '' My bonny Magdalene!" she exclaimed; " don't let the ill 
 thoughts come; drive them away, my poor dear. Look at 
 me. Did old Barby ever deceive you? There is no fresh 
 trouble, my pretty. In His own good time the All-Merciful 
 has had mercy!"
 
 388 SrOT LIKE OTHEK GIELS. 
 
 Mrs. Clieyne's hand dropped down to her side, but hef 
 brilliant eyes showed no cjuipi-ehension of her words, 
 
 " Why did you frighten me like that?" she repeated, rock- 
 ing herself to and fro; and her voice had a high, strained tone 
 in it. " There is no trouble, but your face is pale, and there 
 are tears in your eyes; and look how your hand shakes! Miss 
 Challoner — Phillis, what does she mean? Barby, you are a 
 iooiish old woman; your wits are gone." 
 
 " If they are gone, it is with joy!" she sobbed. " Yes, my 
 precious one! for sheer joy!" but then she broke down ut- 
 terly. It was Phillis who came to the rescue. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Cheyne, 1 think I could tell you best," she be- 
 gan, in lier sensible voice,, which somehow stilled Mrs. Oheyne's 
 frightful agitation. " There has been some news — a letter 
 that has been lost, which ought to have arrived some months 
 ago. We have heard about \t this afternoon." She stopped, 
 for there seemed to be a faint sound of footsteps in the hall be- 
 low. Could he have followed them? What would be the re- 
 sult of such imprudence? But, as she faltered and hesitated, 
 Mrs. Cheyne gripped her arm with an iron force: 
 
 " A letter from Herbert! Did he write to me? oh, my 
 darling! did he write to me before he died? • Only one word — 
 one word of forgiveness, and I will say Heaven indeed is merci- 
 ful! Give it to me, Barby! Why do ycm keep me waiting? 
 Oh, this is blessed news!" But Miss Mewlstone only clasped 
 her gently in her arms. 
 
 " One moment, my dearie! There is more than that. It 
 is not a message from Heaven. There is^till one living on 
 earth that loves you! Try and follow my meaning," for the 
 perplexed stare had returned again. " Say to yourself, ' Per- 
 haps, after all, Herbert is not dead. Kobody saw him die. 
 He may be alive; he may have written to me — ' " She 
 stopped, for Mrs. Clieyne had suddenly flung up her arms 
 over her head with a hoarse cry that rang through the house: 
 
 " Herbert! Herbert! Herbert!" 
 
 " I am here — Magdalene! Magdalene!" A tall figure that 
 had crept unperceived through the open hall door, and had 
 lurked unseen in the shadow of the portiere, suddenly dashed 
 into the room, and took his wife's rigid form into his arms. 
 " Magdalene — love — wife! It is Herbert! Look up, my dar- 
 ling! I am here! I am holding you!" But Ihere was no re- 
 sponse. Magdalene's face was like the face of the dead. 
 
 They took her from him almost by force, for he refused to 
 give her up. Over and over again they prayed him to leave 
 her to their care, but he seemed like a man that did not hear.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 389 
 
 •* She is dead! I have killed her; but there is no reason why 
 I should give her up," he said, with terrible calm in his voice. 
 
 " She is not dead!" returned Miss Mewlstone, almost an- 
 grily. " She has been like this before; but Jeffreys and I 
 know what to do. Ay, you were always willful, Herbert; but 
 -when it comes to killing your own wife — " And after this he 
 consented to lay her down on her couch. 
 
 He watched them with wistful eyes as they tried the usual 
 remedies, but it was long before even the flicker of an eyelid 
 spoke to them of life. At the first sign of returning anima- 
 tion Herbert crept just behind his wife's pillow, where he 
 could see the first unclosing of the drooping lids. When Mag- 
 dalene opened her eyes at last, they fell full on her husband's 
 face. 
 
 Phillis, who was beside her, marveled at the strange beauty 
 of that rapt look, as she lay and gazed at him. 
 
 " Herbert's face!" they heard her whisper, in an awe-struck 
 voice. " Then I have died at last, and am in heaven. Oh, 
 how merciful! but 1 have not deserved it — a sinner such as 1." 
 
 " Magdalene, my darling, you are in our own home! It is 
 I who was lost and have come back to you. Look at me. 
 It is only the children who are in heaven. You and I are 
 spared to each other on earth. " But for a long time her scat- 
 tered faculties failed to grasp the truth. 
 
 Phillis went home at last and left them. There was noth- 
 ing she could do, and she was utterly spent; but Miss Mewl- 
 stone kept watch beside her charge until late into the night. 
 
 Little by little the truth dawned on the numbed brain; 
 slowly and by degrees the meaning of her husband's tears 
 and kisses sunk into the clouded mind. 'Now and again she 
 wandered, but Herbert's voice always recalled her. 
 
 " Then I am not dead?" she asked him, again and again. 
 " IMiey do not cry in heaven, and Barby was crying just now. 
 Barby, am I dreaming? Who is this beside me? is it Her- 
 bert's ghost? only his hands are warm, and mine are so terri- 
 bly cold. Why, you are crying too, love; but 1 am too tired 
 to understand." And then she crept wearily closer and closer 
 into his arms, like a tired-out child who has reached home. 
 
 And when Herbert stooped over her gently he saw that the 
 long lashes lay on her cheek. Magdalene had fallen asleep.
 
 ^00 2701 LIKE OTHEE QIBLS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 MOTES IN" THE SUNSHINE. 
 
 That sleep was, huuiauly speakiug, Magdalene*s salvation. 
 
 At the greatest crisis of her life, whea reasou hung iu the 
 balance — when the suJden influx of joy might have paralyzed 
 the overwrought heart and brain— at that moment physical 
 exhaustion saved her by that merciful, overpowering sleep. 
 
 When she woke, it was to the resurrection of her life and 
 love. Months afterward she spoke of that waking to Phillis, 
 when she lay in her bed weak as a new-born babe, and the 
 early morning light streamed full on the face of her slumber- 
 ing husband. 
 
 They were alone; for Miss Mewlstone had just crept softly 
 from the room. Her movement had roused Magdalene. 
 Herbert, who was utterly worn out by his long watching, had 
 just dropped asleep, with his head resting against the wood- 
 work. He was still sitting in the arm-chair beside her, and 
 only the thin profile was visible. 
 
 The previous night had been passed by Magdalene iu a 
 semi-conscious state: delirious imaginations had blended 
 with realities. There were flashes and intervals of compara- 
 tive consciousness, when the truth rushed into her mind; but 
 she had been too weak to retain it long. That she was dream- 
 ing or dead was her fixed idea; that this was her husband's 
 greeting to her in paradise seemed to be her one thought. 
 " Strange that the children do not kiss me, too," they heard 
 her say once. 
 
 But now, as she opened her eyes, there was no blue misty 
 haze through which she ever feebly sought to pierce. She was 
 lying in her own room, where she had passed so many despair- 
 ing days and nights. The windows were open; the sweet, crisp 
 morning air fanned her temples; the birds were singing in the 
 garden below; and there beside her was the face so like, yet so 
 unlike, the face from which she had parted four years ago. 
 
 For a little while she lay and watched in a sort of trance; 
 and then in the stillness full realization came to her, and she 
 knew that she was not mad or dreaming. This was no imag- 
 ination; it was reality. 
 
 With incredible effort, for she felt strangely weak, she 
 raised herself on her elbow to study that dear face, more 
 closftiy, for the change in it batMed her. Could this be her 
 Herbert? How bronzed and thin he had grown! Those lines
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 291 
 
 that furrowed his forehead, those hollows in the temjales and 
 under the eyes, were new to her. And, oh, the pity of those 
 gray hairs in the place of the brown, wavy locks she remem- 
 bered 1 But it was when she laid her lips against the scarred 
 wrist that Herbert woke, and met the full look of recognition 
 in his wife's eyes, for which he had waited so long. 
 
 Now he could fall upon his knees beside her, and crave that 
 forgiveness for words and acts that had seared his conscience 
 all these years like red-hot iron. But at the first word she 
 stopped him, and drew his head to her breast: 
 
 " Oh, Herbert, hush! What! ask forgiveness of me, when 
 I have sinned against you doubly — trebly — when 1 was no true 
 wife, as you know? Oh, do not let us ask it of each other, 
 but of God, whom we have so deeply offended! He has pun- 
 ished us, but He has been merciful too. He has taken our 
 children because we did not deserve them. Oh, Herbert! 
 what will you do without them — for you loved Janie so!'* 
 And then, for a little while the childless parents could only 
 hold each other's hands and weep, for to Herbert Cheyne the 
 grief was new, and at the sight of her husband's soltow Mag- 
 dalene's old wounds seemed to open and bleed afresh; only 
 now — now she did not weep alone. 
 
 When Miss Mewlstone entered the room, shortly afterward, 
 she found Magdalene lying spent and weary, holding her hus- 
 band's hand. 
 
 Joy had indeed returned to the White House, but for a long 
 time it was joy that was strangely tempered with sorrow. 
 Upstairs no sound greeted Herbert from the empty nurseries; 
 there was no little feet pattering to meet the returned wan- 
 derer, no little voices to cry a joyous *' Father!" And for 
 years the desolate mother had borne this sorrow alone. 
 
 As the days passed on, Magdalene regained her strength 
 slowly, but neither wife nor husband could hide from each 
 other the fact that their health was broken by all they had 
 gone through. Herbert's constitution was sadly impaired for 
 the remainder of his life; he knew well that he must carry 
 with him the consequences of those years of suffering. Often 
 he had to endure intense neuralgic agony in his limbs and 
 head; an unhealed wound for a longtime troubled him sorely. 
 Magdalene strove hard to regain strength, that she might 
 devote herself to nurse him, but, though her constitution was 
 superb, she had much to bear from her disordered nerves. At 
 times, the old irritability was hard to vanquish; there were 
 still dark moods of restlessness when her companionship was
 
 392 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 trying; but it was now that Herbert proved the nobleness and 
 reality of his repentance. 
 
 For he was ever gentle with her, however much she might 
 try him. Some talk he had had with her doctor had con- 
 vinced him that she was not to blame for these morbid moods, 
 that the nerves had become disorganized by those years of sol- 
 itary misery. " We must bear all our troubles together/' as 
 he often told her; and so he bore this, as he did the trial of 
 his children's loss, with grave fortitude, and a patience that 
 surprised all who knew him. 
 
 And he was not without his reward, for, the dark fit over, 
 Magdalene's smile would greet him, like sunshine after a 
 storm, and she would thank him with tears and caresses for 
 his forbearance. 
 
 " 1 can't think what makes me still so horrid, when I am 
 80 happy," she said once to him, when the first year of their 
 reunion bad passed. " I do my best to fight against these 
 moods, but they seem stronger than myself and overcome me. 
 Do not be so good to me next time, Herbert; scold me and be 
 angry with me, as you used in the old days." 
 
 " I can not," he answered, smiling. " 1 never loved you 
 in the old days as I do now. 1 would not change my wife, 
 in spite of all the trouble she gives me, for any other woman 
 upon earth. You believe this, love, do you not.'^" looking at 
 her beautiful face anxiously, for it had clouded a little at his 
 last words. 
 
 " Yes, but I do not like to trouble you: it is that which frets 
 me. 1 wauited to be a comfort to you, and never to give you 
 a moment's uneasiness; but I can not help myself, somehow. 
 I love you; I don't believe you know yet how 1 lave you, Her- 
 bert; but it seems as if 1 must grieve you sometimes." 
 
 " Never mind; I will bear your trouble and my own too,'* 
 he ajiswered, cheerily; and in this way he always comforted 
 her. But to Magdalene her own self ever remained a mys- 
 tery; the forces of her own nature were too strong for her, 
 and yet she was not a weak woman. She had expected that 
 in her case love and happiness would have worked a miracle, 
 as though miracles were ever affected by mere human agencies 
 — that she would rise like a phenix from the ashes of her 
 past, reborn, rejuvenated, with an inexhaustible fund of moral 
 strength. 
 
 Now she had Herbert, all would go smoothly; she would no 
 longer mourn for her little ones. Since her husband was there 
 to comfort her, with his constant presence to sustain her, all 
 must be well; never again would she be nervous, irritable, or 
 
 1
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 293 
 
 sarcastic. Poor Magdalene! she was creating heaven for her- 
 self upon earth; she was borrowing angels' plumes before the 
 time, shp had forgotten the conditions of humanity, " the body 
 of the flesh," which weighed down greater souls than hers. 
 
 There are Gethsemaiies of the spirit to the weary ones of 
 earth, hours of conflict that must be lived through and en- 
 dured. Nature that groaneth and travaileth can not find its 
 abiding-place of rest here. To the end of time it seems to 
 be written in enduring characters that no human lot shall be 
 free from suffering: sooner or later, more or less — that is all! 
 Magdalene had still to learn this lesson painfully: that she 
 was slow in learning it, proved the strength and obduracy of 
 her will. True, she was rarely sarcastic — never in her hus- 
 band's presence, for a word or a look from him checked her, 
 and she grew humble and meek at once. It was her unruly 
 nerves that baffled her; she was shocked to find that irritable 
 words still rose to her lips; that the spirit of restlessness was 
 not quelled forever; that thunder still affrighted her; and 
 that now and then her mind seemed clouded with fancied 
 gloom. 
 
 She once spoke of this to Miss Middleton, with tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 '* It is so strange," she said. " Herbert is different, but 1 
 am still so unchanged." 
 
 " The conditions of your health are unchanged, you mean," 
 answered Elizabeth, with that quiet sympathy that always 
 rested people. " This is the mistake that folk make: they 
 do not distinguish between an unhealthy mind and a diseased 
 soul: the one is due to physical disorganization, the other to 
 moral causes. In your case, dear Mrs. Cheyne, one may 
 safely lay the blame on the first cause." 
 
 " Oh, do you think so?" she asked, earnestly. " I dare 
 not cheat my conscience in that way; it is my bad temper, 
 my undisciplined nature, that ought to bear the blame." 
 
 " No; believe me," answered Elizabeth, for they had grown 
 great friends of late, " I have watched you narrowly, and 1 
 know how you try to conquer this irritability; there is no 
 black spot of anger in your heart, whatever words come to 
 your lips. You are like a fretful child sometimes, I grant 
 you that, who is ailing and unconscious of its ailment. AVhen 
 you would be calm you are strangely disturbed; you speak 
 sharply, hoping to relieve something that oppresses you." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" sighed Magdalene; "and yet Hei-k#rt never 
 ■peaks crossly to me." 
 
 •' Jie never will, for he knows what you suffer. W^l, dear
 
 294 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 friend, what of this! This is a cross that you must carry per- 
 haps all your life. You are uot the only one who has to bear 
 the torment of disordered nerves; it must be borne wi!.h resig- 
 nation, as we bear olher troubles. Oiice you felt you could 
 not love God; you ceased to pray to Him; now you love Him 
 a little. Go on loving; thank Him for your husband's pa- 
 tience, and pray that you may have patience with yourself. 
 One is weary of always living with one's self, I know that 
 well," finished Elizabeth, with a charming smile. 
 
 Mr. Drummond would have verified Miss Middleton's opin- 
 ion that Magdalene was not so unchanged as she believed her- 
 self to be. 
 
 At his first interview with her after Herbert Cheyue's re- 
 turn, he could almost have sworn that she was a different 
 woman. 
 
 Phillis, who spent all her spare time at the White House — 
 for they both made much of Herbert's "good angel," as he 
 still called her, jestingly — was sitting alone with Mrs. Clieyne 
 when Archie was announced. 
 
 His old enemy greeted him with a frank smile. 
 
 " This is kind of you, Mr. Drummond," she said, quite 
 warmly. " How I wish my husband were not out, that I 
 could introduce him to you! I have told him how good you 
 have tried to be to me, but that I was ungrateful and repulsed 
 you." 
 
 Archie was shaking hands with Phillis, who seemed a little 
 disturbed at his entrance. He turned around and regarded 
 the beautiful woman with astonishment. Was this really Mrs. 
 Cheyne.'' Where was the hard, proud droop of the lip, the 
 glance of mingled coolness and hauteur, the polished sarcasm 
 of voice and manner? Her face looked clear and open as a 
 child's; her eyes were brilliant with happiness. 
 
 Magdalene was in one of her brightest moods when she was 
 most truly herself. 
 
 " I have met him just now. He stopped and introduced 
 himself. We had quite a long talk outside of Mrs. Williams's 
 cottage. I called upon him there, you know, but he had good 
 reasons for refusing my visits. Mrs. Cheyne, you must allow 
 me to congratulate you most earnestly. You will own now 
 that Providence has been good to you. " 
 
 ■' I will own that and everything," returned Magdalene, joy- 
 ously. " I will own, if you like, that I treated you shame- 
 fully, and took a pleasure in tormenting you; and you were so 
 oatient — oh- so patient, Mr. Drummond! J could have called
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 295 
 
 you back sometimes and apologized, but I would not. In my 
 Ditter moments I felt it was such a relief to mock at people/' 
 
 " Never mind all that. Let by-gones be by-gones. I wish 
 I could have served you better/' And then, as he changed 
 the subject, and spoke feelingly about the miracle Of her hus- 
 band's restoration, Mrs. Cheyne looked at him rather wist- 
 fully. 
 
 "Oh, how good you are!" she said, softly. "Do you 
 know, the world seems to me full of good people now; and yet it 
 once appeared too bad a place for any one to live in. We 
 create our own atmosphere — at least so Herbert tells me. But 
 you are looking thin, Mr. Drummoud — thin and pale. You 
 must he working too hard." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, hard work never hurts any one," he re- 
 plied, carelessly; but there was something forced in his tone. 
 
 Phillis, who had been sitting apart quite silently, raised her 
 eyes involuntarily from her work. Was it her fancy, or had 
 some uiidefinable change passed over him? They had seen 
 him so little of late. Since all this had happened at the Wliite 
 House he had called once or twice; and once Nan had been 
 there, and he had spoken to her much as usual. No one 
 would have detected any difference in his manner, except that 
 he was a little grave and preoccupied. Nan had not noticed 
 anything; but, then, she was singularly blind in such matters. 
 Had she not vaguely hinted that his visits were on Phillis's 
 account? that mere hint conveying exquisite pain to Phillis. 
 
 Now, as she stole a glance at him, the conviction was strong 
 within her that the arrow had gone deep. He certainly looked 
 a little thin and care-worn, and eomeihing of a young man's 
 vigor and hopefulness seemed temporarily impaired. But, as 
 it happened, that girlish scrutiny was not unperceived by 
 Archie. In a moment he was on the alert. His eyes chal- 
 lenged her boldly, and it was Phillis who flushed and looked 
 conscious. 
 
 It was as though he said to her, " Ah! you think you know 
 all about it. But you need not trouble yourself to be sorry 
 for me; you do not know what a man's strength can do. 
 And I am determined to bear this by myself, and to myself; 
 for in silence there is power." 
 
 It certainly seemed as though a new strength had come to 
 Archie. He had been a man who was prone to speak much 
 of his feelings. Irritable and sensitive, he had demanded much 
 sympathy from his womankind. His was a nature that craved 
 support i!i hi^ work; but now. not even to Grace, could he 
 speak of this trouble that had befallen him.
 
 S96 KOX LIKE OTHER GlRLg. 
 
 Was it a trouble, after all, this vague shadow that lay about 
 his path? No one but he himself knew the sweetness and 
 graciousness of the dream that had come to him. It had only 
 been a dream, after all; and now he was awake. The vision 
 he had conjured up to himself had faded into unreality. She 
 was not his second self: never by look or word had he wooed 
 her; she was only the woman he could have loved. This was 
 how he put it; and now he would bury this faint hojie that 
 was still-born — that had never had breathed into it the breath 
 of life. And if for a little while his future should be cloudy 
 and bereft of its sunshine, was he the only one to whom " some 
 days must be dark and dreary?'' 
 
 Phillis's unspoken sympathy drooped under this stern repres- 
 sion: and yet in her heart she reverenced him all the more for 
 this moral strength — for there is nothing a true woman abhors 
 more than weakness in a man. After this silent rebuff, Archie 
 took himself well in hand, and began to speak of other things: 
 he told Mrs. Cheyne, being certain now of her interest, of his 
 sister's intended marriage, and how he and Mattie were going 
 down to the wedding. 
 
 " He is a very good fellow, this intended brother-in-law of 
 mine — a sort of rough diamond; but hardly good enough for 
 Isabel," he said. " Oh, yes, ho is very rich. My poor little 
 sister will have her head turned by all her magiiificence; for 
 his parents are so generous, they quite load her with gifts," 
 And he smiled to himself at the notion of his little sister, just 
 fresh from her narrow school-room life, rejoicing over her 
 trousseau and her handsome house, and driving away from 
 the church in her own carriage. No wonder his father and 
 mother were pleased. As for the bridegroom-elect, Archie 
 spoke of him with half-contemptuous amusement: " Oh, he 
 was a good fellow — no one wished to deny that;" but there 
 was a want of culture and polish that grated upon the suscep- 
 tibilities of the Oxford fellow. 
 
 Phillis listened with undivided interest — especially when he 
 mentioned Grace. 
 
 " Mattie and 1 are in hope that we shall bring her back with 
 us; but, at all events, my mother has promised to spare her 
 at Christmas." This time he addressed himself to Phillis. 
 
 " Oh, that will be nice for you!" she returned, a little 
 eagerly. " You have told us so much about her that I quite 
 long to know her." 
 
 " 1 should say you would suit each other perfectly," he re* 
 plied, as he rose to take his leave. " Sometimes you remind 
 me of her. Miss Challouer; and yet you are not really alike.
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 29? 
 
 Good -bye, if I do not see you again before we go to Leeds.*' 
 And Phillis gave him her hand and a cordial smile. 
 
 But ivhen he had gone out of the room, his hostess accom- 
 panying him — for she had a word for his private ear — Phillis 
 sat down and thought over those last words with a strange 
 feeling of pleasure: " Sometimes you remind me of her. Miss 
 Challouer." Was it possible that he could trace any resem- 
 blance between her and this dearly beloved sister, this Grace, 
 whom he seemed to regard as absolute perfection? 
 
 " Oh, I hope she will come! I am sure we shall be such 
 fx'iends," she said to herself: and from this time Phillis looked 
 anxiously for Grace Drummond's arrival. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 *• A MAN HAS A RIGHT TO HIS OWN" THOUGHTS." 
 
 There were great rejoicings in the house in Lowder Street 
 on the occasion of Isabel Drummond's marriage. 
 
 There is always something pathetic in the first wedding in a 
 family — the first severing of the family circle — the first break 
 — the first ingathering of new interest. But when there are 
 small means, and seven portionless daughters, very few of 
 whom can be said to be gifted wilh good looks, a wealthy son- 
 in-law must indeed be regarded as a direct blessing from Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 That Mr. Drummond did so regard it was evident from the 
 jovial good humor that had replaced his usual moody and ir- 
 ritable manner; while his wife's beaming face, softened by 
 maternal tenderness for the child who would no longer share 
 the daily life with them, was a surprising spectacle to those 
 acquainted with Mrs. Drummond's ordinary reserve and some- 
 what severe bearing. But it is not too much to say that on 
 this occasion Mrs. Drummond was a happy woman. 
 
 The tide of fortune, long so adverse to their interests, seemed 
 turning in their favor at last. Archie had done great things 
 for himself, and the mother's eyes rested on him proudly as 
 he performed the marriage ceremony for his young sister, the 
 gravity of his priestly oflQce setting him apart, as it were, for 
 her reverence as well as love. That Isabel had done great 
 things for herself also could not be denied. But there were 
 other causes for content in the mother's heart. 
 
 Both the boys were doing w^ll. Clvde had been articled to 
 a lawyer, an old friend of Mr. Drummond, and had won 
 golden opinions from his chief, who pronounced him an in-
 
 298 NOT LIKE OTHEE GIRLS. 
 
 telligent, likely lad, and as sharp as a ueedle. Fred had lately 
 obiaiued a clerkship in an old-established house in Leeds, and 
 was also doing well, and his salary was a great boon to the 
 straitened household. Grace, too. was doing her duty vigor- 
 ously, and no longer vexed her mother's soul by her drooping 
 looks or uncomplaining discontent — that silent protest of 
 many, that is so irritating to the home-rule. True, it might 
 be only the quiescence of despair, but at least she veiled it de- 
 cently under a show of Spartan cheerfulness. The fox of bit- 
 terness might gnaw, but she drew the mantle of her pride 
 closer round her. She might suffer and pine, like a prisoned 
 lark, in her narrow cage, but at least no one, not even Archie, 
 and least of all her mother, should guess the extent of her 
 sufferings. So there was peace in Lowder Street. A truce 
 had silently proclaimed itself between the two strong wills of 
 the household; and, touched by a submission that somehow ap- 
 pealed to her generosity, Mrs. Drummond was secretly revolv- 
 ing schemes for her daughter's future happiness. 
 
 " Mothers are mothers," as Nan had once sweetly said, and 
 Mrs. Drummond was no exception to the rule. She could be 
 hard to her own flesh and blood; she could exact obedience 
 tliat was difficult to yield, and sacrifices that cost tears in 
 plenty; but she was a just woman, and, when the right time 
 came, she knew how to reward such obedience. 
 
 But there was still another drop that filled the maternal cap 
 of content almost to overflowing, and of this she spoke to 
 Grace, as they were together in the mother's room, folding 
 up the bridal finery. The little bride bad just driven off, all 
 tears and smiles. Archie and the boys had started off for a 
 long walk. Mattie was with her sisters in the small, ugly in- 
 closure they called a garden, and Grace and her mother had 
 goiie up to shake out the satin dress and lay it between tissue 
 paper. 
 
 "I hope she will be happy, poor little dear!" observed 
 Grace, touching tenderly the Brussels lace veil; for Isabel had 
 been her first pupil and charge. " I do think and believe 
 Ellis is really very fond of her." 
 
 " Without doubt he is. His manners were all your father 
 and 1 could wish. What a magnificent present, and how 
 thoughtful, his bringing those diamond ear-drops just at the 
 last moment! Isabel has such pretty little ears. He is as 
 proud of her as he can be. And really she looked quite lovely. 
 Take care how you fold that veil, Grace. It is a perfect 
 beauty." 
 
 " Yes, mother," returned Grace, meekly.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. S99 
 
 She was ready to drop with fatigue, for she had been up 
 aiuce six, and had dressed all her sisters oue after another in 
 their pretty bride-maids' dresses, Mattie's skill us a lady's- 
 maid being distrusted even by Dcttie. But Mrs. Drummoad 
 was not satisfied, and took the lace out of her hand. 
 
 " And, Grace, did you ever see any one so improved as 
 Mattie? Her visit to Hadleigh is doing wonders for her. Last 
 evening I could hardly help looking at her. She holds herself 
 so much better, and her dresses are so pretty and well made. 
 1 never knew before that her figure was so nice.'' 
 
 " Yes, indeed; she is wonderfully improved," returned 
 Grace. 
 
 But she said the words mechanically. Her mother's speech 
 had touched a sore place in her memory. She knew who had 
 transformed Mattie's dowdiness into comeliness and neatness. 
 She might be an ordinary little woman in the world's opinion, 
 but in the eyes of her family she was quite another Mattie. 
 Those tasteful dresses had been made by those Challoners, of 
 whom Mattie spoke so much and Archie so little. 
 
 Mrs. Drummond, who had not noticed her daughter's sud- 
 den abstraction, want on in the same satisfied tone: 
 
 *' She is not pretty, of course — no one could ever call Mat" 
 tie that at the best of times— but now she has left off making 
 a fright of herself, and hunching her shoulders with every 
 word, she is quite passable looking. I am glad you talked 
 her out of being a bride- maid. She would have looked absurd 
 among the girls. But that green surah just suited her. It 
 was good of Archie to buy her such a pretty dress; and yours 
 that came from Hadleigh was even prettier, and wonderfully 
 well made, considering they had only a pattern gown." 
 
 "Yes; it fitted admirably;" but Grace spoke without en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 Archie, who knevr her tastes, had chosen a soft, creamy 
 stuff, which he informed Mattie must be trimmed with no 
 end of lace, Phillis had received and executed the order with 
 such skill and discernment that a most ravishing costume had 
 been produced. But Grace, who had her own ideas on the 
 subject of those " Challoner girls," had received the gift 
 somewhat coldly, and had even seemed displeased when her 
 father pinched her ear and told her that Archie's gown had 
 transformed her into a princess fit for a fairy tale. " And 
 there is always a prince in that, my dear — eh, Gracie?" con- 
 tinued the lucky father, who could afford to laugh when one 
 of the seven daughters had got a husband. But Grace would
 
 300 KOl: LlKfi OTHEK GiRLci. 
 
 have notliing to do with the jest. She even got up a little 
 frown, like her mother's on similar occasions. 
 
 " Arcliie is so generous, dear old fellow!'" continued Mrs. 
 Drummond, breaking out afresh after a minute's interval, as 
 she skillfully manipulated the veil. " That is what I always 
 say. There never was such a sou or brother. Do you think 
 he is overworking himself, Grace, or that Mattie really looks 
 after him well? But he strikes me as a little thin — and — yes 
 — perhaps a little grave.'' 
 
 Grace's lips closed with an expression of pain. But her 
 mother was looking at her and she must answer. 
 
 " Well, if you ask me, mother," she returned, a little husk- 
 ily, " I do not think Archie looks very well, or in his usual 
 spirits; but I am sure Mattie takes good care of him," she 
 continued, with careful veracity. 
 
 "Humph! I am sorry to find you indorsing my opinion," 
 replied Mrs. Drummond, thoughtfully. " 1 hoped you would 
 say it was my fancy. He has not said anythiug to you that 
 makes you uneasy?" with a touch of her old sharpness, re- 
 membering that Grace, and not she, was Archie's confidante; 
 but Grace replied so quickly and decidedly, " Oh, no, mother; 
 we have not exchanged a word together since he and Mattie 
 arrived," that her maternal jealousy was allayed. 
 
 But the next night, when she was alone with him for a few 
 minutes, she was struck afresh by the gravity of his look as 
 he sat by the window, pretending to read, but for the last 
 half hour he had not turned his page. 
 
 " A penny for your thoughts, my son!" she said, so archly 
 and abruptly that Archie started, and his brow grew crimson 
 at finding himself watched. 
 
 " Oh, they were nothing particular," he stammered; and 
 then he said something about the fineness of the evening, and 
 the possibility of his father coming in in time for a long walk. 
 
 But Mrs. Drummond was not to be put oil so easily. She 
 left her seat, where she had been sewing, as usual, and came 
 and stood beside him a moment. He would have jumped up 
 and given her his own chair, but she pressed his shoulder 
 gently as though to forbid the movement. 
 
 " 1 like to stand, Archie. Yes, it is a lovely evening; but 
 I think you ought to ask Grace, and not your father, to ac- 
 company you. Grace was always your companion, you know, 
 and you must not drop old habits too suddenly." Then 
 Archie saw that his avoidance of Grace had been marked. 
 
 " Very well, I will ask her," he returned; but he showed 
 none of his old ala^i^ity and spirit in claiming his favorite.
 
 KOI LIKE OTHER GIRLS. BOl 
 
 Mrs. Drummond noticed this, aud the shade of anxiety on 
 her face grew deeper. 
 
 " Archie, you are not quite your old self with Grace, and I 
 am sure she feels it. What has come between you, my dear?" 
 
 " Why, nothing, mother;" and here he attempted a laugh. 
 " Grace and I never quarrel, as you know." 
 
 " 1 was not speaking of quarreling," she returned, in a 
 graver voice; " but you do not seek her out as you used. Be- 
 fore, when you arrived, you always disappointed me bv shut- 
 ting yourself up in the school-room, where no one could get at 
 you; and now Grace tells me she has Mot had a word with you 
 these four days." 
 
 " Has Grace complained of me, then?" 
 
 " You know Grace never complains of you. It was not said 
 in any fault-finding way. We agreed you were not quite 
 yourself, or in your usual spirits; and I asked her the reason. 
 Tell me, my son, is there anything troubling you?" Archie 
 sat silent. Mrs. Drummond was so rarely demonstrative to 
 her children that even this well-beloved son had never heard 
 before such chords of tenderness in his mother's voice; and, 
 looking up, he saw that her keen gray eyes were softened aud 
 moist with tears. " You are not quite yourself, Archie — 
 not quite happy?" she went on. 
 
 Then he took counsel with himself, and after a moment he 
 answered her: 
 
 " No, mother; you are right. I am not — not quite myself, 
 nor quite happy; but 1 mean to be boih presently." And 
 then he looked up in her face pleadingly, with an expression 
 of entreaty that went to her heart, and continued: " But my 
 own mother will not pain me by unnecessary questions that I 
 can not; answer." And then she knew that his will was 
 that she should be silent. 
 
 "Very well," she returned, with a sigh. "But you will 
 tell me one thing, will you not, my dear? Is it — is it quite 
 hopeless?" her mother's instinct, like that of the Eastern 
 Caliph, immediately suggesting a woman in the case. 
 
 " Quite — quite hopeless — as dead as this!'* bringing down 
 his hand on a large defunct moth. " Talking will not brings 
 to life, or help a man to carry a real burden." 
 
 Then, as she kissed him, she knew that his pain had bt^en 
 very great, but that he meant to bear it with all the strength 
 he could bring. 
 
 Grace went up to prepare for her walk that evening with no 
 very pleasurable anticipations.^ Her mother had given her
 
 302 NOT LIKE ot:ier girls. 
 
 Archie's message in due form, as she sat somewhat sadly hy 
 the school-room window, mending a frock Dottie iiad just torn. 
 
 *' Archie wants you to go out with him, Grace/' Mrs. 
 Drummond said as she came in, in her usual active, bustling 
 way. " The grass never grew under her feet," as she was 
 often pleased to observe. " Loitering and laggiug make 
 young bones grow prematurely old," she would say, coining a 
 new proverb for the benefit of lazy Susie. " Never measure 
 your footsteps when you are aboiit other people's business," 
 she would say to Laura, who hated to be hunted up from her 
 employment for any errand. " He thinks of going over to 
 Blackthorn Farm, as it is so fine; and the walk will do you 
 good," continued Mrs. Drummond, with a keen look at her 
 daughter's pale face. " Give me Dottie 's frock; that little 
 monkey is always getting into mischief." But Grace yielded 
 her task reluctantly. 
 
 " Are you sure he wishes me to go, mother?" 
 
 " Quite sure," was the brief answer, but she added no more. 
 
 Silence was ever golden to this busy, hard-working mother. 
 She was generally sparing of words. Grace, who saw that 
 her mother was bent on her going, made no further demur; 
 but, as she put on her walking things, she told herself that 
 Archie was only making a virtue of necessity. He was so lit- 
 tle eager for her society that he had not sought her himself, but 
 had sent her a message. Ever since his return, no light- 
 springing footsteps had been heard on the uncarpeted stairs 
 leading to the school-room. He had forsaken their old haunt 
 where they had once talked so happily, sitting hand in hand 
 in the old window-seat. 
 
 Grace felt herself grievously wounded. For months a bar- 
 rier had been between her and Archie. He had written sel- 
 dom and his letters, when they came, told her nothing. In 
 manner he was kindness itself. That there was no change in 
 his affection was evident, but the key to his confidence was 
 mislaid. He had withdrawn himself into some inner citadel, 
 where he seemed all at once inaccessible, and her sisterly soul 
 was vexed within her. 
 
 He met her at the door with his usual smile of welcome. 
 
 ' " That is right, Grace; you have not kept me long wait- 
 ing," he said, pleasantly, as she came toward him; and then, 
 as they walked down Lowder Street, he commenced talking at 
 once. He had so much to tell her, he said; and here Grace's 
 pulses began to throb expaclaiitly; but the eager light died 
 out of her face when he went on to retail a long conversation
 
 SOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 303 
 
 he had had with his mother the previous night. Was that all: 
 she thought. Was the longed-for confidence to be nrithheld? 
 
 Archie did not seem to notice her silence: he rattled on 
 volubly. 
 
 " I think we were hard on the mother, Grace, you and 1/' 
 he said. " After all, 1 believe she was right in not giving us 
 our own way in the spring.^' 
 
 " I am glad you think so," replied Gracie, coldly. Archie 
 winced at her tone, but recovered himself and went on gayly: 
 
 " It does one good sometimes to have one's wishes crossed; 
 and, after all, it was only fair that poor Mattie, being the eld- 
 est, should have her turn. She does her best, poor little soul: 
 and, though I find her terribly trying sometimes, I can hold 
 out pretty patiently until Christmas; and then mother herself 
 suggested that you should take her place at the vicarage." 
 
 " 1! Oh, no, Archie!" And here the color flushed over 
 Grace's face, and her eyes filled with tears- The news was so 
 unexpected— so overwhelming. Another time the sweetness 
 of it would have filled her with rapture. But nowl " Oh, 
 no, no!" she cried, in so vehement a tone that her brother 
 turned in surprise, and something of her meaning came home 
 to him. 
 
 " Wait a moment," he said, deprecatingly. " I have not 
 finished yet what 1 wanted to say. Mother said Mattie was 
 greatly improved by her visit, and that she was infinitely 
 obliged to me for yielding to her wish. She told me plainly 
 that it was impossible to have spared you before — that you 
 were her right hand with the girls, and that even now your loss 
 would be great." 
 
 " I do not mean to leave mother," returned Grace, in a 
 choked voice. 
 
 " Not if I want you and ask you to come?" he replied, with 
 reproachful tenderness. " Why, Grace, what has become of 
 our old compact?" 
 
 " You do not need me now," she faltered, hardly able to 
 speak without weeping. 
 
 *' We will talk of that by and by," was the somewhat impa- 
 tient answer. " Just at this minute 1 want to tell you all the 
 mother said on the subject. Facts before feelings, please," 
 with a touch of sarcasm, but he pointed it with a smile. 
 " You see, Grace, Isabel's marriage makes a difference. 
 There is one girl ofl: my father's hands. And then the boys 
 are doing so well. Mother thinks that in another three months 
 Clara may leave the school-room: she will be seventeen then^
 
 304 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 and, as Ellis has promised her a course of music-lessons, to 
 develop her one talent, you may consider her off your hands." 
 
 " Clara will never do me credit," returned his sister, 
 mournfully; " she works steadily and takes pains, but she was 
 never as clever as Isabel." 
 
 ** No; she is no shining light, as mother owns; but she will 
 play beautifully, if she be properly trained. Well, as to the 
 other girls, it appears that my father has decided to accept my 
 offer of sending Susie to a first-class boarding-school; and, as he 
 has determined to do the same for Laura, there is only Dottie 
 for Mattie to manage or mismanage. So you see, Gracie, your 
 school-room drudgery is over. Mother herself, by her own 
 will, has opened the prison doors." 
 
 He spoke in a light, jesting tone, but Grace answered, al- 
 most passionately: 
 
 " 1 tell you no, Archie! 1 no longer wish it so; it is too 
 late: things are now quite different." 
 
 "What do you mean?" he returned, with along, steady 
 look that seemed to draw out her words in spite of her resolve 
 not to speak them. 
 
 " I mean that things are changed — that you no longer need 
 me, or wish me to live with you." 
 
 " I need you more," he returned, calmly; " perhaps I have 
 never needed you so much. As for living with me, is it your 
 desire to condemn me to an existence of perfect loneliness? for 
 after Christmas Mattie leaves me. You are mysterious, Grace; 
 you are not your old self." 
 
 " Oh, it is you that are not yourself!" she retorted, in a 
 tone of grief. " Why have you avoided me? why do you 
 withhold your confidence? why do your letters tell me noth- 
 ing? and then you come and are still silent." 
 
 " What is it that you would have me tell you?" he asked; 
 but this time he did not look her in the face. 
 
 " I would know this thing that has come between us and 
 robbed me of your confidence. You are ill at ease; you are 
 unhappy, Archie. You have never kept a trouble from me 
 before: it was always 1 who shared your hopes and fears." 
 
 " You may still share them. I am not changed, as you 
 imagine, Grace. All that I can tell you 1 will, even if you 
 demnnd it in that ' money-or-your-life ' style, as you are doing 
 now," trying to turn it off with a jest. 
 Oh, Archie!" 
 Well, what of Archie, now?" ~ 
 
 " That you should laugh away my words! yoa have never 
 done that before." 

 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 305 
 
 r.< 
 
 Very well, 1 will be serious; nay, more, I will be solemn. 
 G-race, I forbid you ever to mention this again, on pain of my 
 bitter displeasure!" 
 
 Then, as she looked at him, too much startled to answer, 
 he went on: 
 
 " A man has a right to his own thoughts, if he choose to 
 keep them to himself and his Maker. There are some things 
 with which even you may not meddle, Grace. What if my 
 life holds a grief which I would bury from all eyes but my 
 own, would you tear up the clods with unhallowed fingers? 
 To no living person but my Saviour "—and here Archie looked 
 up with reverent eyes—" will I speak of this thing." Then 
 she clung to his arm, and tears flowed over her cheeks. 
 
 "Oh, Archie, forgive me! forgive me! I never meant to 
 hurt you like this; I will not say another word!" 
 
 "You have not hurt me," he returned, striving after his 
 old manner, " except in refusing to live with me. 1 am lonely 
 enough, God knows! and a sister who understands me, and 
 with whom I could have sympathy, would be a great boon." 
 
 *' Then 1 will come," she replied, drying her eyes. " If 
 you want me, 1 will come, Archie." 
 
 " I do want you; and 1 have never told anything but the 
 truth. But you must come and be happy, my dear. I want 
 you, yourself, and not a grave, reticent creature who has gone 
 about the house the last few days, looking at me askance, as 
 though I had committed some deadly sin." 
 
 Then the dimple showed itself in Grace's cheek. 
 
 " Have I really been so naughty, Archie?" 
 
 " Yes, you have been a very shadowy sort of Grace; but I 
 give you full absolution, only don't go and do it any more." 
 And as she looked at him, with her ej^es full of sorrowful 
 yoarnitig, he went on, hastily: "Oh, I am all right, and least 
 said is soonest mended. 1 am like the dng in ^sop's fable, 
 who mistook the shadow for the substance. A poor sort of 
 dog, that fellow. Well, is your poor little mind at rest, 
 Grace?" And the tone in which she said " Yes " seemed to 
 satisfy him, for he turned their talk into another channel. 
 
 When Mrs. Drummond say her daughter's face that even- 
 ing, she knew the cloud had passed between the brother and 
 sister. 
 
 Grace followed her to her room that night— a thing she had 
 not done for months. 
 
 " Mother, 1 must thank you for being so goad to us," she 
 began, impulsively, as soon as she had crossed the threshold. 
 
 " How have I been good to you, Grace?" observed her
 
 306 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 mother, calmsy, as she imfasfceued her brooch. " Of coui-se, I 
 have always tried to be good to my children, although they 
 do not seem to think so. " 
 
 " Ah, but this is very special goodness, and I am more 
 <,'ratef 111 than I can say. Are you sure you will be able to 
 spare me, mother?'^ 
 
 " After Christmas? oh, yes: things will be possible then. 
 If I remember rightly, I had to endure some very bitter words 
 from you on this very subject. I hope you will do justice to 
 my judgment at thatiime. " 
 
 " Yes, mother," with downcast eyes. " 1 am afraid Archie 
 and I were very willful." 
 
 " You were willful, Grace," for Mrs. Drummond never 
 suffered any one to find fault with her son in her hearing — 
 " you who ought to have known better. And yet 1 do believe 
 that, but for my determination to enforce the right thing, you 
 would have left your post, and all your duties, because Archie 
 wanted you." 
 
 " I was wrong. 1 see that plainly." 
 
 "Yes, you were wrong: for a long time you bore yourself 
 toward me as no daughter ought to bear herself to her moth- 
 er. You angered me sorely, Grace, because I saw you were 
 hardening yourself against me, only because I insisted that no 
 child of mine should neglect her duty." 
 
 " Mother, surely I am humbling myself now." 
 
 " True; but how long have I waited for this confession? 
 Night after night I have said to myself, ' Surely Grace will 
 come and tell me that she feels herself in the wrong!' But 
 no such words catne. At last I ceased to hope for them; and 
 now at this eleventh hour you can hardly expect me to show 
 much joy at hearing them spoken." 
 
 Then Grace's head drooped, and she was silent. She knew 
 she deserved all these hard words, bitter as they were to bear; 
 but Mrs. Drummond hud said her say. 
 
 " Well, well, better late than never; and we vrill say no 
 more about it. Next time you will understand me better, 
 Grace." 
 
 Then, as her mother kissed her, Grace knew that her sin 
 »vas condoned. Nevertheless, as she left the room a few min- 
 utes later, her heart was not quite so light in her bosom; she 
 felt that her mother had been just, but hardly generous. 
 
 *' I thought mothers forgave more easily," she said to her- 
 self, in a somewhat aggrieved fashion. She had no idea that 
 her mother was equally disappointed. 
 
 Mrs. Drummond was a hard, but not an unloving woman;
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 30'J' 
 
 &ud she would have liked more demonstration from her 
 daughters. If Grace, for example, instead of all those words, 
 bad thrown herself into her arms and owned herself in the 
 wrong, with a child-like pleading for forgiveness, Mrs. Drum- 
 mond would have felt herself satisfied, and would havepresseii 
 her to her bosom with a loving word or two that Grace would 
 have remembered when her mother was in her grave. But 
 such outward forms of tenderness were not possible to Mrs. 
 Drummond's daughters; for in such matters we must reap as 
 we sow; and Mrs. Drummond's manner hardly merited soft- 
 ness. For there are mothers and mothers; and the world must 
 produce its Drummouds and its Challoners until the end of 
 time. 
 
 CHAFER XXXVIII. 
 
 ABOUT NOTHING PARTICULAE. 
 
 It Was as well that Grace had had this talk with her 
 brother; for, during the two days that remained of his brief 
 visit, they were not alone together until the last half hour be- 
 fore his departure. The young vicar had to return for his 
 Sunday duties; but Mattie remained behind for another week. 
 Archie, indeed, had once sought her in his old fashion — run- 
 ning up to the school-room for a chat; but Susie had been 
 there all the time. In former days, Archie would have sent 
 her away with blunt peremptoriness, but now he seemed well 
 content to have her there. He had no secrets to discuss, as 
 he sat in his old place in the window-seat; yet Grace was too 
 happy to see him there to find fault with his discourse. 
 
 But on the morning of his departure she had come down 
 early to pour out his coffee. He had bidden his mother good- 
 bye in her room; but he knew that, in spite of the eariiness 
 of the hour, Grace would be in her place to minister to his 
 wants. 
 
 " Well, Grace," he said, entering with his traveling-plaid 
 over his arm, " so it is to be good-bye until Christmas?" 
 
 " Yes," she returned, looking at him with a sort of wist- 
 fulness; " but the time will pass quickly now. It is so nice 
 to think that we shall begin our new year together." And, 
 as her brother checked an involuntary sigh, she went on ea- 
 gerly: "If you knew how happy ] am about iti It will be 
 something to wake every morning and know you are not a hun- 
 dred miles off — that when I come down to breakfast 1 shall 
 find you there — that I shall be able to talk to you as much as
 
 3Ua not LIKE OiflEK GiRLg. 
 
 I like; a,ud as for work, it will be play to me to work for you, 
 Archie." 
 
 " Of coarse I know that," rather raischiev^ously. 
 
 " I would work for you like a servant; would I not, dear? 
 I mean to be ever so good to you. Your friends shall be my 
 friends; your likes and dislikes shall be mine too." 
 
 " Why, Gracie," he said, humoring her, " this is more 
 than a wife would do for me!" 
 
 " Ah! but it is not too much to ask from a sister," she re- 
 turned, earnestly. " When you bring home your wife, Archie, 
 I mean to be good to her, too. I shall have to leave you then, 
 and come back here; but if you are happy I shall not be mis- 
 erable. " But he interrupted her a little impatiently. 
 
 " What put such nonsense into your head? 1 shall never 
 marry. We shall be a pattern of old-bachelor brother and 
 maiden sister." And then he pushed away his plate and went 
 to the window. "Is it not Mrs. Carlyle who quotes that 
 quaint old story about some one who always thanked God 
 ' for the blessings that passed over his or her head?' Is not 
 that a curious idea, when one comes to think it out? Fancy 
 thanking Heaven really and seriously for all our disappointed 
 hopes and plans — for ' the blessings that go over our heads!' 
 It would be a new clause in our petitions — eh, Gracie?" 
 
 *' Why, yes," she replied, as she came and stood near him. 
 " I am afraid I could never say that from my heart." 
 
 " It is not easy/' he returned, quietly; " but I do not know 
 that we ought to give np trying, for all that," And then his 
 manner changed, and he put his arm round her in his old 
 fashion. " Eecollect, I want you very much, Grace: your 
 coming will make me far happier. Mattie only touches the 
 outside of things; I want some one near me who can go deeper 
 than that— who will help me with real work, and put np with 
 my bad humors; for 1 am a man who is very liable to discnur- 
 agemynt. " And when he had said this he bade her good bye. 
 
 It was a comfort to Archie to find himself hard at work 
 again. The few days of idleness had been irksome to him. 
 Now he could throw himself without stint or limit into his pas- 
 toral labors, walking miles of country road until he was weary, 
 and planning new outlets for the feverish activity that seemed 
 to stimulate him to fresh efforts. 
 
 People bogan to talk of the young vicar. His sermons were 
 changed, somehow. There was more in them — " less of the 
 husk and more of the kernel," as Miss Middleton once re- 
 marked rather pithily. 
 
 They were wonderfully brief discourses; but, whereas thej
 
 HOI LIKE OTHER GIULS. 309 
 
 had once been elegant and somewhat scholarly productions, 
 they were now earnest and even pungent. If the sentences 
 were less carefully compiled, more rough-hewn and deficient 
 in polish, there was matter in them that roused people and 
 made them think. 
 
 " I never could remember Mr. Drummond's sermons be- 
 fore," Dulce once observed, " but now I can recollect whole 
 sentences quite nicely." 
 
 Phillis, to whom she spoke, assented by a nod. If she had 
 chosen, she could have admitted the fact that she could re- 
 member not sentences, but the entire sermon itself. In secret 
 she marveled also at the ciiange. 
 
 " He is more earnest," she would say to herself. " He 
 preaches now, not from the outside, but from the inside of 
 things — from his own experience, not from other people's. 
 That makes the difference. '^ 
 
 And to Nan, who was her other conscience, she said one day, 
 when they were discussing this subject: 
 
 " I have been thinking a great deal about sermons lately. 
 I wish I could publish the result of my cogitation. I feel in- 
 clined to write a pamphlet and entitle it ' Hints to the 
 Clergy;' I think it would take vastly.'' 
 
 It \eas Sunday afternoon, and tiiey were sitting together on 
 their favorite bowlder. Phillis had christened it her " think- 
 ing-stone. " 
 
 " I never think to more purpose than when I am sitting 
 here," she would say. 
 
 Nan, who was looking out to sea rather dreamily, intent on 
 her usual vision, Dick, roused herself at this, and began to 
 smile in a lofty way. 
 
 " You think yourself very clever, Phillis, and so do I; but 
 sermons are hardly in your province, my dear." 
 
 Phillis shook her head gravely. She dissented from this, 
 view of the case. 
 
 " Common sense is in every one's province," she persisted. 
 " I am a practical woman, and some of my hints would be val- 
 uable. Sermons are failures. Nan. They go over people's 
 heads like a flight of badly shot arrows. Does not Goulburn 
 say that? Now and then one touches the mark. When they 
 are all let fly thither and anyhow, the preacher shuts up his 
 book and his hearers cease to yawn." 
 
 *' Oh, Phillis, how absurd you arel Suppose Mr. Drum- 
 mond were to hear you!" 
 
 " I should have no objection. But, Nan, seriously, do yon 
 not notice how formal and cut-aud-dried most sermons are?
 
 310 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLg. 
 
 They come round regularlyj like Sunday. People have to 
 bear being preached at, and so the unfoitunate parso?i must 
 hammer it out of his head somehow'. He picks out his text, 
 writes out his composition, drags in his learning by the ear, 
 and delivers it in his best fashion; and people listen to it po- 
 litely, and the best-behaved do not yawn.'' 
 
 '* Phillis, you are positively irreverent! I am shocked at 
 
 you!" 
 
 '" On the contrary, I am very reverent. Well, in my ' Hints 
 to the Clergy ' 1 would say, first, ' Never preach what you do 
 not feel yourself, or the current of electricity or sympathy, or 
 whatever it is that communicates between preacher and peo- 
 ple, will be checked or impeded. Do not preach out of the 
 Book: we can read that for ourselves. Preach out of your 
 own head and your own experience, just as much as you can.' 
 Bless you," continued Phillis, in a wise, half-sad tone, " half 
 the pulpits would be empty: we should get sometimes no ser- 
 mon at all!" 
 
 This was too much for Nan's simplicity. 
 
 " But people would be so disappointed," she observed, 
 plaintively. " All the middle-aged people like sermons." 
 
 " It would not hurt them to be disappointed sometimes. 
 They would appreciate the real thing all the more when it 
 came. It is as well to go without food altogether as to be fed 
 on husks. After all, people forget that they come to church 
 to say their prayers all together, and sing glorias." 
 
 " That is very nicely said, dear," was Nan's admiring com- 
 ment on this. 
 
 But Phillis waved aside the praise. She was quite in 
 earnest. 
 
 " But if 1 were speaking to one of these real and not make- 
 believe preachers, I would say to him, ' Never be discouraged. 
 Say what you have got to say: if you really feel it and mean 
 it, some one will feel it too. You can't see into people's 
 hearts: and a good thing, too, my friend. But ' the arrows 
 at the venture ' may tell; some one may be ' hit between the 
 joints of the armor.' There, come along; you shall have 
 more of my hints another time. 1 have said my say for (he 
 present." And Phillis rose from the bowlder, with her bright 
 eyes kindled by some moving thought, and went down to the 
 edge of the water, and watched a sea-gull dipping toward the 
 shore in the midst of the windy lights; while Nan, marveling 
 at her sister's unusual earnestness, followed more closely. 
 
 The Challoners were holding un their heads in the place now. 
 There was uo denying that. By the people at the vicarage
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 31i 
 
 and the White House they were owneQ and regarded as equals, 
 Mrs. Cheyiie made no secret of her afEecLion for Philiis, aud 
 she was full of kiuduess also to Is'an aud Dulce. It was their 
 own fault if they declined her frequent invitations. But there 
 was one person who refused to hold out the hand of amity to 
 the eccentric new-comers. 
 
 Colonel Middletou still shook his white head, and delivered 
 his protest into his daughter's ear. Elizabeth declared, laugh- 
 ingly, " that the Challoner girls were to her father what a 
 red rag is to a bull." He never met one of them without 
 comiug home aud relieving: his mind, as he called it. " My 
 father is dying to know them,'' she would say to Mr. Drum- 
 mond. " He has fallen in love with them all— mother and 
 daughters too; but he is denying himself an introduction for 
 a certain reason." But, though Archie looked curious and 
 questioned her very closely, she chose to be provoking and say 
 no more. It was Colonel Middleton who at last enlightened 
 the young man. 
 
 They were walking from the town together. The colonel 
 was carrying his slick musket-wise over his shoulder, and had 
 the vicar by the arm, when Philiis and Dulce came out of the 
 gate-way of the White House. As the girls passed Archie 
 they smiled at him aud nodded, and Philiis, in a pretty way she 
 had, waved her hand; and then they went on rapidly toward 
 the Friary. As they did so, Colonel Middleton groaned, 
 and touched his companion's arm impressively. 
 
 "There, now, Drummond, did you ever see girls with a 
 better carriage? heads up—light, springy step? Why, it is a 
 pleasure even to an old fellow like myself to watch them. 
 Fancy that taller one on horseback in the Eow! Why, she 
 would cut out half the girls. And think that one dare not 
 notice them !" And he struck his stick into the ground almost 
 angrily. 
 
 Archie smiled; he could not help it. The colonel was so 
 whimsical in his wrath. 
 
 " They have plenty of notice from the folk at the White 
 House," he returned, quietly. 
 
 " Ah, Cheyne was always a bit of a radical, and madame is 
 no better. They can do as they like, without being afraid of 
 consequences. But that is not my case." And, as Archie 
 looked at him ralher mystified, he went on: " Bless me. you 
 do not suppose I am afraid of knowiug them for my own sake? 
 Elizabeih tells me ihat she is intimate with them. But that 
 is not my business, so long as she does not have them at 
 Brooklyn. ' We must draw the line there, Elizabeth,' I said.
 
 3i2 NOT LIKE OTHEK GIRLS. 
 
 ' If you choose to vist your dress-makerp, it is not for me to 
 ])reventyou; you are old enough to select your own friends, 
 80 you may be as eccentric as you like. But your brother is 
 coming home. Young men are young men; and I do not 
 choose to expose Hammond to such temptations.' " 
 
 "Oh, Hammond! That is your son, I suppose?" asked 
 Archie, who was much amused at the colonel's earnestness. 
 
 " Yes; my boy Hammond! the finest fellow in the regi- 
 ment, though 1 say it, who should not. Do you think that I, 
 his father, would exj)ose him to such danger as to throw him 
 into the society of a set of fascinating young women who have 
 chosen to emancipate themselves from all conventionality, 
 and who call themselves — stuff and rubbish! — dress-makers?'* 
 
 " Not call themselves so: they are excellent dress-makers," 
 was Archie's somewhat malicious reply. 
 
 " All the more reason that my son should not know them!'* 
 thundered the old man. " What, sir! an officer in one of her 
 majesty's regiments — the son and grandson of officers — is such 
 ;i, one to be mixed up with a family that has lost caste — to flirt 
 with or make love to girls who are not above making gowns 
 for my butcher's wife? Before Hammond does such a thing 
 iks that — *' And here the colonel paused from excess of 
 emotion. 
 
 " You are perfectly right to defend your son from such 
 ilanger," returned the young clergyman, with covert sarcasm. 
 " In your case I should probably feel the same. But, in my 
 position, being intimate with those ladies of whom you speak, 
 and having had good opportunity to form myoj)inionof them, 
 f can not help saying, in their defense, that even your son, ex- 
 oellent officer as he is — and, I am sure, a most worthy young 
 man — would scarcely be dishonored by an alliance with the 
 finest young gentlewomen I ever met!" And, as he said this, 
 ■vith all due gravity, Archie released his arm, and, with a 
 farewell nod, went off, leaving the colonel, open-mouthed and 
 i^asping with astonishment, at his own gate. 
 
 Elizabeth met him on the threshold. 
 
 " Oh, father, why did you not bring Mr. Drummond in?" 
 4ie said, reproachfully; " it is so long since he has paid us a 
 visit." 
 
 "Poor Drummond!" replied the colonel, with a mournful 
 ^hake of his head: " it is just as I thought. He has almost 
 owned it, in fact. He is seriously smitten with one of those 
 Ohalloner girls, and before long there will be a wedding in the 
 place." 
 
 "Now, father, this is just one of your whimsies," replied
 
 mt LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 3 IS 
 
 Elizabeth, placidly. " Mr. Drummond is going to have his 
 favorite sister, Grace, to live with him and keep his house. 
 He told me so himself; and that does not look as though he 
 expected to bring liome a wife. So you may just put this idea 
 out of your head." But, though Elizabeth was well aware of 
 the truth of her words, that no new mistress was to come to 
 the vicarage, still her fine sympathy and unerring woman's 
 divination had read the meaning of the young vicar's clouded 
 brow, and she knew that he, too, had to try and be grateful 
 for " the blessings that went over his head." 
 
 Archie's grand and somewhat heroic speech failed in its 
 effect, as far as the colonel was concerned. Elizabeth was 
 right in saying her father was longing to know the Challoners. 
 The old man's fancy had been mightily taken by the girls; 
 but for Hammond, for his boy's sake, he was capable of any 
 amount of self-denial. Once he was sorely tempted to give 
 in. When turning the corner of the Braidwood Eoad, not 
 far from his own house, he came suddenly upon his daughter, 
 who was standing on the side path, talking to Dulce. 
 
 Dulce, who always seemed a sort of retlection and shadow of 
 her sisters, and who withdrew somewhat in the background, 
 obscured a little by Nan's beauty and Phillis's spiightliness, 
 was nevertheless in her way a most bewitching little maiden. 
 
 " There comes my father!" observed Elizabeth, tranquilly, 
 never doubting that he would join them; and Dulce looked up 
 a little shy and fluttered from under her broad-brinimed hat; 
 for she had taken a fancy to the colonel, with his white mus- 
 tache and kindly inquisitive eyes. He was a sort of hero in 
 her fancy, and Dulce loved heroes — especially when they wore 
 a medal. 
 
 Colonel Middleton saw the little girl dimpling and blushing 
 with pleasure, and his old heart thumped a little with excite- 
 ment and the conflict of feeling; the innocent child-look ap- 
 pealed to his fatherly sympathies. There was a moment's 
 wavering, then he lifted his white hat, with a muttered 
 " Good-morning," and the next minute he was walking on 
 with squared shoulders and tremendous energy. Poor little 
 Dulce's lip quivered with disappointment: she thought it 
 hard, when other people were so kind to them. Elizabeth 
 said nothing, but she bade the child good-bye with greater 
 tenderness tlian usual, and sent all sorts of messages to her 
 mother and Nan. 
 
 The colonel, meanwhile, had retreated into the house, and 
 was openitig his papers v/ith more than his usual fuss. 
 
 *' It is for Hammond," he murmured to himself. " "When
 
 n 
 
 14 NOT LIKE OTHER GIELS. 
 
 one has boys one must do one's duty by them; but it was con- 
 foundedly hard, by Jove!" And all the remainder of the day 
 a pair of appealing eyes seemed to reproach him with unkind- 
 ness. But Elizabeth never said a word^ it was not her place 
 to find fault with her father. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIX. 
 
 " HOW DO YOU DO, AUKT CATHERINE?" 
 
 One drizzling November morning, Mattie was standing at 
 the hall door, looking out a little blankly through the open 
 gate-way at the prospect before her — at the rotting leaves that 
 lay heaped up in the road, and at the gray, humid sky — when 
 a very big man suddenly blocked up the entrance, and startled 
 her dreadfully. 
 
 Mattie afterward described the occurrence very graphically 
 to hei- brother: 
 
 " He was the biggest man I ever saw in my life, Archie. 
 He looked as strong as a navvy, and his shoulders reminded 
 me of one of those men one sees in brewers' drays. And his 
 face was so red, and his hair, too — that dreadfully red color, 
 you know, that no one admires; and his hands, and even his 
 voice, were big." 
 
 " What a fascinating description!" laughed Archie. "Upon 
 my word, Mattie, you are rather tremendous in your language. 
 Well, and what did the navvy say to you?" 
 
 " Oh, he was not a navvy, really! Of course he was a gen- 
 tleman. He could not help his big voice, and what he said 
 was nice; but I assure you, Archie, he nearly took my breath 
 away;" and so on, and so on, to the end of her story. 
 
 But it was enough to surprise any one whose nerves were not 
 of the strongest, when one lives in a lonely country road, and 
 the master of the house is out, to see a gigantic specimen of 
 manhood, not very carefully dressed, and with hair like a red 
 glory, come suddenly striding through one's open gate, with- 
 out " by your leave," or waiting for any possible permission. 
 
 Mattie dropped her umbrella — for she was dressed in her 
 water-proof and her oldest hat, ready for her district work; 
 and the stranger picked it up and handed it to her promptly, 
 and then he removed his hat politely. 
 
 " How do you do, cousin?" he said, and a broad, genial 
 smile revealed a set of white teeth. 
 
 Mattie retreated a step in genuine affright. 
 
 " For you know, Archie," she explained afterward^ in her
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 315 
 
 simple way, " we have no cousins worth mentioning, except 
 Sopliy Trinder, who is not our cousin at all, but mother's; and 
 so, you see, it sounded so very odd.'* 
 
 " Very odd indeed,'' muttered Archie. 
 
 " If you please, Mr Drummond — that is my brother — is 
 out, and 1 am going out too," faltered Mattie, who was not a 
 specially heroic little person, and who decidedly had not got 
 her wits about her just then. 
 
 " I do not want Mr. Drummond, whoever he may be. I 
 never heard of him in my life. I only want my aunt and 
 cousins. Which of them are you, eh? Why, you must be 
 Nan, I suppose?" And the big man looked down at her with 
 a sort of supercilious good nature. The name gave Mattie 
 instant enlightenment. 
 
 *' Kan! Oh, you must mean the Challoners!" she ex- 
 claimed, with a little gasp of surprise. 
 
 " Yes, of course; 1 am a Challoner myself. Well, which 
 of them are you, eh? You are a long time telling me your 
 name." And the new-comer peered down at her still more 
 curiously, as though he were surprised to find anything so 
 small and ordinary-looking. 
 
 Mattie never looked to advantage in her water-proof. More 
 than once her brother had threatened to burn the old rag of 
 a thing. 
 
 " My name is Mattie Drummond," replied the bewildered 
 Mattie, trying to speak with dignity — she never would call 
 herself Matilda, she hated it so — " and I live with my brother, 
 who is the clergyman of the parish. This is the vicarage. If 
 you want the Friar}', it is a little lower down the road." 
 
 " Where?" he asked, striding to the gate; and then he 
 came back again, taking the few steps at a single bound — so 
 at least it appeared to Mattie. " Why — why — there is no 
 house at all — only a miserable cottage, and — " 
 
 " That is the Fn'ary," repeated Mattie, decidedly; " but it 
 is not miserable at all: it is very nice and pretty. The Chal- 
 loners are very poor, you know; but their house looks beautiful 
 for all that." 
 
 " Oh, yes; I know all about it. I have been down to that 
 place, Oldfield, where they lived, and what I heard has brought 
 me here like an express train. 1 say. Miss Mattie Drummond, 
 if you will excuse ceremony in a fellow who has never seen his 
 father's country before, and who has roughed it in the colo- 
 nies, may I come in a moment and ask you a tew questions 
 about my cousins?" 
 
 " Oh; by all means," returned Mattie, who was very good-
 
 316 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 natured and «'as now^ more at her ease. " You will be very 
 welcome, Mr. Cballoner/' 
 
 " Sir Henry Clialloner, at your service/' responded that 
 singular individual, with a twinkle of his eye, as Mattie be- 
 came confused all at once. " You see,'' he'coutinued, confi- 
 dentially, as she led the way rather awkwardly to her brother's 
 study, hoping fervently that Archie would come in, "I have 
 been making up my mind to come to England for years, but 
 somehow I have never been able to get away; but after my 
 father's death— he was out in Australia with me — I was so 
 lonely and cut up that I thought I would take a run over to 
 the mother-country and hunt up my relations. He was not 
 much of a father, perhaps; but, as one can not have a choice 
 in such matters, I was obliged to put up with him;" which 
 was perhaps the kindest speech Sir Francis's son could make 
 under the circumstances. 
 
 Mattie listened intelligently, but she was so slightly ac- 
 quainted with the Challoners' past history that she did not 
 know they possessed any relations. But she had no need to 
 ask any questions: the new-comer seemed determined to give 
 a full account of himself. 
 
 " So, do you see. Miss Drumtuond, having made my fortune 
 by a stroke of good luck, and not knowing quite how to spend 
 it — the father and mother both gone — and having no wife or 
 chick of my own, and being uncommon lonely under the cir- 
 cumstances, I thought I would just run over and have a look 
 at my belongings. I had a sort of fancy for Aunt Catherine; 
 she used to write me such pretty letters when I was a little 
 chap in Calcutta, and tell me about Nan and Phillis and — 
 what was the baby's name? — Uulce. I believe she and the poor 
 old governor never hit it oS: the old man had been a sad sin- 
 ner in his day. But I never forgot those letters: and when he 
 was gone, poor old boy! I said to myself. Now I will go and 
 see Aunt Catherine." 
 
 " And you went down to Oldfield, Sir Henry?" 
 " Eh, what! meaning me, I suppose? but out there they 
 called me Sir Harry, or Harry mostly, for what was the use 
 of a title there? Oh, yes; 1 went down and found out all 
 about them from a chatty little woman, rather like yourself, 
 and she sent me on here." 
 
 *' Oh, dear, I am so glad!" exclaimed Mattie, who was now 
 thoroughly herself: " they will be so pleased to see you, and 
 you will think them all so charming. 1 am sure I never saw 
 any one the least like tliem., except Grace, and she is not half
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 317 
 
 SO pretty as Nan; and as for Phillis, I admire her even more; 
 she lights up so wlieu she talks." 
 
 " Auiii Catherine used to be beautiful," observed Sir 
 Harry, gravely; for then and afterward he insisted on that 
 form of address. He was not English enough or sufficiently 
 stili for Henry, he would say. 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes! she is quite lovely now— at least Archie 
 and I think so; and Dulce is the dearest little tiling. 1 am 
 ever so fond of them; if they were my own sisters I could not 
 love them more," continued Mattie, wilh a little gush; butt 
 indeed, the girl's gentle, high-bred ways had won her hear, 
 from the first. 
 
 Sir Harry's eyes positively sparkled with delight. He had 
 pleasant eyes, which redeemed his other features; for, it must 
 be confessed, he was decidedly plain. 
 
 " I mn.-^t shake ha;ids with you. Miss Drumnioud," he said, 
 stretching out a huge hand, with a diamond ring on it that 
 greatly impressed Mattie. " We shall be good friends, I see 
 that." And, though poor Mattie winced with pain under that 
 cordial grasp, she hid it manfully. 
 
 " Did they tell you at Oldfield how poor they are?" she 
 said, when this ceremony had been performed, and Sir Harry's 
 face looked more like a sunset than ever, with that benevo- 
 lent glow on it. 
 
 *' Oh, yes," he returned, indifferently; " but all that is 
 over now." 
 
 "You know they have to work for their living; the girls 
 are dress-makers," bringing out the news rather cautiously, 
 for fear he should be shocked; a baronet must be sensitive on 
 such points. But Sir Harry only laughed. 
 
 " Well, they are plucky giils," he said, admiringly. "I 
 like them for that." And then he asked, a little anxiously, 
 if his aunt sewed gowns too — that was how he put it — and 
 seemed mightily relieved to hear that she did very little but 
 read to the girls. 
 
 " I would not like to hear she was slaving herself at her 
 age," he remarked, seriously. " Work will not hurt the 
 girls: it keeps them out of mischief. But now 1 have come, 
 we must put a slop to all this." And then he got up and 
 threw back his shoulders, as though he were adjusting them 
 to some burden; and Maltie, as she looked up at him, thought 
 again of the brewer's dray. 
 
 " 1 was afraid wlien he got oif his chair he would touch the 
 ceiling," she said, afterward. " He quite stooped of his OWU 
 aceord going through the study door-way,"
 
 318 NOT LIKE OTHEli GIRLS. 
 
 When Sir Henry had shaken himself into order, and pulled 
 an end of his rough red mustache, he said, quite suddenly: 
 
 *' As you are a friend of the family, Miss Ijrummond, I 
 think it would be as well if you would go with me to the 
 P^riary and introduce me in due form; for, though you would 
 not believe it in a man of my size, I am painfully shy, and (he 
 notion of all these gii'ls, unless I take them singly, is rather 
 overwhelming. '^ And, though this request took Mattie a lit- 
 tle by surprise, she saw no reason for refusing to do him this 
 kindness. So she assented willingly, for in her heart Mat- 
 tie was fond of a scene. It gave her such a hold on Archie's 
 attention afterward; and, to do him justice, wlien the Chal- 
 loners were on the tapis, he made a splendid listener. 
 
 Sir Henry walked very fast, as though he were in a tre- 
 mendous hurry; but he was nervous, poor fellow, and, though 
 he did not like to own as much to ft woman, he would almost 
 have liked to run away, in spite of his coming all these thou- 
 sands of miles to see his relations. He had pressed Mattie in- 
 to the service to cover his confusion, but the little woman her- 
 self hardly saw how she was needed, for, instead of waiting for 
 her introduction, or sending in his name or card by Dorothy, 
 he just put them both aside and stepped into the first room 
 that stood handy, guided by the sound of voices. 
 
 "How do you do. Aunt Catherine?" he said, walking 
 straight up to the terrified lady, who had never seen anything 
 so big in her life. " I am Harry — Harry Challoner, you 
 know — to whom you used to wiite when 1 was a little slip of 
 a boy. " 
 
 A strange queen in a hive of bees could not have produced 
 more confusion. Dulce stopped her sewing-machine so sud- 
 denly that her thread broke; Phillis, who was reading aloud, 
 let her book fall with quite a crash; and Nan said, "Oh, 
 dear!" and grew quite pale with surprise and disappointment; 
 for a moment she thought it was Dick. As for Mrs. Challoner, 
 who had a right to her nerves from years of injudicious spoil- 
 ing and indulgence, and would not have been without her 
 feelings for worlds, she just clasped her hands and mur- 
 mui-ed " Good heavens!" in the orthodox lady-like way. 
 
 " Why, yes. Aunt Catherine, I am Harry; and I hope you 
 have not forgotten the existence of the poor little beggar to 
 whom you were so kind in the old Calcutta days." And his 
 big voice softened involuntarily in the presence of this digni- 
 fied aunt. 
 
 "Oh, no, my dear, no!" touched by his manner, and re- 
 membering the boyish scrawls that used to come to her,
 
 NOT LIKE OTHEK GIRL?. 319 
 
 signed, " Your affectionate nephesv, Harry." " And are you 
 indeed my 'lephew — are you Harry?" And then she held out 
 her slim Ijaud, whii;h he took awkw'ardiy enough. " Girls, 
 you must welcome your cousin. This is Nan, Harry, the one 
 they always say is like me; and this is Phillis, our clever one; 
 and this is my pet, Dulce. " And with each one did their 
 cousin solemuly shake hands, but without a smile; indeed, 
 his aspect became almost ludicrous, until he caught sight of 
 his homely little acquaintance, Mattie, who stood an amused 
 spectator of this family tableau, and his red, embarrassed face 
 brightened a little. 
 
 " Aunt Catherine was such an awfully grand creature, you 
 know," as he observed to her afterward, in a confidential 
 aside: "her manner makes a fellotv feel nowhere. And as 
 for my cousins, a prettier lot of girls 1 never saw anywhere; 
 and, of coutse, they are as jolly and up to larks as other girls; 
 but just at first, you know, I had a bull-in-a-chiua-shop sort 
 of feeling among them all. " 
 
 Mrs. Challoner, in spite of her fine manners, was far too 
 nervous herself to notice her nephew's discomfort. She had 
 to mention a name that was obnoxious to her, for of course 
 she must ask after his father. She got him into a chair by 
 her at length, where he stared into his hat to avoid the bright 
 eyes that seemed to quiz him so unmercifully. 
 
 "And how is Sir Francis?" she asked, uttering the name 
 with languid anguish. 
 
 " My father! Oli, did you not know, Aunt Catherine? He 
 died out in Sydney a year ago. Poor old fellow! he had a 
 terrible illness. There was no pulling him through it." 
 
 Mrs. Challoner roused up at this. 
 
 " Your father dead! Then, Harry, you have come to th« 
 title?" 
 
 But her nephew burst into a boisterous laugh at this: 
 
 " Yes — a title and an old ruin. A precious heritage, is it not? 
 Not that I care what people call me. The most important part 
 is that another fellow — Dalton they call him — and I made a 
 grand hit out in Sydney. When I saw the money flowing in 
 I just sent for the poor old governor to join me; and we did 
 not have a bad time of it, until the gout took him off. And 
 then 1 got sick of it all, and thought I would have a look at 
 England and hunt up my relations." 
 
 Sir Harry had blurted out this long speech as he still attent- 
 ively regarded the lining of his hat; but, happening to look 
 up, he caught Phillis's eyes, which were contemplating him. 
 The mischievous look of fun iu them was not to be resisted.
 
 320 KOT LIKE OTHEit GIRLg. 
 
 Sir Harry first got redder, if possible; then his own eyes be- 
 gan to twinkle, and fiiialJy they both laug,hed. And after 
 that the ice was broken, and they got on famously. 
 
 The girls chattered to him like magpies. They made Mat- 
 tie take off her hat and hideous old waterproof and stay to 
 luncheon. Nan smoothed her hair, which was sadly ruffled, 
 and Phillis settled her brooch and collar. 
 
 There was only cold mutton in the larder; but what did that 
 matter? Dulce ran out into the garden and picked dahlias 
 for the table; and Nan took her mother's keys and drew from 
 the recesses of a dim, sweet-smelling press some dainty nap- 
 kins and a fine old cloth that might have suited a princess. 
 There was a battle of rare Madeira that remained from their 
 stock of wine; and Dorothy had made a batch of fresh dinner- 
 rolls. Dorothy was always full of resources on an emergency. 
 
 " Don't fash yourself, Miss Nan," she said, when her young 
 mistress came into the kitchen. " The cold mutton can't be 
 helped; but we have got angels in the larder, and 1 will ju3t 
 pop them into the oven. 
 
 Sir Harry laughed when Dorothy's speec h was repeated to 
 him. The little paddings were declared b^ Mattie to be de- 
 licious; but Sir Harry could scarcely eat for his laughing. 
 
 " Who ever heard of baked angels, Auiii Catherine!" he 
 exclaimed, after another explosion. 
 
 "My dear, it is only a name," she returned, mildly. " Will 
 you have another, Harry? And, Nan, you must pass your 
 cousin the Madeira." 
 
 They were all seated round the table in the small parlor. 
 It was felt to be a triumph when Sir Harry contrived to seat 
 himself without grazing himself seriously against the chiflionier 
 or knocking over a piece of the blue-and-gold china. 
 
 " What a cozy little cabin of a place!" he said, with critical 
 approval; " but it is rather small to hold you all — eh. Aunt 
 Catherine?" 
 
 " Yes; it is small after Glen Cottage," she sighed. " We 
 had such a pretty drawing-room there." 
 
 '* And such a lovely garden," added Dulce. 
 
 " Oh, this crib is not fit for you! We will alter all that," 
 he returned, complacently. " I am the head of the family 
 now, and I must take my uncle's place. 1 am awfully ricli. 
 Aunt Catherine; so you have only got to tell me what you 
 and the girls want, you know." And then he rubbed his 
 hands as though he wei-e pleased about something. 
 
 But no one took any notice of this speech, hardly knowing 
 how to treat it.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 331 
 
 When luncheon — which was, indeed, the family dinner — 
 was over, the girls carried him off to the work-room, and 
 showed him specimens of their skill. 
 
 "Very nice; very well done,'' he observed, approvingly. 
 " I am glad you slio^'ed such pluck; for why auy woman 
 should think it infra dig. to make a gown for another woman 
 rjuite beats me. Why, bless you, in the colonies we fellows 
 turned our hands to anything! Well, Aunt Catherine, they are 
 plucky ones, these girls of yours. But we must put a stop to 
 this sort of thing, you and 1. I don't think my uncle would 
 have liked it. And as lam in his jjlace — "* And here he 
 thrust aside some amber satin with his great hands, with a 
 movement full of suggestive possibilities. 
 
 He took them all out to walk after that- Mrs. Challoner, 
 indeed, begged co be excused— the poor lady was already sadly 
 fatigued, and longed for her nap — but he would, not dispense 
 with Mattie's company. 
 
 " We were acquaintances first,'' he said to her; "and 1 
 look upon you as a sort of cousin too, Miss Mattie." And 
 poor little Mattie, who had never met with so much friendli- 
 ness before, quite blushed and bridled with jaleasure. 
 
 Mr. Drummond, who o'as coming out of his osvu gate, stood 
 as though transfixed as the procession came toward him. The 
 four girls were walking all abreast, Mattie in the middle; and 
 beside them stalked a huge man in rough, rather outlandish 
 attire, looking like a son of the Anakim, or a red-headed 
 Goliath. 
 
 Archie stood still in the middle of the road, and Mattie 
 rushed up to him: 
 
 " We are going for a walk. Oh, Archie, I wish you would 
 come too! It would be such fun!" 
 
 " Yes; do come!" cried unconscious Kan, seconding her 
 out of pure good nature. "Ml-. Drummond, this is our 
 cousin. Sir Henry Challoner, who has ju t come from Austra- 
 lia, and we have never seen him before." And then the 
 young clercryman shook hands with him very stiffly, and spoke 
 a few conventional words. 
 
 " They have not a man belonging to them," he had said to 
 himself, triumphantly, and then that odious Dick had turned 
 up, and now this extraordinary-looking being who called him- 
 self Sir Henry Challoner. 
 
 Archie took down the " Pcproge " when he got home, for 
 he could not be induced to join the merry party in their 
 walk. He found the name there all right — " Henry Fortes- 
 cue Challoner, son of Sir Francis Challoner, son of Sir Henrj
 
 B22 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Challoner," and so on. It was an old baronetcy — one of the 
 oldest in England— but the estates had dwindled down to a 
 half-ruined residence and a few fields. " Challoner Place/' 
 as it was called, was nothing but a heap of moldering walls; 
 but Mattie had whispered to him gleefully that he was " aw- 
 fully rich, and the head of the familj^ and unmarried; and 
 he did not mean to let his cousins make gowns any more for 
 other people, though they might do it for themselves." 
 
 Mattie never forgot that walk. Never in her life had she 
 enjoyed such fun. Archie, with his grave face and prim 
 ways, would have spoiled the hilarity. 
 
 First Sir Henry took his cousins to the hotel, where they 
 heard him order his apartments and dinner; he evidently con- 
 sidered he had not dined; and there was a good deal of discus- 
 sion about some game that he ordered, and a certain brand of 
 champagne that was to his liking. 
 
 "If they make me comfortable I may stop on a goodish 
 bit," he informed them, " until we have settled where my 
 aunt would like to live. I shall run up to London every few 
 days, and can do all your commissions. By the b3'e, I got some 
 trinkets for you girls on my way down: we will haul them 
 over when I come up for the cup of coffee Aunt Catherine 
 promised me this evening." 
 
 '' Now, Harry, we don't want presents," remarked Phillis, 
 taking him to task as easily as though she had known him all 
 her life long. 
 
 In spite of his bigness, his great burly figure and plain face, 
 ihere was something very pleasant about him. He was rough 
 ^nd unpolislitd, his dress was careless and of colonial cut, and 
 yet one could not fail to see he was a gentleman. His boyish- 
 ^less and fun would have delighted Dick, who was of the same 
 caliber; only Dick was far cleverer, and had more in his little 
 linger than this great lumbering Harry in his whole body. 
 
 He was slow and clumsy, but his heart and intentions were 
 «^xcellent; he was full of tenderness for women, and showed a 
 touching sort of chivalry in his intercourse with them. In 
 lome ways his manners were far finer than those of a New 
 8ond Street gentleman; for. he could not sneer at a woman, 
 lie believed in the goodness of the sex, in spite of much knowl- 
 edge to the contrary; he could not tell a lie, and he only 
 cheated himself. This was saving a good deal for the son of 
 that very black sheep, Sir Francis; but, as Sir Harry once 
 simply observed, " his mother was a good woman." If this were 
 the case, her husband's vices must have shortened her life, for 
 she died young.
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 323 
 
 Phillis was glad when they turned their backs on the town: 
 she found her cousin's long purse a difficulty: it seemed an 
 impossibility to get him past the shops. 
 
 First, he was sure Aunt Catherine was fond of champagne 
 — all ladies liked sweet, sparkling things; but he would see 
 about that at the hotel presently. Then his attention was at- 
 tracted by some grouse hanging up at the poulterer's. Aunt 
 Catherine must have some grouse, as he remembered the cold 
 mutton. Phillis made no objection to the grouse, for she 
 knew her mother's fondness for game; but she waxed indig- 
 nant when partridges and a hare were added, and still more 
 when Sir Marry ransacked the fruiterers for a supjDly of the 
 rarest fruit the town could afford. After this, he turned his 
 attention to cakes and bonbons; but here Dulce took his 
 part, for she loved bonbons. Phillis caught Kan by the arm 
 and compelled her to leave them; but Mattie deserted her 
 friends, ^and remained to watch the fun. 
 
 Daice^grew frightened at last, and tried to coax her cousin 
 away. 
 
 " Oh, no more— no more!'^ she pleaded. " Phillis and 
 Nan will be so angry with us." 
 
 *'l don't see anything more worth getting,'^ returned her 
 cousin, contemptuously. " What a place this is, to be sure! 
 Never mind, Dulce; I am going up to London to-morrow, 
 and 1 will bring you down as many bonbons as you like from 
 the French place in Regent Street. I will bring Miss Mattie 
 some too," he continued, as the girls hurried him along. 
 " And, Dulce, just write out a list of what you girls want, 
 and I will get them, as sure as my name is Harry.'' 
 
 >t 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 ALCIDES. 
 
 There was quite a battle-royal on the sea-shore after that. 
 Dulce and Phillis pelted Laddie with bonbons, while their 
 mother enjoyed her nap in the snug parlor. And Dorothy, 
 pleased, bewildered, and half frightened at what the mistress 
 might say, stowed away game and fruit and confectionery in 
 the tiny larder, and then turned her attention to such a tea as 
 her young ladies had not seen since the Glen Cottage days. 
 
 Laddie raced and barked, and nearly made himself ill with 
 the sweet things; and Nan laughed, and then grew serious as 
 she remembered an afternoon in the Longmead meadows, 
 when Dick, in wild spirits, had pelted her and Phillis with
 
 324 IsOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 roses until their laps were full of the delicious, fragrant leaves. 
 " ' Sweets to the sweet ' — so look out for yourself, Nan!" he 
 said in his half-rough, boyish way. But that was in the days 
 when both were very young and Dick had not learned to 
 make love. 
 
 Mattie joined in the game a little awkwardly — it was so long 
 since the poor little woman had played at anything. Her 
 younger sisters never chose Mattie in their games. " She 
 makes such mistakes, and puts us out; and that spoils the 
 fun," they said; and so Grace was their favorite playfellow. 
 
 For it is perfectly true that some grown-uj) people have for- 
 gotten how to play, while others are such children at heart 
 that they can abandon themselves most joyously and grace- 
 fully to any game, however romping; but Mattie, who was 
 sobered by frequent snubbing, was not one of these. She 
 loved fun still, in her way, but not as Phillis and Dulce, who 
 thought it the cream of life and would not be content with 
 the sort of skimmed-milk existence of other young ladies. 
 
 Sir Harry watched them admiringly, and his enthusiasm 
 grew every moment. 
 
 " I say, you are the right sort, and no mistake. I never 
 mot jollier girls in all my life. A fellow would not know 
 which to choose: w^ould he, Miss Mattie?" 
 
 Mattie took this seriously. 
 
 " Nan is chosen — are you not. Nan?" she said, in her 
 downright fashion. And then, as Sir Harry stared at this, 
 and Nan blushed and looked even prettier, Phillis first scolded 
 Mattie soundly for her bluntness, and then took upon herself 
 to describe Dick's perfections: 
 
 " The dearest fellow in the world, Harry, when you come 
 to know him; but not handsome, and dreadfully young-look- 
 ing, some people think. But, as Nan will not look at any 
 one else, we must make the best of him." 
 
 "And when are they to be married?" asked her cousin, 
 curiously. He was not quite pleased with this discovery. 
 
 " \Yhen? Oh, Harrj', there is an 'if' in the case," re- 
 turned Phillis, solemnly. " The dearest fellow in the world 
 has an oger of a father — a man so benighted, so narrow in 
 his prejudices, that he thinks it decidedly infra dig. for his 
 intended daughter-in-law to sew other people's gowns. 1 do 
 love that expression, Harry; it is so forcible. So he forbids 
 the bans. *' 
 
 " No, really! Is she serious, Nan?" But Nan grew shy 
 all at once and would not answer. 
 
 " I am serious. Sir Henry Challoner," replied Phillis, pomp-
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 3^5 
 
 ously. " The path of true love is impeded. Poor Dick is 
 
 Eining in his rooms afc Oxford; aud IS^aii — well, I am afraid 
 er looks belie her; only you knew appearances are sometimes 
 deceitful." Aud indeed Kan's pink cheeks and air of placid 
 contentment scarcely bore ont her sister's words. 
 
 The newly found cousin safc in silent perplexity, Blaring at 
 them both. Love affairs were not much in his vfay; aud un- 
 til now he had never been thrown much with his equals in the 
 other sex. His rough colonial life, full of excitement and 
 money-getthig, had engrossed his youth. He was now a mau 
 of thirty; but in disijosition, in simplicity, and in a certain 
 guilelessness of speech, he seemed hardly more than an over- 
 grown boy. 
 
 " Well, now, is it not like a book?" he said, at last, break- 
 ing the silence abrujDtly. " It must be an awful bother for 
 you, Nan; but we must put a stop to all that. 1 am the head 
 of the family; and 1 shall have a word to say to that Mr. — 
 what is his name?" 
 
 " Mr. Mayue," returned Nan, softly. 
 
 It was at this moment that the name of Hercules came into 
 Phillis's head for her cousin. What feats of strength did he 
 mean to undertake on their behalf? Would he strangle the 
 hydra-headed monster of public opinion that pronounced 
 *' women who sewed other women's gowns" were not to be 
 received into society? Would he help Nan gather the golden 
 apples of satisfied love and ambition? What was it that he 
 meant to do by dint of sheer force and good nature? 
 
 Harry Challoner did not long leave them in ignorance of his 
 intentions. In the coolest possible way he at once assumed 
 the headship of the family — adopting them at once, and giv- 
 ing them the benefit of his opinions on every point that could 
 possibly be mooted. 
 
 " I had not a soul belonging to me until now," he said, 
 looking around on his cousins' bright faces with a glow of 
 honest satisfaction on his own. " It; made a fellow feel pre- 
 cious lonely out there, 1 can tell you." 
 
 " You ought to have married, Harry," suggested Dulce. 
 
 " I never thought any one would care for such a great hulk- 
 ing fellow," he returned, simply; " and then the girls ever 
 there were not to my taste. Besides, 1 never thought of it; 
 I was too busy. I am going to take a holiday now, and look 
 about me a little; and when you and Aunt Catherine are set- 
 tled, I may have a try myself at some one," he finished, with 
 a big laugh. 
 
 This notion amused the girls immensely, then and after'
 
 B26 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 ward. They began to talk of the future Lady Challoner. 
 !Nau proposed one of the Paines. Phillis thought if Grace 
 Druniniond were only as street looking as her photograph, he 
 could hardly help falling in love with her. And Dulce was of 
 opinion that Adelaide Sartoris, handsome and queenly as she 
 was, would not consider a baronet beneath her. They confided 
 all these thoughts to Sir Harry, who thanked them quite 
 gravely for their interest and promised to consider the matter. 
 He even v/rote down the names in his pocket-book one after 
 another. 
 
 " Adelaide Sartoris, did you say? Ah, he had an Adelaide 
 at Sydney, a little, dark thing, with hair blown all over her 
 temples, and such a pair of mischievous eyes. That girl was 
 always laughing at me, somehow. And yet she seemed sorry 
 to bid me good-bye." 
 
 " Perhaps she was in love with you?" observed Dulce. But 
 Phillis frowned at this. She thought they had gone too far in 
 their jokes already with a cousin who was such a complete 
 stranger. But he returned, quite gravely: 
 
 " Well, now, you know, such a thing never came into my 
 head. I talked to her because a fellow likes to be amused by 
 a lively girl like Miss Addie. But as to thinking seriously of 
 her — well, I coiild not stand that, you know, to be laughed at 
 all one's life: eh. Miss Mattie?" And Mattie at this appeal 
 looked up with round, innocent eyes, and said, " Certainly 
 not,^' in such an impressive tone that the other girls burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 They all went home after that. Sir Harry escorted his 
 cousins and Mattie to the Friar}', and then returned to his 
 hotel to dinner. But the girls, who were in a merry mood, 
 would not part with Mattie. They sent her home to put on 
 her green silk dress, with strict orders that she was to return 
 as soo.'i as possible. 
 
 " We are all going to make ourselves pretty," announced 
 Phillis. '* A cousin does not turn up every day; and when 
 he promises to be a good fellow, like Harry, we can not do 
 him too much honor." 
 
 " Ah, I should like to come,'* returned Mattie. " I have 
 had surh a nice day; and, if Archie will not mind — " And 
 then she bustled into the vicarage, and into her brother's 
 study. 
 
 Archie roused himself a little wearily from his abstraction 
 to listen to his sister's story; but at the end of it he said good- 
 naturedly, for he had taught himsulf to be tolerant of Mattie's 
 little gaucheries:
 
 l>rOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 327 
 
 *' And the long and short of it is that you want to be gad- 
 ding again. Well, rim and get ready, or you will keep their 
 tea waiting; and do put on your collar straight, Mattie. " But 
 this slight thrust was lost on Mattie as she delightedly with- 
 drevr. Archie sighed as he tried to compose himself to his 
 reading. He had not been asked to join Mattie. For the 
 last few weeks he had become a stranger to the cottage. Did 
 they notice his absence? he wondered. Did they miss the 
 visits that had once been so frequent? By and by he would re- 
 sume his old habits of intimacy, and go among them as he had 
 done; but just now the effort was too painful. He dreaded 
 the unspoken sympathy in Phillis's eyes. He dreaded any- 
 thing like an understanding between them. iJsan's perfect 
 unconsciousness was helpful to him; but there was something 
 in Phillis's manner that stirred up an old pain. For the pres- 
 ent he was safer and happier alone in his study, though Mattie 
 did not think so, and told her friends that Archie looked ter- 
 ribly dull. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner proposed sending for him; but Phillis, 
 greatly to her mother's surprise, negatived the j)roposition: 
 
 " Oh, no, mother; pray do not! Mattie, you must excuse 
 me. I do not mean to be rude, but we should all have to be 
 so dreadfully well behaved if Mr. Drummond came, and I just 
 feel myself in a ' nonsense mood,' as Dulce used to say when 
 she was a baby." And then they all forgot Archie, and fell 
 to discussing the new cousin. 
 
 "He is dreadfully ugly, mammie, is he not?" observed 
 Dulce, who had a horror of red hair. But Mrs. Challoner 
 demurred: 
 
 " Well, no, pet; I can not agree v/ith you. He is very 
 plain, but so is Dick; but it struck me they were both rather 
 alike." An indignant " How can you, mother!" from Xan. 
 " Well, my dear," she continued, jslacidly, *' 1 do not mean 
 really alike, for they have not a feature in common; but they 
 have both got the same honest, open look, only Dick's face is 
 more intelligent." But this hardly appeased Nan, who was 
 heard to say, under her breath, " tliat she thought Dick had 
 the nicest face in the world." 
 
 " And Sir Harry has a nice face, too; has he not, Mrs. Chal- 
 loner?" exclaimed Mattie, who never could be silent in a dis- 
 cussion. "It takes time to get used to such very red hair; 
 and, of course, he is dreadfully big — almost too big, I should 
 say. But when he talks he has such a good-natured way with 
 Jiim; now, hasn't he?" appealing to Nan, who looked just a
 
 328 HOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 little glum — that is, glum for Nan, for she could not do the 
 sulks properly; she could ouly look dignified. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner grew a little alarmed at her daughter's de- 
 mure face: "Nan, darling, you know I am as fond of Dick 
 as possible; but I can not help being pleased with my nephew; 
 can 1? And 1 must say 1 think Harry is very nice, in spite 
 of his roughness." But here Phillis, who had been unac- 
 countably silent, suddenly struck in: 
 
 "Mother, it was a mistake mentioning Dick: the name is 
 sacred. Nan, if it will please you, we will declare that he is 
 beautiful as a young Aijollo." 
 
 " Don't be a goose, Phil!" from her sister. But Nan was 
 smiling. 
 
 " As for Harry, he is a perfect hero. I expect great things 
 from the great men. To my imagination he is a perfect 
 Hercules — Heracles, son of Zeus and Alcmene. I wonder if 
 Harry could tell us the name of Hercules' mother?" 
 
 " Of course not, and no one else, either/' retorted Dulce. 
 
 But Phillis did not heed this. 
 
 " To me he shall be the young Alcides. He has promised 
 to fight the Nemaean lion, in the shape of Richard Mayne the 
 elder. By and by we shall have him striking oS the heads of 
 the Lernean Hydra. You look mystified. Nan. And 1 per- 
 ceive Mattie has a perplexed countenance. I am afraid you 
 are deficient in heathen mythology; but I will spare your ig- 
 norance. You will see, though, I am right — " 
 
 " But, Phillis," broke in Dulce, eagerly. But Phillis waved 
 her hand majestically at the interruption: 
 
 " Mother, to be serious, I consider Harry in the light of a 
 providential interposition. You are always mourning that 
 there is not a man belonging to us. Well, now we have got 
 one, large as life, and larger, and a very good fellow, as you 
 say; and we are no longer ' forlorn females.' " 
 
 " And indeed, Phillis, I am most thankful for that, my 
 dear; for if Harry be only as good as a brother to you — " 
 
 " He means to be more,'" returned Phillis, with a sage nod 
 of her head. " He talks in the coolest way, as though he had 
 adopted the whole family and meant to put a spoke into the 
 domestic wheel. ' 1 must put a stop to this,' or ' That must 
 be altered,' has been a frequent remark of his. Mother, if 
 he is dreadfully rich, as he says, does he mean to make us 
 rich too?" 
 
 " My dear, we have no claim on him." 
 
 " He thinks we have the strongest possible claim; does he 
 not, Nan? You should have heard him talk this afternooni
 
 NOT LIKE OTHEE GIRLS. 329 
 
 Accoi-fliag to him, we were never to sew gowns again; Nan 
 and Dick were to be immediately united; the Friary was to 
 be pulled down, and a glorified Gleu Cottage to be erected in 
 its stead. But, mother " — here Phillis's lips grew plaintive 
 — " you won't desert your own girls, and be talked over even 
 by an Alcides? We do not mean to have our little deeds 
 put on the shelf in that oif-haud fashion. I shall sew gowns 
 as long as I like, in spite of a hundred Sir Harrys.*' 
 
 And then they perceived that under Phillis's fun there was 
 a vein of serious humor, and that, in spite of her admiration 
 of her hero, she was a little afraid that her notions of inde- 
 pendence would be wounded. 
 
 They became divided on the question. Mrs. Challoner, who 
 bad never had a son of her own, and did not much like the 
 idea of a son-in-law, was disposed to regard her nephew 
 warmly, and to accord him at once his privilege of being 
 head of the family. 
 
 " In this case a cousin is as good as a brother," she averred; 
 and Nan rather leaned to her opinion. 
 
 " You see," she said, in her practical way, addressing no 
 one in particular, but looking at Phillis, " it has been terribly 
 against us, having no cne belonging to us of the same name; 
 and it will really give us a standing with some sort of people." 
 
 " Fy, Nan! what a worldly speech! You are thinking of 
 that tiresome Mayne pere again." 
 
 " 1 have to think of him," returned Nan, not at all put 
 out by this. " Dick's father must be a person of great im- 
 portance to me. He has often hinted in my hearing that we 
 have no relations, and that the Challoner name will die out. 
 1 expect he will be rather taken aback at Harry's appearance. " 
 
 " Yes; and Dick will be jealous: he always is of other fel- 
 lows, as he calls them. You must score that up against Dick, 
 please. Well, 1 won't deny that Harry may make himself 
 useful there: all 1 protest against is the idea that he will 
 bundle us out of this dear old Friary, and make us graudj, in 
 spite of ourselves." 
 
 " Dear old Friary! Oh, oh!" gasped Dulce; and even Nan 
 looked mildly surprised. 
 
 " He will not make me give up my work until I choose," 
 continued Phillis, who was in an obstinate mood. " It is not 
 make-believe play- work, I cai> tell him that;'' but Mrs. Chal- 
 loner grew tearful at this. 
 
 " Phillis, my dear, pray hush! Indeed — indeed I can not 
 have you talking as though you meant and wished to be a, 
 dress-maker all your life."
 
 330 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 And when Phillis asked, " Why not?'' just for the sake of 
 argument — for in her heart she was growing heartily sick of 
 her employment — her mother threw up her hands in despair: 
 
 " Oh, my dear Miss Drummond, do not beheve her: Philh's 
 is a good girl, but she is always like that — hard to be con- 
 vinced. She does not really mean it. She has worked harder 
 than any of them, but she has only done it for her mother's 
 sake," 
 
 " Of course she does not mean it," echoed Nan, affection- 
 ately, and much struck by a sudden yearning look on Phil- 
 lis's face — an expression of smothered jjain; but Phillis drew 
 away from her sister's gentle grasp. 
 
 " I do mean it!" she said, almost passionately. " I am 
 dreadfully tired of work sometimes, and hate it. Oh, how I 
 hate it! But I think I have been happy too. I liked the ex- 
 citement of the fighting, and the novelty of the thing; it was 
 such fun — first shocking people, and then winning them over 
 in spite of themselves. One felt ' plucky,' as Harry said. 
 And then one's friends were so real." And her eyes fell un- 
 consciously on Mattie. 
 
 " Oh, yes," returned Mattie, with her usual gush: " Archie 
 and I took to you from the first. 1 must say I was surprised, 
 knowing how fastidious Archie was, and his notions about 
 young ladies in general. But, dear, he never would hear a 
 word against you: he was even angry with Colonel Middleton 
 the other day because — but there! I ought not to have told 
 you that." 
 
 " Oh, we know ail about it," returned Phillis, carelessly; 
 but Dulce's bright face looked a little overcast. " Son Ham- 
 mond js in the case; and we can all judge of a father's feel- 
 ings by a certain example that shall be nameless. Good gra- 
 cious, mammie! there comes the Alcides himself, and Dorothy 
 has not cleared the tea-things! I vote we meet him in the 
 garden, to avert breakages." And Phiilis's proposition was 
 carried out. 
 
 But when they were all seated in the little parlor again, and 
 the lamp was brought, sundry packages made their appear- 
 ance, and were delightedly unpacked by the girls, Phillis as- 
 sisting with great interest, in spite of her heroic speeches. 
 
 " One can accept gifts from a cousin," she said afterward. 
 
 Sir Harry had shown good taste in his purchases. The 
 ornaments and knickknacks were all pretty and well chosen. 
 The good-natured fellow had ransacked the shops in Paris for 
 such things as he thought would please his unknown cousins. 
 The bracelets and fans and gloves and iaces made Dulce al-
 
 iror LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 831 
 
 most daoce with glee. The lace was for Aunt Catherine, he 
 said; and there were gloves for everybody— dozens and dozens 
 of them. But the fans and bracelets were for the girls, and 
 to-morrow he would get the bonbons for Dulce. And then, 
 as the girls laughingly apportioned the spoil, he whispered 
 something to Kan, at which she nodded and smiled. 
 
 Mattie, who was carefully admiring the lace in her short- 
 sighted way, felt something touch her elbow, and found Xau 
 pushing a fan and a parcel of gloves toward her— beautiful 
 gloves, such as Isabel had in her trousseau. 
 
 " Yes, take them; we have so many; and, indeed, we have 
 no use for more than a fan apiece. Oh, you extravagant 
 Harry I" 
 
 Sir Harry laughed as he balanced the fan clu^-sHy on his 
 huge finger: 
 
 " Take it; you are very welcome. Miss Mattie. You know 
 we are quite old acquaintances; and, indeed, I look on you as 
 a sort of cousin." 
 
 " Oh, dear! thank you; you are very good, Sir Harry,*' 
 cried poor Mattie, blushing with pleasure. 
 
 Kever had she spent such a day in her life — a day wherein 
 she had not been once snubbed, except in that remark of 
 Archie's about her collar, and that did not matter. 
 
 " Poor little woman, she looks very happy!" observed Mrs. 
 Challoner, benevolently, as Mattie gathered up her spoils and 
 went out of the room, accompanied by Dulce. " She is such 
 a good little soul, and so amiable, that it is a pity Mr. Drum- 
 mond is always finding fault with her. It spoils him, some- 
 how; and I am sure she bears it very well." She s|)oke to 
 Kan, for her nephew seemed engrossed with tying njj Lad- 
 die's front paw with his handkerchief. 
 
 " I am afraid, from what she says, that they all snub her 
 at home," returned Kan. " It seems Grace is the favorite; 
 but you know, mother, Mattie is just a little tiresome and 
 awkward at times.'* 
 
 " Y"os; but she is very much improved. And I must say 
 her temper is of the sweetest; for she never bears her brother 
 any malice." But at that moment Mattie re-entered the 
 room, and Sir Harry, releasing Laddie, proceeded, as in duty 
 bound, to escort her to the vicarage.
 
 $32 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 SIR HARRY BIDES HIS TIME. 
 
 Phillis might have spared herself that little outburst to 
 which she had given vent on the day of her cousiu*s arriv^al. 
 For, in spite of the lordly way in which he had claimed his 
 prerogative as the only male Challoner, Sir Harry took no 
 further steps to interfere with her liberty: indeed, as the days 
 and even the weeks passed away, and nothing particular hap- 
 pened in them, she was even a little disappointed. 
 
 For it is one thing to foster heroic intentions, but quite an- 
 other when one has no choice in the matter. The heroism 
 seemed lost, somehow, when no one took the trouble to com- 
 bat her resolution. Phillis began to tire of her work — nay, 
 more, to feel positive disgust at it. The merry evenings gave 
 her a distaste for her morning labors, and the daylight seemed 
 sometimes as though it would never fade into dark, so as to 
 give her an excuse for folding up her work. 
 
 These fits of impatience were intermittent, and she spoke 
 of them to no one; in other respects the ne^v cousin brought 
 a great deal of brightness and pleasure into their daily life. 
 
 They all grew very fond of him. Mrs. Challoner, indeed, 
 was soon heard to say she almost loved him like a son — a 
 speech that reached Dick's ears by and by, and made him ex- 
 cessively angry. " I should like to kick that fellow," he 
 growled, as he read the words. But, then, Dick never liked 
 interlopers. He had conceived a hatred of Mr. Drummond 
 on the spot. Sir Harry took up his quarters at the same hotel 
 where Dick and his father had spent that one dreary evening. 
 He gave lavish orders and excited a great deal of attention 
 and talk by his careless muuificence. Without being posi- 
 tively extravagant, he had a free-handed way of spending his 
 money; as he often said, " he liked to see things comfortable 
 about him." And, as his notions of comfort were somewhat 
 expensive, his host soon conceived a great respect for him — all 
 the more that he gave himself no airs, never talked about his 
 wealth, except to his cousins, and treated his title as though it 
 were not of the slightest consequence to himself or any one . 
 else; indeed, he was decidedly modest in all matters pertain- 
 ing to himself. 
 
 But, being a generous soul, he loved to give. Every few 
 days he went up to Loudon, and he never returned without 
 bringing gifts to the Friary. Dulce, who was from the first
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 333 
 
 his chief favorite, reveled in French bonbons; hampers of wine, 
 of choice game, or fruit from Covent Garden, filled the tiny 
 larder to overflowing. Silks and ribbons, and odds and ends 
 of female finery, were sent down from Marshall & Suelgrove's, 
 or Svvan & Edgar's. In vain Mrs. Challouer implored him 
 not to spoil the giris, who had never had so many pretty 
 things in their lives, and hardly knew what to do with them. 
 Sir Harry would not deny himself this pleasure, and he came 
 up evening after evening, overflowing with health and spirits, 
 to join the family circle in the small parlor and euhveu them 
 v^ith his stories of colonial life. 
 
 People began to talk about him. He was too big and too 
 prominent a figure to pass unnoticed in Hadleigh. The Chal- 
 lonors and their odd ways, and their cousin the baronet who 
 was a milliouaire and unmarried, were canvassed in many a 
 drawing-room. " We always knew they were not just ' no- 
 bodies,' " as one young lady observed; and another remarked, 
 a little scornfully, " that she supposed Sir Henry Challoner 
 would put a stop to all that ridiculous dress-making now." 
 But when they found that Nan and Phillis went about as 
 usual, taking orders and fitting on dresses, their astonishment 
 knew no bounds. 
 
 Sir Harry watched them with a secret chuckle. " He must 
 put a stop to all that presently," he said; but just at first it 
 amused him to see it all " It was so pretty and plucky of 
 them," he thought. 
 
 He would saunter into the work-room in the morning, and 
 watch them for an hour together as he sat and talked to them. 
 After the first they never minded him, and his presence made 
 no difference to them. Nan measured and cut out, and con- 
 sulted Phillis in her difficulties, as usual. Dulce sung over her 
 sewing-machine, and Phillis went from one to the other with' 
 a grave, intent face. Sometimes lihe would speak petulantly 
 to him, and bid him not whistle or tease Laddie; but that was 
 when one of her fits of impatience was on her. She was gen- 
 erally gracious to him, and made him welcome. 
 
 When he was tired of sitting quiet, he would take refuge 
 with Aunt Catherine in her little parlor, or go into the vicar- 
 age for a chat with Mattie and her brother: he was becoming 
 very intimate there. Sometimes, but not often, he would call 
 at the White House; but, though the Cheynes liked him, and 
 Magdalpne was amused at his simplicity, there was not much 
 m common between them. 
 
 He had taken a liLing to Colonel Middleton and his 
 daughter, and would have found his way to Brooklyn over and
 
 S34 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 over again, only the colonel gave him no encouragement. 
 They had met accidentally in the gi-ounds of the White House, 
 and Mr. Cheyne had introduced them to each other; Dut the 
 colonel bore himself very stiffly on that occasion and ever after 
 when they met on the Parade and in the reading-room. In- 
 his heart he was secretly attracted by Sir Harry's blunt ways 
 and honest face; but he was a cousin of those Challoners, and 
 intimacy was not to be desired; so their intercourse was lim- 
 ited to a brief word or two. 
 
 " Your father does not want to know me," he said once, in 
 his outspoken way, to Miss Middleton, when they met at the 
 very gate of Broooklyn, and she had asked him, with some 
 little hesitation, if he were coming in. " It is a pity," he 
 added, regretfully, '* for I have taken a fancy to him; he seema 
 a downright good sort, and we agree in politics." 
 
 Elizabeth blushed: for once her courtesy and love of truth 
 were sadly at variance. 
 
 " He does like you very much. Sir Harry," she said; and 
 then she hesitated. 
 
 " Only my cousins sew gowns," he returned, with a twinkle 
 of amusement in his eyes, " so he must not encourage me — 
 eh, Miss Middleton? as we are all in the same boat. Well, 
 we must allow for prejudices. By and by we will alter all 
 that." And then he gave her a good-natured nod, aiid saun- 
 tered awav to tell his old friend Mattie all about it; for he had 
 a kindly feeling toward the little woman, and made her his 
 confidante on these occasions. 
 
 Phillis still called him Abides, to his endless mystification; 
 but she privately wondered when his labors were to begin. 
 After that first afternoon he did not speak much of his future 
 intentions: indeed, he was a little reserved with the girls, con- 
 sidering their intimacy; but to his aunt he was less reticent. 
 
 " Do you know. Aunt Catherine," he said one day to her, 
 " that that old house of yours — Glen Cottage, is it not? — will 
 soon be in the market? Ibbetson wants to get off the re- 
 mainder of the lease." 
 
 Mrs. Challoner leaned back in her chair and put down her 
 knitting: 
 
 " Are you sure, Harry? Then Aflelaide was right: she told 
 me in her last letter that Mrs. Ibbetson's health was so bad 
 that they thought of wintering at Hyeres, and that there was 
 some talk of giving up the house." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is true," he returned, carelessly: " Ibbetson 
 told me so himself. It is a pretty little place enough, and 
 they have done a good deal to it, even in a few months: they
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 335 
 
 want to get off the lease, aud rid themselves of the furniture, 
 which seems to be all new. It appears they have had some 
 money left to them unexpectedly; aud now Mrs. Ibbetsou^s 
 health is so bad, he wants to try traveling, and thinks it a great 
 pity to be hampered with a house at present. I should say the 
 poor little woman is in a bad way, myself.'* 
 
 " Dear me, how sad! x4nd they have been married so short 
 a time — not more than six months. She comes of a weakly 
 stock, 1 fear. I always said she looked consumj)tive, poor 
 thing! Dear little Glen Cottage! and to think it will change 
 hands so soon again!" 
 
 " You seem fond of it. Aunt Catherine,'' for her tone vs^as 
 full of regret. 
 
 " My dear," she answered, seriously, " I al';vays loved that 
 cottage so! The drawing-room and the garden were just to 
 my taste; and then the girls were so happy there." 
 
 " Would you not like a grander house to live in?" he asked, 
 in the same indifferent tone. " I do not think it is half good 
 enough for you and the girls." 
 
 Mrs. Challouer opened her eyes rather widely at this: but 
 his voice gas^e her no clew to his real meaning, and she thought 
 it was just his joking way. 
 
 " It would seem a palace after this!" she returned, with a 
 sigh. " Somehow I never cared for great big houses; they are 
 so much expense to keep up; and when one has not a man in 
 the house — " 
 
 " Why, you have me. Aunt Catherine!" speaking up rather 
 briskly. 
 
 " Yes, my dear; and you are a great comfort to us all. It 
 is so nice to have some one to consult; aud, though I would 
 not say so to Nan for the world, Dick is so young that I never 
 could consult him." 
 
 " By the bye, that reminds me, I must have a look at that 
 young fellow," returned her nephew. " Let me see, the Ox- 
 ford term is over, and he will be home again. Suppose 1 run 
 over to Oldfield — it is no distance from town— and leave my 
 card on Mr. Mayne senior?" 
 
 "You, Harry!" And Mrs. Challouer looked quite taken 
 aback at the proposition. 
 
 " Well," he remarked, candidly, " I Ihink it is about time 
 something was done: Nan looks awfully serious sometimes. 
 What is the good of being the head of one's family, if one is 
 not to settle an affair like that? I don't feel inclined to put 
 up with anymore nonsense in that quarter, lean tell you that. 
 Aunt Catherine."
 
 336 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " Butj Harry," growiug visibly tilarmed, " you do not know 
 Mr. Mayne: he can make himself so ex cessivel}' disagreeable/* 
 
 " So can most men when they like." 
 
 " Yes; but not exactly in that way. 1 believe he is really 
 very fond of Dick, but he wants to order his life in his own 
 way, and no young man will stand that." 
 
 " Ko, by Jove! that is rather too strong for a fellow. 1 
 should say Master Dick could not put up with that." 
 
 " It seems my poor IS' an is not good enough for his son, 
 just because she has no money and has been obliged to make 
 herself useful. Does it not seem hard, Harry? my beautiful 
 Nan! And the Maynes are just nobodies: why, Mr. Mayne's 
 father was only a shopkeeper in a very small way, and his 
 wife's family was no better!" 
 
 " Well, you must not expect me to understand all that," 
 replied her nephew, in a puzzled tone. " In the colonies, we 
 did not think much about that sort of thing: it would not 
 have done there to inquire too narrowly into a man's aiiteced- 
 ents. I knew capital fellows whose fathers had been butchers, 
 bakers, and candlestick-makers; and, bless me! what does it 
 matter, if the fellow is all right himself?" he finished, for the 
 last Challoner .was a decided Radical. 
 
 But Mrs. Challoner, who was mildly obstinate in such 
 matters, would not yield her point: 
 
 " You would think differently if you had been educated at 
 Eton. In England, it is necessary to discriminate am:ng 
 one's acquaintances. I find no fault with Dick; he is as nice 
 and gentlemanly as possible; but his father has not got his 
 good breeding; possibly he has not his advantages. But it is 
 they, the Maynes, who would be honored by an alliance with 
 one of my daughters." And Mrs. Challoner raised her head 
 and drew herself up with such queenly dignity that Sir Harry 
 dared not argue the point. 
 
 " Oh, yes; 1 see," he returned, hastily. " Well, I thall let 
 him know what you think. You need not be afraid 1 
 shall lower your dignity. Aunt Catherine. I meant to be 
 rather high and mighty myself — that is, if I could manage 
 it." And he broke into one of his huge laughs. 
 
 Mrs. Challoner was very fond of her nephew; but she was 
 not a clever woman, and she did not alwaj's understand his 
 hints. When Lliey were alone together, he was perpetually 
 making this sort of remarks ta her in a half-serious, half-jok- 
 ing way., eliciting her opinions, consulting her tastes, with a 
 view to his future plans. 
 
 With the girls he was provokiugly reticent. Phillis and
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS 337 
 
 Dulce used to catechise him sometimes, but his replies were 
 always evasive. 
 
 "Do you know, Harry,'* Phillis said to him once, very 
 gravely, " I think you are leading a dreadfully idle life? You 
 do nothing absolutely all day but walk to and fro between the 
 hotel and the Friary/' 
 
 " Come, now,'' retorted her cousin, in an injured tone; *' I 
 call that confoundedly hard on a fellow who has come all these 
 thousands of miles just to cultivate his relations and enjoy a 
 little relaxation. Have I not worked hard enough all my life 
 to earn a holiday now?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," she returned, provokingly; " we all know how 
 hard you have worked; but all the same it does not do to play 
 at idleness too long. You are very much improved, Harry. 
 Your tailor has done wonders for you; and I should not be 
 ashamed to walk down Bond Street with you any afternoon, 
 though 'the people do stare, because you are so big. But don't 
 you think it is time to settle down? You might take rooms 
 somewhere. Lord Fitzroy knows of some ca2:)ital ones iu 
 Sackville Street; Algie Burgoyne had them.'* 
 
 " Well, no, thank you, Phillis; I don't think I shall go in 
 for rooms." 
 
 " Well, then, a house: you know you are so excessively 
 rich, Harry," drawling out her words in imitation of his rather 
 slow pronunciation. 
 
 " Oh, of course I shall take a house; but there is plenty of 
 time for that." 
 
 And when she pressed him somewhat eagerly to tell her in 
 what neighborhood he meant to live, he only shrugged his 
 shoulders, and remarked, carelessly, that he would, have a look 
 round at all sorts of j)laces by and by. 
 
 " But do you mean to take a house and live all alone?" 
 asked Dulce. " Won't you find it rather dull?" 
 
 " What's a fellow to do?" replied her cousin, enigmatically. 
 *' 1 suppose Aunt Catherine will not undertake the care of 
 me? 1 am too big, as you call it, for a house full of women!" 
 
 " Well, yes; perhaps you are," she replied, contemplating 
 him thoughtfully. "We should not know quite what to do 
 witliyou." 
 
 " I wish I could get rid of a few of my superfluous inches," 
 he remarked, dolorously; "for people seem to find me sadly 
 in the way sometimes." 
 
 But Dulce said, kindly: 
 
 "Oh, no, Harry; we never find you in the way, do we, 
 mammie? We should be dreadfully dull without ;you now.
 
 338 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 1 can hear you whistling a quarter of a mile off, and it aoundg 
 so cheerful. If there were only a house big enough for you 
 next door, that would do nicely."* 
 
 " Oh, I dare say I shall not be far off; shall I, Aunt Cath- 
 erine?" for, to his aunt's utter bewilderment, he had estab- 
 lished a sort of confidence between them, and expected her to 
 understand all his vague hints. " You will not speak about 
 this to the girls; this is just between you and me," he would 
 say to her, when sometimes she had not a notion of what he 
 
 meant. 
 
 " I don't understand you, Harry," she said, once. ' Why 
 did you stop me just now when I was going to tell Phillis about 
 the ibbetsons leaving Glen Cottage? She would have been so 
 interested. " 
 
 " You must keep that to yourself a little while. Aunt Cath- 
 erine: it will be such a surprise to the girls, you know. Did 
 I tell you about the new conservatory Ibbetson has built? It 
 leads out of the drawing-room, and improves the room won- 
 derfully, they say." 
 
 "My dear Harry! what an expense! That is just what 
 Mr. Mayne wa^ always wanting us to do; and Nan was so 
 fond of flowers. It was just what the room needed to make 
 it perfect." And Mrs. Challoner folded her hands, with a 
 sigh at the remembrance of the house she had loved so dearly. 
 
 " They say Gilsbank is for sale," remarked her nephew, 
 rather suddenly, after this. 
 
 " What! Gilsbank, where old Admiral Hawkins lived? Nan 
 saw the announcement of his death the other day, and she said 
 then the place would soon be put up for sale. Poor old man! 
 He was a martyr to gout." 
 
 "I had a look at it the other day," he replied, coolly. 
 " Why, it is not a hundred yards from your old cottage. 
 There is a tidy bit of land, and "the house is not so bad, only it 
 wants doing up; but the furniture— that is for sale too — is 
 very old-fashioned and shabby." 
 
 " Are you thinking of it for yourself?" asked his aunt, in 
 surprise. " Why, Gilsbank is a large place; it would never do 
 for a single man. You would find the rooms Phillis proposed 
 
 far handier." 
 
 " Why, Aunt Catherine!" in a tone of strong remon- 
 strance. " You don't mean to condemn me to a life of single 
 blessedness because of my size?" 
 
 " Oh, Harry, of course not! My dear boy, what w idea!" 
 " And some one may be found in time who could put up 
 even with red hair."
 
 IfOT LIKE OTHER GIELS. 339 
 
 " Oh, yes; that need not be an obstacle." But she looked 
 at him with vague alarm. Of whom could he be thinking? 
 
 He caught her expression, and threw back his head with one 
 of his merry laughs: 
 
 " Oil, no. Aunt Catherine; you need not be afraid. lam 
 not going to make love to any of my cousins; 1 know your 
 views on the subject, and that would not suit my book at all. 
 1 am quite on your side there," 
 
 " Surely you will tell, my dear, if you are serious?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, when 1 have anything to tell; but I think I will 
 have a good look round first." And then, of his own accord, 
 he changed the subject. He was a little sparing of his hints 
 after that, even to his aunt. 
 
 It was shortly after this that he came into the Friary one 
 evening and electrified his cousins by two pieces of news. He 
 had just called at the vicarage, he said; but he had not gone 
 in, for Miss Mattie had run down-stairs in a great bustle to 
 tell him her sister Grace had just arrived. Her brother had 
 been down to Leeds and brought her up with him. Phiilis 
 put down her work; her face had become suddenly rather pale. 
 
 " Grace has come," she half whispered to herself. And 
 then she added aloud: " Poor Mattie will be glad, and sorry 
 too! She will like to have her sister with her for the New 
 Year; but in a few weeks she will have to pack up her own 
 things and go home. And she was only saying the other day 
 that she has never been so happy in her life as she has been 
 here." 
 
 " Why can't she stay, then?" asked Sir Harry, rather 
 abruptly. " 1 don't hold with people making themselves mis- 
 erable for nothing; that does not belong to my creed." 
 
 " Oh, poor Mattie has not a choice in the matter," returned 
 Nan, who had grown very fond of her little neighbor. 
 " Though she is thirt}^ she must still do as other people bid 
 her. They can not both be spared from home — at least, 1 be- 
 lieve not — and so her mother has recalled her." 
 
 " Oh, but that is nonsense!" replied Sir Harry, rather 
 crossly for him. " Girls are spared well enough when they 
 are married. And 1 thought the Drummonds were not well 
 off. Did not Phiilis tell me so?" 
 
 " They are very badly off; but then, you see, Mr .Drum- 
 mond does not want two sisters to take care of his house; and, 
 though he tries to be good to Mattie, he is not so fond of her 
 as he is of his sister Grace; and they have always planned to 
 live tf>gether, and so poor Mattie has to go." 
 
 " Yes, and I must say I am sorry for the poor little worn-
 
 340 HOT LIKE OTHEfi GIRLS. 
 
 an/' observed Mrs. Challoner. " There is a large family ol 
 girls and boys— I think Mr. Drummond told us lie had seven 
 sisters— aud'^Mattie seems left out in the cold among them all; 
 they laugh at her OLldities, and quiz her most unmercifully; 
 even Mr. Drummond does, and Nan scolds him for it; but he 
 has not been so bad lately. It is rather hard that none of them 
 seems to want her." 
 
 " You forget Grace is very good to her, mother," broke in 
 Phillis, someVhat eagerly. " Mattie always says so." 
 
 " By the bye, I must have a look at this paragon. Is not. 
 her name among those in my pocket-book!" returned her 
 cousin, wickedly. " 1 saw Miss Sartoris at Old field that day, 
 and she was too grand for my taste. Why, a fellow would 
 never dare speak to her. I have scored that one off the list, 
 Phillis." 
 
 " My dears, what have you been saying to Harry?" 
 
 " Ob, nothing, mainmie," returned Dulce, hastily, fearing 
 her mother would be shocked. " Phillis was ordy in her non- 
 sense mood; but Harry is such a goose, and will take things 
 seriously. I wish you would let me have your pocket-book a 
 moment, and I would tear out the page." But Sir Harry re- 
 turned it safely to his pocket. 
 
 " What was your other piece of news?" asked Nan, in her 
 quiet voice, when all this chatter had subsided. 
 
 " Oh, I had almost forgotten it myself! only Miss Middleton 
 charged me to tell you that ' son Hammond ' has arrived by 
 the P. and 0. steamer the ' Cerberus,' and that she and her 
 father were just starting for Southampton to meet him." 
 
 CHAPTER XLU. 
 
 *'COME NOW, I CALL THAT HARD." 
 
 Phillis was unusually silent during the remainder of the 
 evening; but, as she bade Nan good-night at the door of her 
 little room, she lingered a moment, shading the the flame of 
 her candle with her hand. 
 
 " Do you think Mattie will bring her sister round to see us 
 to-morrow?" she asked, in a very low tone. 
 
 " Oh, ves— I am sure I hope so," returned Nan, sleepdy, 
 not noticing the restrained eagerness of Phillis's manner. 
 " We can hardly call first, under our present circumstances. 
 Mr. Drummond knows that." And Phillis withdrew, as 
 though she were satisfied with the answer. 
 
 Nothing more was said on the subject; and they settled
 
 irOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 341 
 
 themselves to their work as usual on the following morning, 
 Dulce chattering and singing snatches of songs— for she was 
 a most merry little soul — Nan cheerful and ready for conver- 
 sation with any one; but Phillis withdrew herself to the fur- 
 thest window and stitched away in grave silence. And, seeiug 
 such was her mood, her sisters wisely forbore to disturb her. 
 
 At twelve o'clock the gate bell sounded, and Dulce, who 
 hailed any interruption as a joyful reprieve, announced de- 
 lightedly that Mattie and a tall young lady were coming up 
 the flagged walk; and in an instant Phillis's work lay un- 
 touched on her lap. 
 
 " Are you all here? Oh, dear, I am so glad!'' exclaimed 
 Mattie, bustling into the room with a radiant face. " 1 have 
 brought Grace to see you; she arrived last night.'' And in a 
 moment the young stranger was surrounded and welcomed 
 most cordially. 
 
 Phillis looked at her curiously for a moment: in ileed, dur- 
 ing the whole visit her eyes rested upon Grace's face from time 
 to time, as though she were studying her. She had heard so 
 much of this girl that she had almost feared to be disappointed 
 in her; but every moment her interest increased. 
 
 Grace Drummond was not a pretty girl — with the exception 
 of Isabel and the boys, the Drummond family had not the 
 slightest pretension to beauty — but she was fair and tranquil 
 looking, and her expression was gentle and full of character. 
 She had very soft, clear eyes, with a trace of sadness in them; 
 but her lips were thin — like her mother's — and closed firmly, 
 and the chin was a little massively cut for a woman. 
 
 In looking at the lower part of this girl's face, a keen ob- 
 server would read the tenacity of a strong will; but the eyes 
 had the appealing softness that one sees in some dumb creat- 
 ures'. 
 
 They won Phillis at once. After the first moment, her 
 reserved manner thawed and became gracious; and before half 
 an hour had passed she and Grace were talking as though they 
 had known each other all their lives. 
 
 Nan watched them smilingly as she chatted with Mattie: 
 she knew her sister was fastidious in her likings, and that she 
 did not take to people easily. Phillis was pleasant to all her 
 friends and acquaintances: but she was rarely intimate with 
 them, as Nan and Dulce were wont to be. She held her head 
 a little high, as though she felt her own superiority. 
 
 " Phillis is very amusing and clever; but one does not know 
 her as well as Nan and Dulce/' even Carrie Paine had been
 
 '612 NOT LIKE OTHER GIKLg. 
 
 heard to say; and certainly Phillis had never talked to Carrie 
 as she did to this stranger. 
 
 Grace was just as much charmed on her side. On her re- 
 turn, she delighted and yet pained her brother by her warm 
 praises of his favorites. 
 
 "Oh, Archie!'^ she exclaimed, as they sat at luncheon in 
 the old wainscoted dining-room at the vicarage, " you are 
 quite right in saying the Chalionei's are not like any other 
 girls. They are all three so nice and pretty; but the second 
 — Miss Phillis — is most to my taste." 
 
 Archie checked an involuntary exclamation, but Mattie 
 covered it. 
 
 " Dear me, Grace !'^ she observed, innocently: " 1 rather 
 wonder at your saying that. Nan is by far the prettiest, is 
 she not, Archie? Her complexion and coloring are perfect." 
 
 " Oh, yes! If you are talking of mere looks, I can not dis- 
 pute that," returned Grace, a little impatiently; " but in my 
 opinion there is far more in her sister's face: she has the beauty 
 of expression, which is far higher than that of form or color- 
 ing. I should say she has far more character than either of 
 them." 
 
 " They are none of them wanting in that,'' replied Archie, 
 breaking up his bread absently. 
 
 " JSTo, that's just what I say: they are perfectly unlike 
 other girls. They are so fresh and simple and unconscious 
 that it is quite a pleasure to be with thbm; but if I were to 
 choose a friend from among them I should certainly select 
 Miss Phillis." And to this her brother made no reply. 
 
 " They are all so pleased about Tuesday,*' interrupted Mat- 
 tie, at this point — " Nan was so interested and amused about 
 my grand tea-party, as she called it. They have all promised 
 to come, only Mrs. Challouer's cold will not allow her to go 
 out this severe weather. And then we met Sir Harry, and I 
 introduced him to Grace, and he will be delighted to come loo. 
 I wish you would let me ask Miss Middletou and her brother, 
 Archie; and then we should be such a nice little party." 
 
 " How can you be so absurd, Mattie?" returned Archie, 
 with a touch of his old irritability. " A nice confusion you 
 would make, if you were left to arrange things! You know 
 the colonel's one object in life is to prevent his son from hav- 
 ing any intercourse with the Challoners; and you would ask 
 him to meet them the first evening after his arrival in the 
 place. " 
 
 " Is the father so narrow in his prejudices as that?" asked 
 Grace, who had quite forgotten her own shocked feelings when
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 343 
 
 she first heard that Archie was visiting a family of dress- 
 makers on equal terms. 
 
 " Oh. dear! I forgot/' sighed Mattie, taking her brother's 
 blame meekly, as usual. "How very stupid of me! But 
 would you not like the Cheynesor the Leslies invited, Archie.'^ 
 Grace ought to be introduced to some of the best people." 
 
 " You may leave Grace to me," returned her brother, some- 
 what haughtily; " I will take care of her introductions. As 
 for your tea-party, Mattie, I shall be much obliged if you will 
 keep it within its first limits — just the Challoners and Sir 
 Harry. If any one be asked, it ought to be Noel Frere: he 
 has rather a dull time of it, living alone in lodgings " — the 
 Eev. Noel Frere being a college chum of Archie, who had 
 come down to Hadleigh to recruit himself by a month or two 
 of idleness. " Perha]3S we had better have him, as there will 
 be so many ladies. " 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course! He is so nice and clever," observed 
 Grace, not noticing the shade on Mattie's face. ' ' How pleased 
 you must be to have him staying here so long, Archie! you 
 two were always such friends." 
 
 " He comes nearly every evening," returned Mattie, dis- 
 consolately. " He may suit you, Grace, because you are 
 clever yourself; but I am dreadfully afraid of him, he is so 
 dry and sarcastic. Must he really be asked for Tuesday, 
 Archie?" ^ 
 
 " Yes, indeed: you ought to have thought of him first. I 
 am sorry for your bad taste, Mattie, if you do not like Frere: 
 he is a spendid fellow, though terribly delicate, I fear. Now, 
 Gracie, if we have finished luncheon, 1 should like you to put 
 on your wraps, and I will show you some of my favorite 
 haunts; and perhaps we shall meet Frere." 
 
 Grace hesitated for a moment. She thought Archie would 
 have included Mattie in his invitation; but ho did nothing of 
 the kind, and she knew him too well to suggest such a thing. 
 
 " Good-bye, Mattie dear. I hope you will have some tea 
 ready for us when we come back," she said, kissing her sister 
 affectionately; but they neither of them noticed the pained 
 wistfulness of Mattie's look as the door closed upon them. 
 
 They were going out without her, and on Grace's first day, 
 too. Archie was going to show her the church, and the 
 schools, and the model cottages where his favorite old women 
 lived — all those places that Mattie had visited and learned to 
 love during the eight months she had lived with her brother. 
 In a few weeks she must say good-b3'e to them all, and go back 
 to the dull old house at Leeds, to be scolded by her mother
 
 344 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 for her awkward ways, and to be laughed at and teased by her 
 brothers and sisters. Archie was bad enough sometimes, but 
 then he was Archie, and had a right to his bad humors; but 
 with the boys and girls it was less endurable. It was, " Oh, 
 you stupid old Matt! Of course it was all your fault;'' or, 
 " Mattie, you goose!" from Fred; or, "You silly child, 
 Mattie!" from her father, who found her a less amusing com- 
 panion than Grace; and even Dottie would say, " Oh, it is 
 onlv Mattie: I never care if she scolds me." 
 
 The home atmosphere was a little depressing, Mattie 
 thought, with a sigh, dearly as she loved her young torments. 
 She knew she would find it somewhat trying, after these eight 
 m.onths of comparative freedom. True, Archie had snubbed 
 her and kept her in order; but one tyrant is preferable to 
 many. At home the thirty-years' -old Mattie wa^ only one of 
 the many daughters — the old maid of the family — the unat- 
 tractive little wall-flower who was condemned to wither un- 
 noticed on its stalk. Here, in her brother's vicarage, she had 
 been a person of consequence, whom only the master of the 
 house presumed to snub. 
 
 The maids liked their good-natured mistress, who never 
 found fault with them, and who was so bustling and clever a 
 little housekeeper. The poor people and the school-children 
 liked Mattie, too. " Our Miss Drummond," they called her 
 for a long time, rather to Grace's discomfiture. " Ah, she is 
 a rare one, when a body is low!" as old Goody Saunders once 
 said. 
 
 And Archie's friends respected the little woman, in spite of 
 her crudities and decidedly odd ways. Miss Middleton and the 
 Challoners were quite fond of her. So no wonder Mattie grew 
 low at the thought of leaving her friends. 
 
 Grace had come to take her place. Nevertheless, she had 
 welcomed her on the previous evening with the utmost cheer- 
 fulness and unselfishness. She had shown her the house; she 
 had introduced her to the Challoners; she had overwhelmed 
 her with a thousand little attentions; and Grace had not been 
 ungrateful. 
 
 " I am afraid this is hard for you, Mattie," Grace had said 
 to hor, as the sisters were unpacking, late the previous night. 
 *' I ought not to be so happy to come, when I know I am turn- 
 ing you out." And Mattie had winked away a tear and an- 
 swered, quite cheerily: 
 
 "Oh, no, Grace; you must not feel that, I have had a 
 pice time, and enjoyed myself so much with dear Archie, and
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 34^ 
 
 now it is your tnrn; and, you know', he has ahrays wanted 3^ou 
 from the first." 
 
 "Poor dear fellow!" murmured Grace; "but he looks 
 thin, Mattie. Perhaps I ought to be here, as he wants me; 
 but I shall never keep his house as beautifully as you have 
 done. Mother would be astonished if she saw it." And this 
 piece of well-deserved praise went far to console Mattie that 
 night. 
 
 But she began to feel just a little sore at breakfast-time. 
 Once or twice Archie decidedly ignored her and turned to 
 Grace; he even brought her his gloves to mend, though Mat- 
 tie had been his faithful mender all these months. 
 
 " Come into the study, and we will have a talk, Gracie,^* 
 he had said, and as Grace had involuntarily waited for her sis- 
 ter to accompany them, he had added, hastily: " Oh, Mattie 
 is always busy at this time with butchers and bakers! 
 Come along, Grace;" and, though Mattie had no such busi- 
 ness on her hands, she dared not join them. 
 
 It was only when a parish meeting called the young vicar 
 away that Mattie bethought herself of the Challoners. 
 
 Poor Mattie! Low spirits were not much in her line. She 
 had never thought enough of hei'self to indulge in the luxury 
 of wounded susceptibility — the atmosphere that surrounded 
 her had been too rough and bracing for that; but, neverthe- 
 less, this afternoon she longed to indulge in a good cry. Hap- 
 pily, however, before the first tear had begun to redden her 
 eyelids — indeed, she hardly got her moutii into the proper 
 pucker — a vigorous pull at the bell warned her of an impend- 
 ing visitor, and immediately afterward Sir Harry marched into 
 the room, looking ruddier than ever with the cold air and ex- 
 ercise, his warm coloring kindling a glow in the room. 
 
 His heavy footsteps shook the old flooring of the vicarage; 
 but as he greeted Mattie he looked round him, as though some- 
 what surprised to find her alone. 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Mattie? Why, what have you done 
 with your sister?" he asked, in rather a disappointed tone. 
 " 1 came to have a chat with you both." 
 
 Another little sting for Mattie : he had only come to see 
 Grace. 
 
 " She has gone out with Archie," she returned, in a sub- 
 dued voice. " He is showing her the church and the schools. " 
 
 " I was up at the Friary just now," he said, carelessly, 
 " and they were all talking about your sister, praising her up 
 to the skies. What an odd capacity women have for falling 
 in love with each other at first sight! Philiis especially seemed.
 
 346 K"OT LIKE OTHER GIRLg. 
 
 very far gone. So 1 told them I would just come and have 
 a good look at this paragon. One can not judge of a jDerson in 
 a hat and veiJ.^^ 
 
 " I am sure you will like Grace," replied Mattie, reviving 
 a little at the idea of her sister^s perfections. " She is not 
 pretty, exactly, though Archie and I think her so; but she is 
 so nice and clever. Oh, you should hear those two talk! it is 
 perfectly wonderful to listen to them!" 
 
 " It strikes me you are a little left out in the cold, aren't 
 you. Miss Mattie?" asked Sir Harry, with one of his shrewd, 
 good-humored looks. " Why did you not go out with them?" 
 
 " Oh, Archie never wants me when he has Grace," answered 
 Mattie, with a sudden pang at the truthfulness of this speech. 
 " They have always been so much to each other, those two." 
 
 " He would want you fast enough if Miss Grace — is that 
 not her name? — were to marry and leave him to shift for him- 
 self," was the somewhat matter-of-fact answer. 
 
 But Mattie shook hew head at this with a faint smile: 
 
 " Grace will never marry. She would not leave Archie." 
 
 " Oh, but that is nonsense, do you know — sheer nonsense! 
 Many girls talk like that, but they change their mind in the 
 end. Why, the parson himself may marry. You don't sup- 
 pose a good-looking fellow like that intends to be an old 
 bachelor? And then what will Miss Grace do?" 
 
 " I don't know. 1 am afraid she will miss him dreadfully." 
 
 " Oh, but she will get over it all right. It does not do to 
 make a fuss over that sort of thing. Sentimentality between 
 brothers and sisters is all very well in its way, but it won't hold 
 against a wife's or a husband's claims. I never had any myself, 
 so 1 don't know; but I find it precious lonely without them. 
 That is why I have adopted my cousins. A man must care 
 for some one." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," echoed Mattie, with a sigh. 
 
 " I am afraid your j^eople does not use you very well. Miss 
 Mattie," he went on, with cheerful sympathy that was quite a 
 cordial in its way. " You look a bit down this afternoon; a 
 fellow would call it the blues, and he would be thinking of a 
 cigar and brandy and soda. What a pity women don't 
 smoke! it is no end soothing to the spirits!" 
 
 " We have got afternoon tea," returned Mattie, beginning 
 to smile at this. 
 
 " Well, why don't you ring and order some?" he replied, 
 quite seriously. " Do,'please, Miss Mattie, it it will put a little 
 heart into you. Why, I should like a cup myself uncommonly. 
 There never was such a fellow for afternoon tea." And then
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 347 
 
 Mattie did ring the bell, and, Sir HaiT}' having stirred, the 
 fire into a cheerful blaze, and the little brass betile beginning 
 to sing cheerily on its trivet, things soon looked more com- 
 fortable. 
 
 " Now you are all right," he remarked, presently. " You 
 look quite a different sort of body now. When 1 first came in 
 you reminded me of Cinderella in a brown dress, sitting all 
 alone by a very black fire. I do believe you were on the 
 verge of crying. Nosv, weren't you, Miss Mattie?" And 
 MaLtie, with much shame, owned to the impeachment. 
 
 " And what was it ail about, eh?" he asked, with such a 
 coaxing peremptoriness that Mattie confessed that she was 
 rather dull at the thought that nobody wanted her, and that 
 she must go home; and, on being further pressed and ques- 
 tioned, out it all came — Mattie's shortcomings, her stupid 
 ways, and the provocation she offered to home criticism. Sir 
 Harry listened aud laughed, and every now and then threw 
 in a jesting remark; but so encouraging was his manner and 
 so evident his interest, that Mattie found herself talking as 
 she had never done to any one but Miss Middlcton. Before 
 she had finished. Sir Harry knew all about the household in 
 Lowder Street, and had formed a tolerable estimate of every 
 member of the family: the depressed father; the careworn 
 and somewhat stern mother; the boys, clever and handsome 
 and flippant; the girls in all stages of awkwardness; and the 
 quiet, talented Grace, who was every one's right hand, and 
 who had come to the vicarage to dispossess Mattie. 
 
 " Come, now, I call that hard; I do, upon ray word!" he 
 repeated more than once at the end of Mattie's little narrative. 
 *' Women have a lot put up m them. I dare say if I had had 
 sisters I should have bullied them sometimes. Men are awful 
 tyrants, aren't they. Miss Mattie?" 
 
 Mattie took this literally. 
 
 " I do not think you woidd be a tyrant, Sir Harry," she 
 returned, simply, and then wondered why he suddenly col- 
 ored up to the roots of his hair. 
 
 " Oh, there is no knowing," he replied, in an embarrassed 
 tone. " I have never had any one to bully. I think I shall try 
 my hand on Dulce, only the is such a little spitfire. Well, 1 
 must be going," he went on, straightening himself. " By the 
 bye, 1 shuil not see you again until Tuet^day; 1 have to run 
 over to Old field about a lot of business 1 have in hand. Do 
 you know Oldfield?" 
 
 "Oh, no; but Kan and Phillis have described it so oft^Ji 
 that I seem as though I had been tiiere,'^
 
 348 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " It is a iiiceish place, and I am half inclined to settle there 
 myself; there is a house going that would just suit me.''* 
 
 Mattie's face lengthened: she did not like the idea of losing 
 Sir Harry; he had been so good-natured and kind to her. 
 
 " One would never see you if you lived at Oldfield," she 
 gaid, a little sorrowfully; and again Sir Harry looked embar- 
 rassed. 
 
 " Oh, but you will be at Leeds, so it won't make much 
 difference. But I do not want to be parted from Aunt 
 Catherine and the girls: there is a great deal to arrange. Per- 
 haps, before you go, I shall be able to tell you that thiiigs are 
 settled. Anyhow, good-bye till Tuesday." And then he nod- 
 ded to her in a friendly way, and Mattie returned to her fire- 
 place refreshed and comforted. 
 
 Archie and Grace came in presently, bringing another 
 current of cold air with them. They both looked bright and 
 happy, as though they had enjoyed their walk. Grace's pale 
 cheeks had the loveliest tinge in them„ 
 
 " Have we left you too long alone, Mattie dear?" she asked, 
 as she took the cup of tea offered her. " How cozy this dear 
 old room looks! and what a beautiful fire!" 
 
 " Sir Harry has been emptying the coal-scuttle!" laughed 
 Mattie. " What a pity you missed him, Grace! he has been 
 so amusing " 
 
 Grace smiled incredulously: 
 
 " What, that great big Sir Harry Challoner whom you in- 
 troduced this morning! My dear Mattie, I am sure he could 
 never be amusing. I was not greatly prepossessed with him." 
 
 " Mattie's geese are all swans. I don't think much of him 
 myself," broke in Archie, in a satirical voice. " I like qual- 
 ity better than quantity. He is so big, I am sure his brains 
 must suffer by comparison. Now, there is Frere." 
 
 " Oh, yes, we met Mr. Frere!" interrupted Grace, eagerly; 
 "and Archie and he had such a talk; it was delightful only 
 to listen to it. I liked his ideas on ecclesiastical architecture, 
 Archie." And then followed an animated discussion between 
 the sister and brother about a book of Euskin's that they had 
 both been reading. Mattie tried to follow them, but she had 
 not read Ruskin, and they soon left her miles behind; indeed, 
 after the first few minutes they seemed to have forgotten her 
 existence; but somehow Mattie did not feel so forlorn as usual. 
 
 " Come, now, I call that hard," a sympathizing voice 
 seemed to say in her ear. Sir Harry's genial presence, his 
 blunt, kindly speeches, had done Mattie good; he had called 
 feer Cinderella, and made the fire blaze for her, and ha4
 
 NOT LIKE OTHEE GlilLS. 3i9 
 
 coaxed her in quite a brotherly manner to tell him her little 
 troubles, and Mattie felt very grateful to him. 
 
 So she s(;ai'ed into the fire wistful and happy, while the 
 others talked over her head, and quite started when she heard 
 her own name. 
 
 " We are forgetting Mattie; all this must be so dull for 
 her/' Grace was saying, as she touched her shoulder caress- 
 ingly. " Come upstairs with me, dear: we can have a chat 
 while we get ready for dinner. You must not let your friends 
 make themselves so much at home, you extravagant child, for 
 your fire is far too large for comfort;" but Mattie turned away 
 from it reluctantly as she followed her sister out of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 *' I WILL WRITE NO SUCH LETTER." 
 
 The new year had not opened very auspiciously at Long- 
 mead, neither had the Christmas festivities been great. 
 
 Dick on his first return had put on a great appearance of 
 cheerfulness, and had carried himself much as usual; but Mr. 
 Mayne had been glum, decidedly glum, and Mrs. Mayue had 
 found it difficult to adjust the balance of her sympathy be- 
 tween Dick's voluble quicksilver on the one hand, and her 
 husband's dead v/eight of ill humor on the other. 
 
 The truth was, Mr. Mayne's sharp eyes had discerned from 
 the first moment of his sou's entrance into the house that 
 there was no change in his purpose. 
 
 To an outsider, Dick's behavior to his father was as nice as 
 possible. He still kept up his old jokes, rallying him on his 
 matutinal activity, and saying a word about the "early 
 worm"— "so bad for the worm, poor beggar," observed 
 Dick. And he sauntered after him into the poultry-yard, and 
 had a great deal to say about some Spanish fowls that had been 
 lately imported into Longmead, and that were great sources 
 of pride to Mr. Mayne. 
 
 Dick paid a great deal of dutiful attention to his father's 
 hobbies: he put on his thickest boots every day after luncheon, 
 that his father might enjoy the long walks in which he de- 
 lighted. Dick used to sally forth whistling to his dogs when 
 they went down Sandy Lane; he was careful to pause where 
 the four roads met, that Mr. Mayne might enjoy his favorite 
 view. In all these things Dick's behavior was perfect. Nev- 
 ertheless, on their return from one of these walks they each 
 had a secret grievance to pour into Mrs, Mayne's ear.
 
 350 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Dick's turn would come first. 
 
 " Mother," he would say, as he lounsfecl into the room wliere 
 she sat knitting by the fire-light and thinking of her boy— 
 lor just now slie was heart and soul on Dick's side — and full 
 of yearning for the sweet girl whom he wanted for his wife, 
 " I don't know how long this sort of thing is going on, but I 
 don't think I can put up with it much longer." 
 
 "Have you not had a nice walk with your father?" she 
 asked, anxiously. 
 
 " Oh, yes; the walk was well enough. We had some trou- 
 ble with Vigo, though, for he startled a pheasant in Lord 
 Fitzroy's preserve, and then he bolted after a hare. 1 had 
 quite a difficulty in getting him to heel." 
 
 " These walks do your father so much good, Dick." 
 
 " That is what you always say; but 1 do not think I can 
 stand many more of them. He will talk of everything but 
 the one subject, and that he avoids like poison. I shall have 
 to bring him to book directly, and then there will be no end of a 
 row. It is not the row I mind," continued Dick, rather rue- 
 fully, " but I hate putting him out and seeing him cut up 
 rough. If he would only be sensible and give me ray way in 
 this, there is nothing I would not do to please him. You 
 must talk to him; you must indeed, mother." And then 
 Mrs. Mayne, with a sinking heart, promised that she would do 
 what she could. 
 
 And after that it would be her husband's turn. 
 
 " I tell you what, Bessie; I am not satisfied about that 
 boy," he remarked, once, as he came in to warm his hands 
 before going upstairs to dress for dinner. " 1 don't know 
 from whom he gets his obstinacy — not from either of us, 1 am 
 sure of that— but his cheerfulness does not deceive me. He 
 means mischief; I can see that plainly." 
 
 "Oh, Eichard! And Dick has been so nice to 3^ou ever 
 since he came home. Why, he has not once asked to have 
 any of his friends down to stay. And before this he was never 
 content unless we filled the house. He takes walks with you, 
 and is as domesticated and quiet as possible; so different from 
 other young fellows, who are always racketing about." 
 
 "That is just what bothers me," returned her husband, 
 crossly. " You have no discernment, Bessie, or you would 
 know what I mean. 1 should not care a straw if Dick were 
 to cram the house with young fellows: that sort of larking is 
 just natural at his age. AV'hy, he quite pooh-poohed the idea 
 of a dinner-party the other night, though 1 planned it for his
 
 ifOf LIKE OTHER GlftLS. 35l 
 
 pleasure. His mind is set on other things, and that is why I 
 asky he is up to mischief.'' 
 
 Mrs. Mayne sighed as she smoothed down her satin dress with 
 her plump white hands, but she could not gainsay the truth 
 of ibis speech: his father was right — Dick's miud was set on 
 other things. 
 
 " I wish you would let him talk to you,*' she began, timidly, 
 remembering her promise. " Do, my dear; for I am sure 
 Dick is very much in earnest." 
 
 " So am I "very much in earnest," he returned, wrathfully; 
 and his small eyes grew bright and irritable. " No, it is no 
 use your looking at me in that way, Bessie. I am determined 
 not to allow tha: boy to ruin his prospec s for life. He will 
 thank me one day for being firm; and so will you, though you 
 do turn against your own husband.'* 
 
 This was too much for Mrs. Mayne's affectionate nature to 
 bear. 
 
 " Oh, Richard, how can you talk so? and I have been a good 
 wife to you all these years!" And here the poor woman be- 
 gan to sob. " You might make allowance for a mother's feel- 
 ings; he is ray boy as well as yours, and 1 would cut off my 
 right hand to make him happy; and I do — I do think 3'ou are 
 very hard upon him about Kan." 
 
 Mr. Mayne stared at her in speechless amazement. Bessie, 
 his long-suffering Bessie— the wife of his bosom, over whom 
 he had a right to tyrannize—even she had turned against him, 
 and had taken his son's part. " Et tu, Brute!" he could 
 have said, in his bitterness; but his wrath was too great. 
 
 " I tell you what," he said, rising from the seat that was 
 no longer restful to him, and pointing his finger at her, " you 
 and your boy together will be the death of me." 
 
 " Oh, Richard, how can you be so wicked?'* 
 
 " Oh, I am wicked, am I? That is a nice wifely speech." 
 
 "Yes, you are when you say such things to me!" she re- 
 turned, plucking up spirit that amazed herself afterward. " If 
 you do not know when you have a good wife and son, I am 
 sorry for you. I say again, I think you are making a griev- 
 ous mistake, Richard. Dick's heart is set on the girl; and I 
 don't wonder at it, a dear, pretty creature like that. And if 
 you cross him, and set him wrong, you will have to answer to 
 both of us for the consequences." And then she, too, rose, 
 trembling in every limb, and with her comely face very much 
 flusht'd. Even a worm will turn, and Bessie Mayne for once 
 ventured, to speak the truth to her husband. 
 
 She had the victory that night, for he was too much dunt
 
 S52 NOT LIKE OTHEtl GlELS. 
 
 founded by her rebellion to indulge in his usual recrimina- 
 tions: he had never imagined before that Bessie owned a will 
 of her own; but he felt now, with a pang of wounded self- 
 love, that the younger Eiuhard had proved a formidable rival. 
 
 His wife's heart relented when she saw his moody looks; 
 but he would not be reconciled to her, in spite of her coaxing 
 speeches. 
 
 " Come, Eichard — come, my dear! you must not be so cross 
 with me," she said to him later on that night. " We have 
 been married three-and-twenty years, and have never had a 
 serious quarrel; and 1 don't like your black looks at me." 
 
 " Then you should not anger me by taking that boy's 
 part," was his only answer; and he could not be induced to 
 say anything more conciliatory. And the poor woman went 
 to bed weeping. 
 
 Things were in this uncomfortable state when, one morn- 
 ing, Dick thrust his head into the study whore his father was 
 jotting down some household accounts; for he managed all 
 such minor details himself, much to his wife's relief. 
 
 " Are you particularly busy, father? I want to talk with 
 you." 
 
 Mr. Mayne looked up quickly, and his bushy eyebrows drew 
 together. 
 
 " Well, yes, I am, Dick — most particularly busy just now;" 
 for there was a look on his sou's face that made him feel dis- 
 inclined for conversation. 
 
 " Oh, very well, then; I can leave it until after luncheon, 
 was the cheerful response; then Mr. Mayne knew that Dick 
 was determined to take the bull by the horns. 
 
 They went out after luncheon, taking the dogs with them, 
 and turning their steps in the direction of Sandy Lane. For 
 the first mile, Dick said very little; he had his eye on Vigo, 
 who seemed to be inclined to bolt. But wheri they had reached 
 the second mile-stone, he cleared his throat, and then Mr. 
 Mayne knew that his trouble was begjinning.' 
 
 " Well, father," commenced Dick, " I think it is about 
 time we had a little serious talk together about my future 
 plans. Of course 1 want to know if I am to go down next 
 terra," 
 
 " I don't see that we need discuss that. You will read for 
 your degree, of course." 
 
 Mr. Mayne spoke fast and nervously, but Dick was quite 
 cool — at least, outwardly so. 
 
 " There is no ' of course ' in the matter. 1 can only read 
 for my degree on one couditiou." 
 
 1 
 
 }f
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 353 
 
 '* Aud what is that, may 1 ask?" with rising choler iu his 
 Toice. 
 
 " That you will have Nan down to Longmead, and that you 
 and my mother sanction our engagement." 
 
 " Xl-vpt, sir, never!" iu a vehement tone. 
 
 " Please don't excite yourself, father. 1 think it is 1 who 
 ought to be excited; but, you see, I am quite cool — perfectly 
 so. I am far too much in earnest to be otherwise. When a 
 man's future prospects are at stake, and Ills own father seems 
 determined to'thwart him, it is time to summon up all one's 
 energies. I hope you are not serious iu what you say — that 
 you do absolutely refuse to sanctiou my engagement with 
 Nan?" 
 
 " There is no engagement. If there were, 1 do absolutely 
 refuse; nay, more, J am determined actively to oppose it." 
 
 " I am sorry to find you have not changed your mind; for 
 it makes all the difference to me, I assure you. Very well; 
 then I must go in for a city life." 
 
 " Do you threaten me, sir?'^ 
 
 " No,' father, I would not be so undutiful; but it is a pity 
 your throwing all that money away on my education if I am 
 not to complete it. If I had taken a good degree, I might 
 have turned out something; but, never mind — it cau't; be 
 helped now. Then you will be kind enough to write a letter 
 of introduction to Slansfield & Stansfield?" 
 
 "No, sir; I will write no such letter!" thundered Mr. 
 Mayne; and Dick put his hands in his pocket and whistled. 
 He felt himself losing patience; but, as he said afterward, his 
 father was in sucn an awful rage that it was necessary for one 
 of them to keep cool. So, as soon as he recovered, he said, 
 (juite plf'asantly: 
 
 " Well, if you will not, you will not. We may take a horse 
 to the water, but we can't make him drink. Aud the time 
 has not come yet for a son to order his own father, though we 
 ■vre pretty well advanced now.^' 
 
 " I think we are, Dick.'* 
 
 " I confess 1 am rather disappointed at not getting that let- 
 ter. Mr. Stansfield would have attached some importance to 
 it; but 1 dare say I shall get on with the old boy without it. 
 1 may as well tell you that I shall accept anything he likes to 
 offer me — even if it be only a clerkship at eighty pounds a 
 year. After all, I am not worse off than you were at my age. 
 You began at the bottom of the ladder, sol need not grumble. " 
 
 " Do you mean to say," demanded his father, in a tone of 
 grief, " that you really intend to throw me over, and not only
 
 354 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 me, but all you advantages, your prospects in life, for the sake 
 of this girl?" 
 
 " I think it is you who are throwing me over,*' returned 
 hJs son, candidly. " Put yourself in my place. When you 
 were a young man, father, would you have given up my moth- 
 er if my grandfather had wished you to do so!"' 
 
 " The cases are different— altogether different," was the 
 angry response. " I never would have married a dress- 
 maker." 
 
 " There are dress-makers and dress-makers: but at least my 
 fiancee is a gentlewoman," returned his son, hotly. 
 
 Dick meant nothing by this speech more than his words 
 implied: he was far too good-natured for an arriere-pensee. 
 But his father chose to consider himself insulted. 
 
 " You insolent young fellow!" he exclaimed, fuming. " Do 
 you mean your mother was not as good as Miss Nancy, any 
 day? I never did believe in those Challoners — never, in spite 
 of the mother's airs. I tell you what, Dick, you are treat- 
 ing me shamefully; after all the money I have wasted on you, 
 to turn on me in this way and talk about the city. I wash 
 my hands of you, sir. I will have nothing to do with intro- 
 ductions: you may go your way, but you will never see a penny 
 of my money." And he walked on with a very black look 
 indeed. 
 
 " All right," returned Dick. But he was not quite so cool 
 now. " Thank you for all you have done for me, and for let- 
 tinsr me know your future intentions. I am thinking it is a 
 good thing Nan has learned her business, for, as we shall be 
 tolerably poor, it will be handy for her to make her own 
 gowns." 
 
 ''Very well, Dick." 
 
 " I shall go up to Mr. Stansfield to-morrow; and the day 
 after I suppose I had better write to the dean. You may not 
 believe me, father " — and here Dick's lip quivered for the first 
 time — " but 1 am awfully sorry to cross you in this way; but 
 my heart is so set on Nan that 1 could not possibly bring my- 
 self to live without her." But to this Mr. Mayne made no 
 reply, and they walked the remainder of the way iu silence. 
 
 Mrs. Mayne's heart grew sick with apprehensio.i when she 
 saw their faces at dinner. 
 
 Dick looked decidedly cross. To do him Justice, the poor 
 fellow was thoroughly miserable; but his aspect was cheerful 
 compared to that of her husband. 
 
 Mr. Mayne would not speak, neither would he eat. And 
 even the footman^ who took away the uutasted viands, looked
 
 KOT LiKt; OTHER GIRLS. 35S 
 
 at his master with fear and trembling, his countenance was so 
 gloomy. 
 
 Dick did not seem to notice his father's failure of appetite; 
 but Mrs. Mayue was one of those women who are gjven to 
 fancy that if a man refuse his diimer there is something seri- 
 ous the matter with him. And as the meal proceeded she cast 
 piteous looks at her son, but Dick totally ignored them. 
 
 As soon as the servants had handed round the fruit and 
 had left the room, Mr. Mayne rose from the table, leaving his 
 claret uiitasted, and shut himself into the library, first banging 
 the door behind him, a sound that made his wife's heart pal- 
 pitate. 
 
 " Oh, Dick, what has happened to your father?'* she asked, 
 turning to her boy for comfort. But Dick was unusually 
 sulky, and refused to answer. 
 
 " You had better ask him, mother, if you are anxious to 
 know," he replied, in a voice he very seldom used to her. 
 " As for me, 1 am so sick of the whole thing, and feel myself 
 so badly used, that 1 would rather not open my lips on the 
 subject." 
 
 Then Mrs. Mayne sighed, for she knew Dick had one of his 
 obstinate fits on him, and that there would be no further word 
 spoken by him that night. 
 
 Poor woman! She knew it was her duty to go into the 
 library and speak a word of comfort to her husband. It might 
 be that Diok had been contumacious and had angered his fa- 
 ther; and it miglit be her task to pour in the balm of sympa- 
 thy. Even if he had been hard on her boy, she must not 
 forget that he was her husband. 
 
 But as she opened the door she forgot her doubts in a mo- 
 ment. Mr. Mayne's face was so pale, despite its blackness, 
 that she was moved to instant pity. 
 
 "Oh, Richard, what is it?" she said, hurrying to him. 
 " My dear, you must not take it to heart in this way." And 
 she took his forehead between her hands and kissed it with the 
 old tenderness she had once felt for him, when they, too, had 
 lived and worked for each other, and there was no Master 
 Dick to plague them and rule over his mother's heart. 
 
 "Bessie, that boy will be the death of me," he groaned. 
 But, notwithstanding the despondency of these words, the 
 comfort of his wife's presence was visi[)]y felt, and by and by 
 he suHered her to coax the truth from him.
 
 §56 NOT LIKE OtnT:ll GTRtg. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 MR. MATNE ORDERS A BASIN OF GRUEL. 
 
 On the followiug morjiiug Mr. Maj'ne did opeu his lips to 
 address a word to his son: 
 
 " I shall be obh'ged to you, Dick, if you will postpone your 
 intended visit to town, f jr this day at least;" for Dick had 
 an "ABC " beside him, and was picking out a fast train 
 while he eat his breakfast. 
 
 "All right," replied Dick: "1 can wait another four-and- 
 twenty hours.'* But, though he yielded the point graciously 
 enough, he did not look at his father or say anything more 
 on the subject; and as soon as his appetite was satisfied, he 
 took up the " 'limes " and lounged into his den. Shortly after- 
 ward they heard him whistling to his dogs, and knew that he 
 would not appear until luncheon. 
 
 Mrs. Mayne wished that her husband would follow his ex- 
 ample; but he had put on his slippers, and showed no inclina- 
 tion to leave the fireside. He read his paper and dozed a good 
 deal, and snapped up Bessie if she spoke to him: so, on the 
 whole, Mrs. Mayne had rather a dull morning. When the 
 luncheon-bell rang, he chose to put on invalid airs, and ordered 
 a basin of gruel to brought to him in the library. Mrs. 
 Mayne, who knew he was not ill, and that his indisposition 
 was purely mental and imaginary, was yet wise enough to fall 
 in with his whim. 
 
 " Your master would take his gruel nicely flavored, 
 James," she said to the footman. " Please ask Mrs. Simp- 
 kins to prepare it in the way he likes." And then she jjlaced 
 his favorite little table beside him, and stirred the fire into a 
 more cheerful blaze. 
 
 " Your father does not feel himself well enough to come in 
 to luncheon, Dick," she said to her son, probably for the 
 benefit of the servant, who was waiting to remove the covers; 
 and Dick, for the same reason, testified a proper amount of 
 sympathy. 
 
 " He takes too long walks for a man of his age,*' he said, 
 applying himself vigorously to the dismembernient of a chicken. 
 
 Mother, I will trouble' you for some of that game-pie." 
 And then he told her another anecdote about Vigo. 
 
 After luncheon Dick again disappeared, and Mrs. Mayne, 
 who dreaded an afternoon's tete-a-tcte with her husband in his 
 present mood, went up to her own room, for some feminine
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 357 
 
 business, or to take a nap. Mr. Mayne, a little mollified by 
 the gruel, wliioli had been flavored exactly to his liking with 
 &,■ sou peon of rum, was just composing himself for another 
 doze when he was roused by the loud pealing of the hall bell, 
 and the nest moment the door was flung open by James, and. 
 Sir Henry Challoner was announced. 
 
 It was a dark, wintery afternoon, and the library was some- 
 what somber: the fire had died down, owing to Mr. Mayne's 
 drowsiness. In the dim light Sir Harry's big, burly figuro 
 looked almost gigantic. Mr. Mayne, with his little lean 
 shoulders and sharp face, looked beside him much as a small 
 greyhound would beside a mastiff. 
 
 " How do you do?" began Sir Harry, in his loud voice. 
 *' I must apologize for my intrusion; but 1 think my name is 
 well known to you, and needs no introduction. I have often 
 heard of Mr. Mayne, I can assure you." 
 
 " You do me too much honor," returned that gentleman, 
 stiffly; and he glanced at the card in his hand. There it was, 
 " Sir Henry Challoner." " But what the—" And here his 
 favorite expletive rose to his lips. 
 
 " "We can scarcely see each other's faces," observed Sir 
 Harry, cheerfully. " Will you allow me to take the liberty, 
 though I have not known you for seven years — and hardly for 
 seven minutes!" And then he seized the poker and broke 
 up an obstinate piece of coal. 
 
 " Actually, in my own house, and before my own eyes," as 
 Mr. Mayne told his wife afterward. 
 
 " There, now! I have made a glorious blaze. These are 
 first-rate coals. Now we can have our talk comfortably to- 
 gether. You do not know me personally, but I dare say you 
 have heard of my father — Sir Francis Challoner? Poor old 
 fellow! 1 am afraid too many people heard of him in his 
 time." 
 
 " Yes, sir; but it is hardly becoming of me to pay to his 
 son, I have never heard much good of him. if I remember 
 rightly, he did poor Challoner a bad turn once." 
 
 "Hush, my good friend!" And Sir Harry's ruddy face 
 looked a little disturbed. " T thought no one but myself and 
 Aunt Catherine knew that story. It is rather hard on a man 
 to have this sort of thing brought up. And the poor old gov- 
 ernor is dead now: so, if you will permit me to observe, by- 
 gones had better be by-gones on that subject." 
 
 " Oh, by all means, Sir Harry; but you introduced the mat- 
 ter yourself." 
 
 "Excuse me, Mr. Mayne," rather haughtily, "I iutro-
 
 S68 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 duced mvself. I am the son of Sir Francis. "Well, if you 
 know sj much, you will understand the sort of interest I take 
 in my cousms, and how I consider it my duty to make up to 
 them for what they have lost." 
 
 " Very proper, I am sure.'* 
 
 " As to that, duty is a pleasure. They are such awfully 
 jolly girls, and so uncommonly plucky, that 1 am as proud of 
 them as though they were my own sisters. Nan is so con- 
 foundedly pretty, too. I don't wonder at your son's taste. 
 He must be a lucky fellow who gets Nan." 
 
 "Sir!" vociferated Mr. Mayne; and Sir Harry immediately 
 changed his tactics. 
 
 " That is a tidy place opposite you — Gilsbank, I mean. I 
 have been over there settling about the purihasse. I am 
 afraid Cranford is rather a screw; he wanted to drive too close 
 a bargain. But I said, ' No; you shall have your money 
 down, right and tight, but not a farthing over.' And I ni- 
 sisted on my right to change the name if I like. I have half 
 a mind to call it ' Challoner Place.' " 
 
 Mr. Mayne was wide awake now; his astonishments knew 
 no bounds. 
 
 " You are going to buy Gilsbank?" 
 
 " I have bought it," was the cool response; " and I am 
 now in treaty for Glen Cottage. My aunt has a fancy for her 
 old home; and, though it is not much of a place, it is big 
 enough for her and the girls; and Ibbetson has done a good 
 deal to improve it. You look surprised, Mr. Mayne; but I 
 sup()ose a man must live somewhere!" 
 
 " Of course it is none of my business, but I thought Sir 
 Francis was as poor as a church mouse. Mrs. Challoner was 
 my informant, and she always led me to suppose so." 
 
 " She was peifectly right. The poor old man never could 
 keep money in his pocket; it always seemed to slip through 
 his fingers. But that is not my case. I have been a lucky 
 fellow all my life. 1 roughed it a bit in the colonies at first, 
 but it did me no harm. And then we made a splendid hit 
 out in Sydney — coined money, in fact. I would not like to 
 tell you what I male in one year: it seems blovvijig one's 
 trumpet, somehow. But I soon got sick of making it; and 
 here I am, with a tidy fortune — plenty for myself, and enough 
 to eet up my aunt and the girls comfortably without feeling 
 the loss. And now, Mr. Mayne, when they are back at Glen 
 Cottnge, ] want to know what you will do about your son." 
 
 To d'l Mr. Mayne justice, he was far too perplexed to an- 
 swer oli'-hund; in fact, he was almost rendered dumb by ex-
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 359 
 
 cessive astouisliment. To borrow his own forcible expression, 
 used to his wife afterward, "he hardly kuew where he was, 
 things were so topsy-tnrvy." 
 
 In the old days, before Dick had produced that wonderful 
 mustache that was so long iu growing, Mr. Mayue had been 
 very partial to his neighbors at Glen Cottage. It is always 
 pleasant to a man to |)atronize and befriend a pretty woman, 
 and Mrs. Chal loner was an exceedingly pretty woman. It 
 was quite an Decussation to a busy man like the master of 
 Longmead to superinteud their garden and give his advice on 
 all subjects that belong to a man's province. 
 
 But for the last year, since Dick had so greatly developed in 
 mental culture, his faiher had been grop ing very weary even 
 of the name of Challoner; it had become a habit with him to 
 decry them on every possible occasion. " AVhat is in a name?" 
 he would say, when some person would lament the dead-aud- 
 gone gloi-ios of Challor)er Place. " Tliere is not a soul belong- 
 ing to them, except that disreputable Sir Francis; and he is as 
 good as a beggar. " 
 
 But since Glen Cottage had given way to the Friary, and 
 the dress-making scheme had been carried out, his opposition 
 had become perfectly frantic: he could have sworn at Dick for 
 his senselessness, his want of pride, his lamentable deficiency 
 in ambition. " Never, as long as my name is Richard Mayne, 
 w?ll 1 give in to that boy," he had vowed inwardl3\ 
 
 And now there had suddenly started up, like a piece of gilded 
 clap-trap, this amazing man of inches, calling himself their 
 cousin, Sir Henry Challoner; a man who was absolutely tired 
 of making money — who called Gilsbank, afar finer house than 
 Longmead, a tidy little place, and who could throw in Glen 
 Cottage, that bijou residence, as a sort of dower-house for 
 widowed Clialloners; a man who would soon be talked about 
 in Hadleigh, not because he was rich — most of the Hadleigh 
 families were rich — but because he was restoring an ancient 
 name to something of its old respectability. 
 
 Mr. Mayne was essentially a shrewd, far-sighted man. Like 
 other self-made men, he attached great importance to good 
 blood. In a moment he realized that Kan Challoner of the 
 IViary was a very different person from Nan Challoner of 
 Glen Cottage, the cousin of Sir Henry Challoner. Under the 
 latter circumstances she would be received on equal terms at 
 Fitzroy Lodge, and at the other houses of the aristocracy. In 
 marrying her, Dick would be at once on an intimate footing 
 with those very people who only just tolerated his father. 
 
 " Well," observed Sir Harry, after a lengthy pause. 
 
 ((
 
 860 KOT LIKE OTHEK GIRLS. 
 
 " what do you say about the matter, eh? Though I have ac 
 cumulated a pretty sum of money, I do not pretend to be ^ 
 millionaire; and of course, as 1 may settle down some day and 
 have a family of my own, I mudt not treat my cousins as 
 though they were my sisters. 1 think of allowing my aunt a 
 sufficient inciome during her life-time to keep up Glen Cottage, 
 and I do not mind paying the girls three thousand pounds 
 down on their wedding-day, just for pin-money; but more 
 than that can not be expe"ted of me." 
 
 "Of course not,"' returned Mr. Mayne, and then he hesi- 
 tated. Three thousand pounds was not much of a fortune. 
 Why, the girl he wanted for Dick had fifteen thousand, at; 
 least; but, then, Dick would not look at her; ami even three 
 thousand was better than nothing. *'I had hoped better 
 things for my son,'' he went on, stiffly. " I always meant 
 Dick to marry money." 
 
 " Oh, true, money is very good in its way; but then, you 
 see, young fellows are not always to be coerced. 1 believe 
 there is a very strong attachment between your son and my 
 cousin Nan." 
 
 " It has caused me a great deal of vexation," replied Mr. 
 Mayne, very testily — all the more that his resolution was 
 wavering, " 1 de not wish to hurt your feelings. Sir Henry, 
 but this confounded dress-making of theirs — " But here Sir 
 Harry stopped him by a most extraordinary facial contraction, 
 which most certainly resembled a wink. 
 
 " Hush!" he exclaimed, in a very loud whisper. '* It does 
 not matter to me, of course; but if I were you, I would not 
 mention this little fact to any one else. Girls are girls, and 
 they will have their fling. A good steady husband, that is 
 what they want, the best of them, to sober them when the 
 right time comes. 1 mean to put a stop to this nonsense; but, 
 after all, a little bit of larking like that, with a lot of high- 
 spirited, generous creatures, what does it matter in the long 
 run? You just settle things with me off-hand, and I will 
 come to terms with the young ladies. I am the head of the 
 family, as they know." And Sir Harry threw out bis big 
 chest with a sudden movement of importance and pride. 
 '* 1 am the head of the family: they will be pleased to remem- 
 ber that," he repeated, pompously. 
 
 It was just at this moment, when victory lay within hia 
 grasp, that Dick sauntered lazily into the room. 
 
 Dick was in an execrable humor: he was tired and worried, 
 and his boots were muddy. And what was the use of being 
 still contumacious, unless his obstinacy were to be a spectaclQ
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 361 
 
 to men and gods — unless he were to flaunt his ill humor in the 
 face of his tyrant, and make his father's soul wretched within 
 him? Such is youthful reasoning, that hates to veil its feelings 
 unobserved. 
 
 Dick had not perceived Sir Harry's card, so he stared at the 
 intruder a little coolly. Sir Harry returned his look with a 
 glance of mingled surprise and amusement. 
 
 "Is this the young gentleman in question?'* he asked in 
 a tone that roused Dick's ire. To tell the truth, he was a 
 little disappointed by Nan's choice. It was not so much 
 Dick's want of good looks, but in Sir Harry's eyes he appeared 
 somewhat insignificant; and then a scowl is not always becom- 
 ing to a face. Dick's bright, gonial expression was wanting; 
 he looked a little too like his father at this moment fur Sir 
 Harry's taste. 
 
 " JDo you mean me?" observed Dick in a magnificent 
 tone. '* Is it 1 who am the young gentleman in question? — 
 Father, will you have the goodness to introduce me to this 
 gentleman with whom you have been talking me over?" And 
 Dick twirled his mustache angrily. 
 
 Mr. Mayne looked at his son's moody face, and his feelings 
 underwent a sudden revulsion; but before he could speak Sir 
 Harry stepped in nimbly before him: 
 
 " Well, now, I like spirit: no one cares to be talked over 
 behind one's back. Supposing we shake hands, you and 1, as 
 we are to be so nearly related. 1 am Nan's guardian, her 
 next of kin — Sir Harry Challoner, at your service; and Nan 
 sends her love, and you are a lucky fellow, that is what you 
 are!" exclaimed Sir Harry, genially, as he struck Dick a 
 sounding blow on his shoulder. But Dick did not wince; 
 and, though the diamond ring cut into his hand as they ex- 
 changed that grasp, no expression "of pain crossed his face, 
 which became all at once quite radiant. 
 
 Sir Harry hailed the metamorphosis with delight. Here was 
 the real Dick emerging like a young sun-god from the clouds. 
 
 *' Come, that is first rate; I like the look of you better 
 now," he said, with an appreciative nod. 
 
 " Father, what does this mean?" faltered Dick. 
 
 " It means," growled Mr. Mayne, for he could not get 
 quite amiable all at once, though his heart was lightening in 
 his bosom — " it means that I am an old fool, Dick, and that 
 you are a young one." 
 
 " No, father — not really — does it?" And Dick beamed still 
 
 more 
 
 And ifc means that you are not to plague me any mord
 
 36^ Not LIKE OTHER Gluts. 
 
 about the city. But, there! though you have behaved sO 
 badly to me, Dick, 1 forgive you. Sir Henry and 1 have been 
 talking over things, and if you will work hard for your degree 
 your mother shall ask the girl down here, and we will see 
 about it, and that is all I can say at present. And so we may 
 as well shake hands upon it too." 
 
 But Dick did more than that; he threw his arm over his 
 father's shoulder with a movement that was almost caressing. 
 
 " Thank you, pater; you are a brick and no mistake!" was 
 all the undemonstrative Briton's tongue could say. But Mr. 
 Mayne, as he looked in his boy's face and felt that pressure on 
 his shoulder, thought them sufficiently eloquent. 
 
 " Thei'e! get along with yr u, and have it out with your 
 mother," he growled. But, in spite of his surly tone, Mr. 
 Mayne felt an amount of relief that astonished himself: to see 
 Dick's face happy again, to have no cloud between them, to 
 know that no domestic discord would harass his soul and ren- 
 der gruel necessary to his well-being, was restoring him to his 
 old self again. Sir Harry longed to throw back his head and 
 indulge in a good laugh as he witnessed this little scene of 
 reconciliation. 
 
 Mrs. Mayne, who was sitting somewhat sadly by her own 
 fireside, thinking over that day's discomfort, was quite taken 
 aback by hearing Dick coming upstairs in his old way, three 
 steps at a time, and then bursting into the room after a hasty 
 knock at the door. 
 
 " Mother," he cried, breathlessly, " Sir Harry Challouer is 
 in the library — and pater wants you to come down and give 
 them some tea — and Sir Henry is going to stop to dinner — 
 and the woodcock is to be cooked — and you are to get the best 
 room ready. But first of all— like the dear, darling mother 
 you are — you are to sit down and write a letter to Nan." 
 
 But the letter was not written then; for how could Bessie 
 keep her husband and his guest waiting for their tea after such 
 an urgent message? And had she not first of all to listen to 
 Dick's incoherent story, which she heard better from Sir Harry 
 afterward, who took great pains to explain it to the poor, 
 bewildered woman? 
 
 Mr. Mayne thought he had never seen Bessie look so hand- 
 some since the days he courted her, as she sat smiling at the 
 head of the table in her velvet gown. And Sir Harry, too, 
 was quite charmed with the soft, comely creature. 
 
 Later on, while the two elder gentlemen were chatting con- 
 fidentially over their cigars and whisky and water, she did 
 manage to write a few lines to Nan. But it was not much of
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 363 
 
 ft letter; for how was she to construct a decent sentence with 
 that torment, Diet, hanging over the back of her chair and in- 
 terrupting her every moment? Bat Xan was not ill pleased by 
 the missive when she received it. 
 
 " My own dear girl,'* it said — " my dearest girl — for no 
 daughter could ever be so dear to me as you will be, Xan, for 
 my boy's sake, and because he loves you so." (' You are right 
 there, mother!" struck in Dick, in a tjne of ecstasy. ) " Evei-)^- 
 thing has come right, through cSir Henry's intercession and 
 my Richard's goodness." (" HumphI" coughed Dick. 
 " Well, it is not for the like of me to contradict you ") 
 
 "You are to come to us — at once — at once " — undeiliiied 
 — *' for Dick will be going back to Oxford, si there is n'> time 
 to lose; and you have not got any good of your engagt ment 
 yet." (" Only just at that last moment," muttered her son 
 at this.) 
 
 " My precious bov looks so happv that I could cry with 
 joy to see him." (" Oh, shut up, mother! Nun knows all 
 that.") " And his dear fa! her looks as pleased as possible, 
 and sends his love." ('' He did indeed, Dick," a? an inciea- 
 ulous sound broke from his lips), " and he sa3^s bv-gones are 
 by-gMies. And you are on no account to feel yourself awk- 
 ward as regards him, for of course Dick's fiancee " (" Are 
 you sure that is spelled right, Dick?") " will bring her owa 
 welcome. U not that a sweet speech for my Riiha -d to say? 
 So you will come, my dear, will you not? And I remain, 
 just what I always was, my Nan's loving friend, 
 " - "Bessik Mayne." 
 
 And then the letter was carefully consigned to Dick's pocket, 
 and iu due course q| time was dehvered into Nan's fair hands. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 
 
 During the next few days Grace and Pbillis made great 
 strides toward intimacy; and, as though some magnetic in- 
 fluence attracted each to each, they were tp be found con- 
 stantly together. Neither of them was a girl to .mdu ge in 
 gushing sentimentality; but Grace, svhose refined, intellectual 
 nature had hitherto met with no response except from her 
 brother, perceived at once Phillis's innate superiority aim clear, 
 aenerous temperament. For the first time she fe t feminine 
 "Irieudship a possibility, and hailed it as a new-found joy.
 
 364 NOT LIKE OTHER GIKLS. ^ 
 
 Nan testified her pleasure on more than one occasion; jealousy 
 never found a resting-place in a corner of her heart. 
 
 " I am so glad, Phiilis/' she observed, once, " that you 
 and Grace Drummoud like each other so much. You hare 
 never found any girl equal to you yet; and I was always too 
 stupid to give you what you wanted." 
 
 " Oh, Nannie, as though I would change you for a dozen 
 Grace Drummouds!'* returned Phillis, stanch as ever to her 
 domestic creed, that there never was and never could be such 
 another as Nan. 
 
 " Oh, of course we shall always be the same to each other, 
 you and 1," returned Nan, seriously; " we are such old com- 
 rades, Phil; but, then, 1 have Dick, and it is only fair you 
 should have some one too;" but she did not understand why 
 Phillis suddenly sighed and turned away. 
 
 An amusing little incident happened to Phillis after this, 
 which she greatly enjoyed. Colonel Middleton's avo dance of 
 them had long been a sore point with her, as it was with Dulce. 
 
 *' I feel almost like that wicked Haman," she said, once, 
 in a serio-comic voice, " and as if he were my Mordecai. I 
 shall never think we have achieved perfect success until 1 have 
 forced him to shake hands with me." But Nan, who cared 
 very little about such things, only laughed. 
 
 On Sunday moruing Colonel Middleton marched up the aisle 
 rather more pompously than usual, and there followed him a 
 tall, very solemn-faced young man, with serious eyes that 
 reminded them of Elizabeth. 
 
 " Son Hammond,''" whispered Phillis, who was not always 
 as devout as she ought to be; and Dulce tried hard to compose 
 her dimples. 
 
 Possibly the young officer was not as solemn as his looks, 
 for he certainly paid more attention to the opposite pews than 
 he did to his prayer-book; and as he walked home with his 
 sister, Colonel Middleton being just then out of ear-shot, he 
 quest! !)ned her rather closely on the subject: 
 
 " Who were those girls, Elizabeth? I mean the three who 
 were just opposite us with their mother. Are they visitors or 
 residents?" Then Elizaeth told him very briefly their name 
 and occupation. 
 
 " Good gracious!" he returned, in a thunder-struck tone; 
 and then ail at once he burst out laughing, as though at a 
 good joke. 
 
 " I call that a piece of splendid pluck. Do you know I 
 could see in a moment there was something out of the com- 
 mon about them? They are all very pretty — at least good-
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS 363 
 
 looking— and I liked tlieir quiet style of dress. You must iu- 
 trodiice me to-morrow/* 
 
 " My dear Hammond, I can do nothing of the kind," re- 
 turned Elizabeth, pc'ancing round in an alarmed way. " Fa- 
 ther has refused to have them at Brooklyn; and it would annoy 
 him terribly if you were to take any notice of them." But 
 to this Hammond turned a deaf ear, and, though he forbore 
 to question her any further on that occasion, he had fully made 
 up his mind that the iutroductiou should take place as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 As it fell out, accident favored him the very next day; for, 
 as he was calling with his sister at the White House, who 
 saould be announced the next minute but the Misses Challoner 
 — Phillis and Dulce, who had been bidden to afternoon tea! 
 
 Mrs. Cheyne kissed and welcomed them both. Then Cap- 
 tain Middleton was introduced, and they were soon chatting 
 merrily together, to Elizabeth's secret amusement. 
 
 Captain Middleton made himself very agreeable to the two 
 girls, as Dulce observed afterward. She had never before been 
 BO deceived in a man's appearance — for he was not solemn at 
 all; and, though the serious brown eyes certainly inspected 
 them rather criiically from time to time, he proved himself a 
 Iright, amusing c mpanion, and fully bore out his father's and 
 sister's encomiums. 
 
 The Middletons were easily induced to prolong their visit. 
 Elizabeth felt herself a traitor to her father, but she could 
 not refuse Hammond's imploring glance. And so they stayed, 
 and all took their leave together. 
 
 Mr. Cheyne walked down to the gate with them. He had 
 an errand in the town, and he and Elizabeth walked behind 
 the young people, talking them over in a low voice. 
 
 Now, it so happened that Colonel Middleton was trudging 
 down the Braid wood Road; and as he neared the White House 
 he looked up, and there was his son walking contentedly with 
 a Challoner girl on either side of him, and the three were 
 laughing merrily. 
 
 It was Dulce who saw him first. 
 
 "There comes your father!" she said; and she began to 
 blush as she had done on the day when he had left her at the 
 gate of Brooklyn, talking to Elizabeth. 
 
 Hammond proved himself quite worthy of the occasion. 
 
 " Well met, father," he called out, cheerily. " We seem 
 all going one way. I suppose no one needs any introduction? 
 Of course you know my father. Miss Challoner?" 
 
 Then the colonel threw down his arms. He bad fought
 
 366 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 very bravely on his soirs behalf; but, after all his labors, his 
 bristling defenses ahd skillful retreats, Hammond had of his 
 own free will delivered himself into the hands of the Philis- 
 tines. What was the use of guarding an empty citadel? His 
 treasure was already in the enemy's grasp. 
 
 All this was written on the colonel's lugubrious face as he ^ 
 bowed stiffly and walked in sorrowful silence beside them, shak- j 
 ing his white head at intervals; but no one but Dulce took auy/ 
 notice of his somber mood. 
 
 Dulce was very timid by nature. She was the least out-/ 
 spoken of the three, and always kept in the background, like 
 a modest little flower that loved the shade; but she was verj 
 soft-hearted, and had great regard for people's feelings. Anc 
 the old man's downcast looks pained her; for how was she tc 
 know that he was Sfcretly pleased at this meetiog? 
 
 " 1 hope — I wish — you did not mind knowing us so much. 
 Bat it has not been our fault this afternoon," sighed Dulce, 
 stammering and blusliing over her words, " You will believe 
 that, will you not, C,<lonel Middleton?" 
 
 If a cannon-shot had been fired into the old warrior's ear, 
 he could hardly have started more than he did at these child- 
 ish words. He looked rouud. There was the little girl, look- 
 ing up at him with the innocent eyes he remembered so well, 
 and her mouth puckered a little as though she wanted to cry. 
 
 This was more than any man could bear, even if he had a 
 harder heart than Colonel Middleton. 
 
 " My dear," he said, taking the little hand, " I have always 
 wanted to know you; Elizabeth will tell you that. I lost my 
 heart to your sisters the first day I saw them. I am sure we 
 shall be good fiiends in time, if you will forgive an old man's 
 pride." And then he patted her hand as though she had been 
 an infant. 
 
 When Mr. Drummond sat down to dinner that evening he 
 astonished Mattie very much by saying: 
 
 " You can ask the Middletons, after all, for your tea-party, 
 if you like, Mattie. What wonderful sight do you think I saw 
 just now? Why, the colonel himself coming out from the 
 Friary, and all the three girls were round him, chattering 
 as thinigh they had known him all their life; and 1 am pretty 
 sure that, in spite of the dark, I saw ' son Hammond ' behind 
 him." And Mattie, glad of the permission, gave the invita- 
 tion the next day. 
 
 Mattie grevv a little alarmed as the evening approached. 
 It was her first party, and she knew Archie would be critical; 
 but Grace proved herself a uialid i:!ij.
 
 NO* LiKt: OTHER GIKLS. * SBt 
 
 In spite of her efforts to keep in the background and leave 
 Mattie in her position as mistress of her brother's house, she 
 felt herself becoming insensibly its presiding spirit. 
 
 Archie was tolerabl^^ good-natured to Mattie, but the habits 
 of a life-time were too strong for him, and he still snubbed 
 and repressed her at intervals. Mattie felt herself of no im- 
 portance now that Grace had come; her duties were usurped 
 before her eyes. Archie made afresh demand on her forbear- 
 ance every day. 
 
 " Why can not you keep to the housekeeping, and let Grace 
 lo the schools and visi tings?" he said, once. " It must come 
 
 her by and by, when you are gone; and I want her to begin 
 is soon as possible. It will not do to let her think she has come 
 DO soon," implying that good taste should lead Mattie to re- 
 agu of her own account. 
 
 Poor Mattie! she had many a good cry in secret before that 
 [^uesday. She could hardly help feeling pained to see how all 
 n all those two were to each other, and the glad eagerness 
 Trace threw into her work, knowing the reward of commend- 
 ition she would reap. " It must be so strange never to be 
 nubbed or scolded— to do everything right," Mattie thought. 
 
 Grace felt very sorry for her, and petted her a good deal. 
 Che dark little face had always a pained wistfulness on it now 
 that touched her. She spoke kindly of Mattie to her brother 
 on all possible occasions. 
 
 " I think Mattie is so generous in giving up to me as she 
 does," she observed, as Archie joined her in the drawing-room 
 in expectation of their guests. Mattie had not yet made her 
 appearance. She had been lighting the wax candlesand trim- 
 mi i)g a refractory lamp that refused to burn, and had just 
 run past her brother with blackened fingers and hot, tired 
 face. 
 
 " Oh, yes, she is good enough," he returned, indifferently, 
 as he straightetied a crooked candle; " but I wish she would 
 not always be late. She has not begun to dress, and it is the 
 time we appointed for the Challoners to come. Of all 
 things I hate unpunctuality and fuss, and Mattie is always so 
 fussy." 
 
 Grace's conscience pricked her. " I am afraid 1 left her 
 too much to do," she said, penitently. " Phillis asked me to 
 go for a walk with them; but I ought not to have left her. 
 
 1 will go and help her now." 
 But Archie objected: 
 
 " No, no; let her be. You must not leave me alone to re- 
 ceive them. How nice you look in that cream-colored dress.
 
 368 ' jjrOt LIKE OTflER GtRL§. 
 
 Grace! 1 thought it would suit yon." But, though hia 
 eyes rested on her as he spoke, he seemed rather absent. ° And 
 when the door bell rang a moment afterward, a sudden flush 
 came to his face. 
 
 It was very odd to feel that he was receiving Nan as his / 
 guest. He had dreaded the ordeal greatly, but after the first 
 moment it was not so bad. Grace, who had her suspicions, 
 watched them closely, had them verified without doubt during 
 the moment that followed the Challoners' entrance; but nd 
 other eyes but hers would have read anything amiss in tlW 
 young vicar's gravely composed face. 
 
 Nan, who was looking beautiful, met him with her usua 
 unconsciousness; though neither of them knew it, it was thi 
 very unconsciousness that was fast healing the wound. On 
 can not mourn long after a lost dream, and there hrd nevej 
 been ajiy reality in it. Not one of Nan's thoughts had eve 
 belonged to him for a moment; his existence, his individualit 
 had never grazed the outer edge of her susceptibilities. Dici 
 had incased her from childhood in armor of proof againsj 
 all manhood. Archie felt this even as he touched her handi 
 and his lips gave her welcome. 1 
 
 " I am sorry your mother could not come,'Mie said, politely. 
 And then he turned to Phillis, who was regarding him with 
 an odd, dubious look. ' 
 
 Archie felt the look, and his spirit rose in instant opposition. 
 
 " Do you know the Middletons are to be here, after all?" 
 he said, moving a little into the background, for this girl had 
 keen vision, and, as of old, her sympathy moved him strangely. 
 
 " Oh, then we shall be quite a party," she returned, bright- 
 ly. " It seems ages since ive have been at one, and f feel dis- 
 posed to enjoy myself. The very sight of wax candles is ex- 
 hilarating. I am half afraid to touch coffee, for fear it will 
 get into my head. And how sweet Grace looks in that dress!" 
 
 *' Your chef-d'oeuvre," he replied, rather wickedly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I recognize my handiwork," returned Phillis, 
 nonchalantly. " I am quite as proud of it as an artist would be 
 of a picture. Here conies Mattie; poor little thing! she seems 
 tired, but she looks nice, too." 
 
 Archie moved away after this, for the Middletons were an- 
 nounced; but he thought as he lift her that he had never see 
 her look so haudsi'me. Nun's beauty had so blinded him that 
 he had liardlv been aware what a charming face Phillis really 
 had: when she was pleased or excited she lighted up quite 
 radian I ly. 
 
 "Oil, dear!" exclaimed Mattie, fussily coming up at that
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. ^6§ 
 
 moment. *' I don't know what has become of your cousin; 
 but Captain MidJletou says all the trains have been snowed 
 up." 
 
 " If the train he is in has been snowed up, of course we 
 must not expect to see him this evening/' was Phillis's laugh- 
 ing repi}'. " Never mind; I dare say we shall all survive it; 
 though Harry is such a good fellow, and 1 am immensely 
 fond oC him." 
 
 " Oh, but the tea and cofiFee will be spoiled. I must go and 
 pour it out now. Look, Grace is making signs to me." 
 
 " Shall I come and help you?" was the ready response. 
 "What a pretty little tea-table. Mattie, and how charmingly 
 snug it looks in the bay-window! The srentlemen will wait on 
 us, of course. I like this way better than servants handing 
 round lukewarm cups from the kitchen; it is not so grand, 
 but it is cozier. Was it ynur arrangement, Mattie.''" 
 
 " Oh, yes," returned Mattie, in a disconsolate tone, as she 
 took her place. " But, Phillis, are you really not anxious 
 about your cousin? It is so dreadful to think of him snowed 
 up all night, with nothing to eat and drink!" 
 
 Phillis laughed outright at this. 
 
 " My imagination will not conjure up to such horrors. I 
 believe Harry is at this moment sitting in the hotel discussing 
 a good dinner befoie a blazing fire." And, as Mattie looked 
 injured at this, she continued, still more merrily: " My dear, 
 are you such an ignoramus as to believe that any amount of 
 wax candles and charming women will induce an Englishman 
 to forego his dinner? He will come by and by, and if he gets 
 cold coffee, he will have his deserts." And then Mattie's 
 anxious face grew more cheerful. 
 
 The tea-table became the nucleus of the whole room before 
 long. Even Mr. Frere, a tall, scholarly looking man, with 
 spectacles and a very bald head, though he was still young, 
 seemed drawn magnetically i!ito the circle that closed round 
 Phillis. The girl was so natural and sprightly, there was such 
 buoyancy and brightness in her manner; and yet no man could 
 ever have taken a liberty with her, or mistaken the source of 
 that pure rippling fun. The light, jesting tone, the unembar- 
 rassed manner, were as free from consciousness as though 
 there were gray-headed dons round her, And yet, alas for 
 Phillis! there was not a word uttered in a certain voice that 
 did not reach her ear somehow; not a movement that was lost 
 upon htiv. even when she chatted and laughed with those who 
 stood round her- 
 ^ Colonel Middleton was stanch to his little favorite, and sat
 
 ^tO NOT LIKE OTHER GIRtg. 
 
 on (he couch between her and Grace, while Nan and Mis8 
 Miildleton talked apart. Nan watched the tea-table smilingly, 
 yhe did so love to see Phillis happy. It never occurred to her 
 to feel herself a little neglected, or to wonder why the grave 
 young master of the house so seldom addressed her: thoughts 
 of this sort never entered Nan's head. 
 
 But she grew a little silent by and by, and began to answer 
 Elizabeth somewhat absently. She did not know what it 
 meant, but a certain strong longing took possession of her — a 
 sc-rt of craving to see Dick's face and hear his voice. It was 
 foolish, of course; and then she roused herself with difficulty. 
 
 " How late Harry is! I wonder if the train be really snowed 
 up! Oh, that must; be he!" as the door bell sounded. " Mat- 
 tie will be glad; she was so afraid the coffee would be cold." 
 For Mattie had poured this grievance into every one's ears. 
 
 Of course it was Sir Harry. Yes, as the door opened, there 
 were the broad, genial face and the massive shoulders that 
 could only belong to one person. And who was this young 
 man following him — a somewhat insignificant young man com- 
 pared to this son of Anak — a young man with sandy hair, with 
 a trivial mustache, with a free, careless expression of good 
 nature that seemed somehow stamped on his features.'' 
 
 Nan did not speak or move in her corner; but she locked 
 her hands together tightly, and a most wonderful blush came 
 to her face; for the young man's eyes had moved quickly 
 round the room, with an eager expression in them, and had 
 just rested upon her. 
 
 Nan sat immovable while Sir Harry gave the necessary in- 
 troduction in his loud, jovial voice: 
 
 " 1 am sorry to be late — I am, 'pon my honor, Miss Mattie! 
 but it could not be helped: could it, Mayne.'' Mr. Drum- 
 inond, I have taken the liberty to bring a friend with me; he 
 is my guest at piesent — Mr. Richard Mayne. He has come 
 down to Hadleigh to see some old acquaintances of his." 
 
 "Dick! Oh, Dick!" the words would come out now. 
 Miss Midtlleton had judiciously vacated the corner of the couch, 
 and Dick had boldly placed himself there instead, after first 
 touching Nan's trembling hand. " What does it mean? 
 Why have you startled me so?" she whispered, for they were 
 in a snug corner, and no one was near them. 
 
 " I suppose a man has a right to come and look after his 
 own belongings?" returned Dick, in the coolest possible man- 
 ner. But his eyes were more eloquent than his wordb, as 
 usual. " How lovely you are looking. Nan! 1 do believe you
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS, 3?1 
 
 grow prettier every day. And are you glad to see me? half or 
 a quarter as glad as I am to see you?" 
 
 "I was thinking of you,'"' she returned, softly. " 1 was 
 wondering what you were doing, and picturing you at Long- 
 mead; and then the door opened, and there you were, half hid- 
 den hy Harry; and I thought I was dreaming.^* 
 
 " \Ve)l, that was transmission of thought, don't you see? ani- 
 mal magnetism, and all that sort of thing. You thought of 
 me because I was thinking of you; but you did not know that 
 only the door divided us. Oh, Nan! isn't it awfully jolly to 
 be together again?" 
 
 ' Yes; but 1 don't understand it yet," she replied. " Have 
 you come without your father's permission, Dick? Are you 
 sure he will not be very angry?'^ 
 
 " Oh. no; the pater is all right. Sir Harry — what a be-ick 
 that fellow is! — has talked him over, and he has given his 
 consent to our engagement. Look here, Xan! what yuu have 
 got to do is to pack up your things, and 1 am to take you 
 dort-n to-mnrrow. This is a note from mother, and you will 
 see what she says." And Nan's gloved hand closed eagerly 
 uprtn the precious missive. 
 
 The letter could not be read just then. Nan sent Dick away 
 after that, though he would willingly have remained in his 
 corner daring the remainder of the evening. He went off 
 grumbling, to be civil to his hostess, and Nan remained be- 
 hind trying to calm herself. It was " all right," Dick had 
 told her. IShe was to go down with him the next day to dear 
 Longmead. Were their troubles really over? Well, she 
 would hear all about it to-morrow. She must wait patiently 
 until then. 
 
 Nan did not long remain alone. Archie, who had watched 
 this little scene from the bay-window, suddenly took his op- 
 portunity and crossed the room. 
 
 Nan looked up at him with a happy smile. 
 
 " You have had a surprise this evening, have you not. Miss 
 Challoner? Sir Harry has just been telling me all about it. 
 You will permit me now to offer my congratulations?" 
 
 " Most certainly, Mr. Drummond." 
 
 " I am so glad, for both your sakes, that things should be 
 so comfortably settled," he went on. placing himself beside 
 her— a movement that mightily displeased Dick, who had con- 
 ceived a dislike to the handsome parson from the first. " A 
 parent's opposition is always a serious drawback in such cases; 
 but Sir Harry tells me that Mr. Mayne has given his full con- 
 sent."
 
 372 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 " 1 believe so,'* returned Nan, blushing a little; " but 1 
 really hardly know any particulars. It is such a surprise to 
 ine altogether; but his mother has written to me, aud 1 am 
 expected down there." 
 
 " You have my warmest wishes for your happiness," con- 
 tinued Archie, gravely; and then Nan thanked him. 
 
 But here Dick interrupted them. He was still new to his 
 lole, and hardly had the assurance that belongs to the en- 
 gaged man, who feels himself safely steering toward the desired 
 haven of matrimony. It appeared to him that on this even- 
 ing he ought not to lose sight of Nan for a moment. To see 
 Mr. Drummond taking his place was too much for him, aud 
 he put down his un tasted coffee. 
 
 " I am afraid it is rather cold," observed Mattie, anxiously; 
 but she spoke to deaf ears. 
 
 Dick was already half-way to the corner. Nan received him 
 a little shyly; but Mr. Drummond at once took the hint. 
 
 *' Oh, Dick, people will notice! you must take care," re- 
 monstrated Nan. 
 
 She was preparing one of those gentle little lectures to which 
 she sometimes treated him, and to which he was wont to listen 
 ■with the utmost submission; but, to her intense surprise, he 
 turned restive. 
 
 " That was all very well when things were not settled be- 
 tween us," observed Dick, decidedly. " Now we are engaged, 
 of course 1 shall assert my rights publicly. What does it mat- 
 ter if people notice? They will only think what a lucky fel- 
 low I am, aud how they would like to be in my place. Did 
 you think 1 was going to remain at the other end of the room 
 while that parson was talking to you?" And then Nan all at 
 once discovered that, in spite of Dick's boyish looks and easy 
 temper, she found her master — that, like other men, he was 
 capable of jealousy, and insisted on an entire and undivided 
 allegiance. 
 
 Nan was weak enough to like him all the better for this lit- 
 tle touch of tyranny; and, after all, though she felt it a little 
 hard on Mr. Drummond, who was so harmless and good- 
 natured, the sense of this monopoly was very sweet to her. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV]. 
 
 A NEW INVASION OF THE GOTHS. 
 
 It was the most successful evening — every one said so; but, 
 somehow, Mattie had not enjoyed it. She supposed she was 
 tired; that lamp had worried her; but, though every one had
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIELS. 373 
 
 been very pleasant, and had said nice things to her — even that 
 formidable Mr. Frere — Mattie felt something had been lack- 
 ing. She had been very pleased to see Sir Harry, and he had 
 come up to her at once and spoken to her in his usual genial 
 manner; but, after the first lew minutes, during which he had 
 drunk his coffee standing beside her, she did not remember 
 that he had again addressed her. After that, he had made 
 his way to Grace, and did not stir for a long time. 
 
 Mattie had Colonel Middleton on her hands then; but her 
 eyes would stray to that part of the room. How pretty Grace 
 looked in that soft, creamy dress, with the dainty lace ruffles 
 that Arcliie had sent her! Her face generally wanted color 
 and animation, but to-night she was quite rosy by compari- 
 son. She seemed to find Sir Harry amusing, for she looked 
 up at him very brightly. And then Archie joined them : he 
 would not be de trop there, he knew. And the three talked 
 as though they never meant to leave off. 
 
 When Sir Harry came to take his leave, he said, a little 
 abruptly: 
 
 " 1 like that sister of yours. Miss Mattie. She is sensible 
 for a girl, and yet she knows how to laugh. Clever girls are 
 generally a little priggish, do you know? But one need not be 
 afraid of Miss Grace." And Mattie knew that from Sir Harry 
 this was high praise. 
 
 " Every one likes Grace,'* she faltered. 
 
 " I am not surprised at tbat," was the ready response; and 
 then he shook hands and thanked her for the pleasant even- 
 ing. He did not even look at her as he spoke, Mattie re- 
 membered afterward: he was watching Nan, who was smil- 
 ing on Dick's arm. 
 
 The young vicar stood bareheaded on the snowy doorstep, 
 as his guests merrily trooped out together. Dick and Kan 
 came first: Nan had a scarlet hood over her bright hair, and 
 Dick was grumbling over the lightness of her cloak, and was 
 wrapping his gray overcoat round her. 
 
 " Nonsense, Nan! I insist upon it! and you know nothing 
 gives me cold!" Dick was saying, in his authoritative way; and 
 then, of course. Nan yielded. 
 
 " ' Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,' " sung Phillis, mocking- 
 ly, who was following them under Captain Middleton 's escort. 
 " Don't you think engaged people are sometimes very mas- 
 terful?" She spoke, of course, to her companion; but he had 
 turned to warn his father and Dulce ct an awkward step, and 
 Archie intercepted the sentence: 
 
 " Most men are masterful. Miss Challoner. You will find
 
 374 NOT LIKE OTHKK GIRL8. 
 
 that oat some day for yourself.'' He meant noQiing by this 
 little s[)eeeh, and he wa- ather taken aback by the sudden 
 hot blush that came lO ttiu girl's face, and the almost angry 
 light in her eyes, as fclio turned away from him and ran down 
 the slippery steps, to Captain Middletou's alarm. 
 
 " ' On yonder lea, on yonder lea,' " they hi aid her kum- 
 ming gayly; and Hammond caught the refrain, and finished 
 it in a fine manly bass, while Archie stood still under the 
 wintery sky. Why had she looked like that at him? What 
 was there in his lightly uttered speech to oCfend her? 
 
 Grace was standing alone when he re-entered the drawing- 
 room. Most of the wax candles were extinguished, but the 
 soft glow of the fire-light irradiated the furthest corner of the 
 room. 
 
 *' What a glorious fire!" he said, warming his chilly hands 
 at it, and then throwing himself into the easy-chair that Grace 
 silently placed for him. " And where is Mattie? Really, she 
 did very well to-night." 
 
 *' You must tell her to-morrow, she will be so pleased. She 
 'seems tired, and her head aches, so I aQviscd her to go to 
 bed." And, though Archie did not say openly ihat heap- 
 proved of this sensible advice, he impliedit by the wayhedrew 
 a low chair forward for Grace — so close bes«'de him that she 
 could rest her arm upon the cushioned elbow of his. 
 
 They remained comfortably silent for a long time: it was 
 Grace who spoke first. 
 
 " Archie," she said, rather nervously, but her eyes had a 
 settled purpose in them, " shall you be angry if I disobey you, 
 dear, and speak again on a certain subject?" 
 
 "What subject?" he asked, rather surprised by her man- 
 ner. He had not a notion to what she was referring; he did 
 not know how during that long silence their thoughts had been 
 touching the same point, and that all this time she was seek- 
 ing courage to speak to him. 
 
 " I know your secret, Archie; I discovered it to-night." 
 
 " My secret!" he returned, in utter amazement. " I have 
 no secret, Gracie. " And then, as he caught her meaning, a 
 cloud came to his brow. " But this i? nonsense!" he contin- 
 ued, harshly — " pure nonsense; put it out of your head." 
 
 " 1 saw it to-night," she went on, in a very low voice, un- 
 disturbed by his evident displeasure. " She is good and sweet, 
 and quite lovely, Archie, and that young man is not half 
 worthy of her, bat she has no thought but for him." 
 
 " Dct you think I do not know that?" he returned, in an 
 exasperated tone. " Grace, I will not have you talk in tl^'
 
 ifOt LIKE OTHER GIRLS. ^'^5 
 
 Way. I am cured — quite cured: it was nothiug but a pass- 
 ing folly. " 
 
 " A follv that made you very unhappy, ray poor Archie; 
 but — huah! you must not interrupt me — 1 am not going to 
 talk about her." 
 
 " Oh, that is well," he returned, in a relieved tone. 
 
 " 1 was sorry — just a little sorry — at first, because I knew 
 how much it had cost you; but thid evening I could have 
 foiuid it in my heart to be angry with you — yes, even with 
 you. ' Oh, the blindness of these men!' I thought: ' why will 
 they trample on their own happiness?' " 
 
 " Are you speaking of me.^" he asked, in a bewildered tone. 
 
 " Of whom should 1 be speaking?" she answered, and her 
 voice had a peculiar meaning in it. " You are my dear 
 brother — my dearest brother; but you are no more Sensible 
 than other men." 
 
 " 1 suppose not," he returned, staring at her: " 1 suppose 
 not." 
 
 " Many men have done what you are doing,** she went on, 
 quietly. " Many have wanted what belonged to another, and 
 have turned their backs upon the blessing that m ght have 
 been theirs. It is the game of cross-purposes. Do you re- 
 member that picture, Archie — the lovelv print you longed to 
 buy — the two girls and the two men? There was the pr. tty, 
 demure maiden in front, and at the back a girl with a far 
 sweeter face to my mind, watching the gloomy looking fellow 
 who is regarding his divinity from afar. There was a face 
 here to-night that brought that second girl strongly to ray 
 mind; and I caught an expression on it once — " Here 
 Archie violently started. 
 
 " Hush! hush! what are you implying? Grace, you are ro- 
 mancing; you do not mean this?" 
 
 " As there is a heaven above us, I do mean it, Archie." 
 
 " Then, for God's sake, not another word!" And then he 
 rose from his seat, and stood on the rug. 
 
 " You are not really angry with me?" she urged, fright- 
 ened at his vehemence. 
 
 " No; 1 am not angry. 1 never am angry with you, Grace, 
 as you know; but all the same there are some things that 
 never should be said." And, when he had thus gravely re- 
 buked her speech, he kissed her forehead, and, muttering some 
 excuse about the laceness of the hour, left the room. 
 
 Grace crept away to her chamber a little discomfited by 
 this rebuff, gently as it had been given; but if she had only
 
 hi6 ^OT LIKE OTHER GlRtS. 
 
 guessed the commotion those few hinted words had raised in 
 her brother's mind! 
 
 He hud understood her; in one moment he had understood 
 her. As though by a lightning flash of intelligence, the truth 
 had dawned upon him; and if an electric shock had passed 
 turough his frame and set all his nerves tingling he could not 
 have been more deeply shaken. 
 
 Was that what she thought, too, when she had turned away 
 from him with that quiet look of scorn on her face? Did she 
 know of any possible blessing that might have been his, only 
 that; he had turned his back upon it, crying out childishly for 
 a shadowy hap{)iness? Did she mutter to herself also, " Oh, 
 the blindness of these men!" 
 
 There is an old saying, greatly credited by the generah'ty of 
 people, that hearts are often caught at the rebound — that in 
 their painful tossings from uneven heights and depths, and 
 that sad swinging over uncertain abysses, some are suddenly 
 attracted and held fast; and there is sufficient proof to war- 
 rant the truth of this adage. 
 
 The measurements of pain are unequal: different natures 
 hold di£Eerent capacities. A trouble that seems very real at 
 the time, and full of stings, may be fuund later on to be 
 largely alloyed by wounded self-love and frustrated vanity. 
 Sound it with the plumb-line of experience, of time, of wak- 
 ening h )p8f ulness, and it may sink fathoms, and bv and by 
 end in nothingness, or perhaps more truly in just a sense of 
 salt bitterness between the teeth, as when one plunges in a 
 watiing tide. 
 
 ]Sot that Archie realized all this as he paced his room that 
 night: no; he was very strangely moved and excited. Some- 
 thing, he knew not what, had again stirred the monotony of 
 his life. He had been sick and &ad for a long time; for men 
 are like children, and fret sometimes after the unattainable, 
 if their hearts be set upon it. And yet, though he forbore 
 to questim himself too closely that night, how much of his 
 pain hud been due to wounded vanity and crossed willfulness! 
 
 It was long before he could sleep, for the sudden broaden- 
 ing of the perspective of his future kept him wide awake and 
 restless. It was as though he had been straining his eyes to 
 look down a long, gray vista, where he saw things dimly, and 
 that suddenly there was a low light on the horizon — not brill- 
 iant, not even clear; but it spake of approaching day-break. 
 By and by the path would be more plainly visible. 
 
 There was great excitement at the Friary on the next day. 
 They had found it hard to get rid of Dick the previous uight;
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 377 
 
 but Sir Harry, who read his aunt's tired face rightly, had car- 
 ried him off almost by sheer force, after a leugthy leave-takiug 
 with Nan iu the passage. 
 
 It was only Mrs. Challoner who was tired. Poor woman! 
 she was fairly worn out by the violence of her conflicting feel- 
 ing — by sympathy with Nan in her happiness, with pleasure in 
 Dick's demonstrative joy, and sorrow at the thought of losing 
 her child. The girl herself was far too much excited for sleep. 
 
 She and Phillis did all the packing for the next day, and it 
 was not until Dulce sleepily warned them of the laceuess of 
 the hour that they consented to separate; and then 'N&n sat 
 by the parlor fire a long time alone, enjoying the luxury of 
 undisturbed meditation. 
 
 But the next morning, just as they had gone into the work- 
 room, not to settle to any business — that was impossible under 
 the present exciting circumstances — but just to fold up and 
 dispatch a gown that had been fiiiished for Mrs. Squalls, while 
 Dulce put the finishing touches to Mrs. Cheyne's tweed dress, 
 Nan announced in a glad voice that their cousin and Dick 
 were are the gate; " and I am so thankful we packed last 
 night," she continued, " for Dick will not let me have a free 
 momRnt until we start." 
 
 " You should keep him in better order," observed Phillis, 
 tersely; *' if you give him his own way so much, you will not 
 have a will of your own when you are married; will she, 
 mc ther?" Mrs. Challoner smiled a little feebly in answer to 
 this: she could not remember the time when she had had a 
 will of her own. 
 
 Nan went out shyly to meet them; but she could not un- 
 derstand her reception at all. Dick's grasp of her hand was 
 sufficieiitly eloquent, but he said nothing; and Nan thought 
 be was trying not to laugh, for there was a gleam of fun in 
 his eyes, though he endeavored to look solemn. Sir Harry's 
 face, too, wore an expression of portentous gravity. 
 
 " Are you all in the work-room. Nan?" he asked, in a tone 
 as though they were assembled at a funeral. 
 
 "Yes; mother and all," answered Nan, brightly. "What 
 is the matter with you both? You look dreadfully solemn." 
 
 " Because we have a little business before us," returned Sir 
 Harry, wrinkling his brows and frowning at Dick. " Come, 
 Mayne, if you ai-e ready." 
 
 " Wait a minute. Nan. I will speak to you afterward," ob- 
 served that young gentleman, divesting himself of his gray 
 overcoat; and Nan, very much puzzled, preceded them into 
 the room.
 
 578 NOT LIKE OTHER GIELS. 
 
 " How do you do, Aunt Caiherioc ? Good-morning, girls,*' 
 nodded 8ir Harry; and then he looked at Dick. And what 
 were they both doing? Were they mad? They must have 
 taken leave of their senses; for Dick had raised his foot gen- 
 tly—very gently— and Mrs. Squails's red merino gown lay in 
 the passage. At the same moment Sir Harry's huge hand 
 had closed over the tweed, and, by a dexterous Ihrust, had 
 flung it as far as the kitchen. And now Dick was bundhug 
 out the sewing-machine. 
 
 " Dick! oh, Dick!" hi an alarmed voice from Dulce. And 
 Phillis flew to the great carved wardrobe, that Sir Harry was 
 ransacking; while Nan vainly strove to rescue the fashion- 
 books that Dick was now flinging into the fender. 
 
 "Oh, you great Goth! You stupid, ridiculous Harry!" 
 observed Phillis, scornfully, while the rolls of silk and satin 
 and yards of trimming were tossed lightly into a heap of debris. 
 
 Laddie was growling and choking over the buttons. Doro- 
 thy afterward carried away a whole shovelful of pins and hooks 
 and eyes. 
 
 Nan sat down by her mother and folded her hands en her 
 lap. When men were masterful, it was time for maidens to 
 sit still. Dulce really looked frightened, but Phillis presently 
 broke into a laugh. 
 
 " This is a parable of nature," she said. " Mammie, does 
 your head ache? Would you like to go into the next room?" 
 
 " There, we have about done!" observed 8ir Harry. " The 
 place is pretty well clear: isn't it, Mayne?" And, as Dick 
 nodded a cheerful assent, he shut the door of the wardrobe, 
 lociked it, and, with much solemnity, put the key in his pocket. 
 *' Now for my parable," he said. " Aunt Catherine, you will 
 excuse a bit of a spree, but one must take the high hand with 
 these girls. I have bundled out the whole lot of trumpery; 
 but, as head of this family, 1 am not going to stand any more 
 of this nonsense." 
 
 " Oh, indeed!" put in Phillis. " I hope Mrs. Squails will 
 take her creased gown. Dulce, the sewing-machine is right on 
 the top of it — a most improving process, certainly." 
 
 " Now, Phillis, you will shut up wilh your nonsense! As 
 head of the family, I am not going to stand any more of this 
 sort of thing." 
 
 ^ " What sort of thing?" asked Mrs. Challoner, timidly. 
 *' My dears, I thought it was only fun; but 1 do believe your 
 cousin is in earnest." 
 
 " 1 am quite in earnest. Aunt Catherine," returned Sir 
 Harry, sitting down beside her and taking her hand. "I
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. S/'ft 
 
 hope our bit of larking has not been too much for you; but 
 tiiat fellow vowed it would be a good joke." And here Dick^d 
 eyes twinkled. " If Mrs. Squails's gown is spoiled, I will buy 
 her another; but on your peril, girls, if you put a stitch in any 
 but your own from this day forward!" 
 
 " Please your honor kindly," whined Phillis, dropping a 
 courtesy, " and what will your honor have us do?" 
 
 " Do!" and then he broke into a laugh. " Oh, I will tell 
 you that presently. All I know is, Kan is engaged to my 
 friend Mayne, here; and I have promised his father, on my 
 word as a gentleman and head of this family, that this dress- 
 making humbug shall be given up." 
 
 " You had no right to give such a promise," returned Phil- 
 lis, offended at this; but Aran's hand stole into Dick's. She 
 understood now. 
 
 " But, Harry, my dear?" asked Mrs. Challoner, " what 
 would you have them do?" 
 
 " Oh, play tennis — dance — flirt if they like! How do young 
 ladies generally occupy their time? Don't let us talk about 
 such petty details as this. I want to tell you about my new 
 house. You all know Gilsbank? Well, it is ' Challoner 
 Place ' DOW." 
 
 " Y^ou have bought it, Harry?" 
 
 " Yes, 1 have bought it," he returned, coolly. " And 
 what is more, 1 hope to settle down there in another mouth's 
 time. How soon do you think you will be ready to move. 
 Aunt Catherine?" 
 
 " My dear!" in a voice of mild astonishment. But Dulce 
 clapped her hands: she thought she guessed his meaning. 
 " Are we to live with you, Harry? Do you really mean to 
 take us with you?" 
 
 *' Of course I shall take you with me; but not to Challoner 
 Place. That would bo rather close quarters; and— and — 1 
 may make different arrangements," rather sheepishly. " Aunt 
 Caiherine, Glen Cottage will be all ready for you and the girls. 
 I have settled about the furniture; and Mrs. Mayne will have 
 the fires lighted whenever you like to come down. Why, aunt 
 — dear Aunt Catherine," as he felt her thin hand tremble in 
 liis, and the tears started to lier eyes, "did you not tell me 
 how much you loved your old. home? And do you think when 
 you have no son to take care of yon, that I should ever let you 
 be far from me?" 
 
 " Confound you!" growled Dick. '* Is not a son-iu-law as 
 good as a son any day?" 
 
 But no one heard ihis but KaUt
 
 ^0 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 Mrs. Chalioner was weepiug for joy, and Dulce was keeping 
 her company; but Phillis walked up to her cousin with a 
 shamefaced look: 
 
 " I am sorry I called you a Goth, Harry. I ought to have 
 remembered Alcides. You are as good as gold. You are a 
 dear, generous fellow, and I love you for it, and so do Nan 
 and Dulce. And I was not a bit cross, really; but you did 
 look such a great goose, turning out that wardrobe. '' But 
 though she laughed at the remembrance, the tears were in 
 Phillis's eyes. 
 
 Dick was nobody after this: not that he minded that. How 
 could they help crowding round this " big hero " of theirs, 
 who had performed such wonders? 
 
 Gilsbank turned into Chalioner Place; Glen Cottage, with its 
 conservatory and brand-new furniture, theirs again — their 
 own — their very own (for Sir Harry intended to buy that too 
 as soon as possible); Nan engaged to her dearest Dick, and all 
 the neighborhood prepared to welcome them back! 
 
 " If you please. Miss Phillis, Mrs. ^quails desires her com- 
 pliments, and she is waiting for her dress." 
 
 We forbear to repeat Sir Harry's answer. Nevertheless, 
 with Dick's help, the unfortunate gown was extricated, and 
 privately ironed by Dorothy. 
 
 " That is a good morning's work of yours," observed Phil- 
 lis, quietly looking down at the heap at her feet. " Dorothy, 
 it seems Sir Harry is master here. If any more orders come 
 for us you may as well say, ' The Misses Chalioner have given 
 up business.' " 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 ** IT WAS SO GOOD OF YOU TO ASK ME HERE.'* 
 
 Mrs. Challoner heaved a gentle little sigh when in the 
 afternoon the fly carried off Nan and Dick to the station: it 
 brought to her mind another day that would come far too 
 soon. Phillis spoke out this thought boldly as she ran back 
 to the cottage. 
 
 " I wanted to throw an old shoe for luck, mammie," she 
 said, laughing, " only I knew Nan would be so dreadfully 
 shocked. How happy they looked! And Dick was making 
 such a fuss over her, bringing out his plaid to wrap her in. 
 Certainly he is much improved, and looks fiv^e years older." 
 
 Perhaps Dick shared Mrs. Challnner's thought too, for an 
 expression of deep gravity crossed his face as he sat down by
 
 ^Of TJKt; OTHER GIRL8. 381 
 
 TiTan— a look that was tender, and yet wistful, as he took her 
 hand. 
 
 " Oh, Nan! it does seem so nice to have you all to myself 
 for a little — just you and 1, alone, and all the rest of the world 
 outside somewhere! Do you know it is possible to be almost 
 too happy?" And Dick sighed from the very fullness of con- 
 tent. 
 
 Nan gave a merry little laugh at this. 
 
 " Oh, no: to me it seems only natural to be happy. When 
 things were at their worst 1 knew they would come right some 
 day; and I could not be quite miserable, even then. It was 
 hard, of course; but when one is young, one ought not to mind 
 a little waiting. And we have not waited long, have we, 
 dear?" But to this Dick demurred. 
 
 " It was the longest term I ever passed," he returned, seri- 
 ously. " When a fellow is in that sort of unsettled state, he 
 can not measure time in the ordinary way. Well, the ordeal 
 is over, thank Heaven!" And then he paused, and continued, 
 a little thoughtfully: " What I have to do now is to work hard 
 and do my best to deserve you. 1 shall never be worthy of 
 you, Nan; I know that." 
 
 " I think you quite worthy of me," she answered, softly; 
 and now there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, no; no fellow could be that," he replied, decidedly. 
 '* 1 am well enough in my way, and, compared with other men, 
 I am not so bad," continued Dick, who had a sufficiently good 
 opinion of his own merits, in spite of the humility of his 
 speech; " but as to coming up to you, Nan, by a long way, 
 why, the thing is impossible! But I tell you this, it helps a 
 fellow to keep right and steady when he believes in the good- 
 ness of the girl belonging to him." 
 
 " You must not make me vain," she half whispered, and 
 her lips trembled a little at his praise. But he disregarded 
 this remonstrance, and went on: 
 
 " You have kept me right all my life. How could I ever 
 do a mean or a shabby action, to make you ashamed of me? 
 When 1 was tempted once or twice — for idle young fello?ra 
 will be tempted— I used to say to myself, No, Nan would not 
 approve if she knew it. And 1 held tight to this thought, 
 and I am glad now that I can look in your dear face and tell 
 you this. It makes me feel so ha|)py." And indeed Dick^s 
 face was radiant. 
 
 They were almost sorry when the journey was over; they 
 had so much to say to each other. The wintery landscape was 
 growing graj and indistinct as they reached their destiua-
 
 38^ $TOt LIKE OtSEK GIRLg. 
 
 tion, and though Nan peered anxiously into the darkness for 
 a glimpse of each well-remembered spot, she could only just 
 discern the dim outline of Glen Cottage before the carriage 
 turned in at the gates of Longmead. 
 
 Mr. Maytie hail determined to pay his intended daughter-in- 
 law all becoming honors, and as soon as the carriage wheels 
 were heard he had the hall door thrown back to show the 
 bright, welcoming light, and he himself descended the flight 
 of steps to the terrace. "Just as though I were a royal person- 
 age," laughed Nan. But she was a little flattered by the 
 complicuent. 
 
 Most girls would have felt the awkwardness of the situation, 
 but not Nan. The moment Dick assisted her out of the car- 
 riage she walked up to his father, and 'put up her face to be 
 kissed in the most natural way. " It was so good of you to 
 ask me here; and I was so glad to come," she said, simply. 
 
 " There, there! run in out of the cold," was all his answer; 
 and he patted her hand a little awkwardly. But, though his 
 voice had its usual gruffness, his manner was otherwise kind. 
 " How are you, Dick? I hope Roper did not keep you waiting 
 at the station, for you are a quarter of an hour behind time." 
 And then he took his son's arm and walked up the steps again. 
 
 Nan, meanwhile, had run through the hall and into the 
 warm, softly lighted drawing-room, and there she soon found 
 herself in Mrs. Mayne's motherly arms. When the gentlemen 
 came in they interrupted quite a little scene, for Mrs. Mayne 
 was actually crying over the girl, and Nan was kissing her. 
 
 " Don't you think you had better stop that sort of thing, 
 Bessie," observed her husband, dryly, " and get Nan a cup 
 of tea? You would like some tea, my dear, would you not?" 
 in a more gracious voice. 
 
 Of course Nan said she would like some, just to show her 
 appreciation of his thoughtfulness; and then Dick said he 
 should like some too, and nis father quizzed him a little as he 
 rang the bell. And as Mrs. Mayne obediently dried her eyes 
 at her husband's behest, they were soon very happy and com- 
 fortable. When Nan's cup was empty, Dick darted to take 
 it, that it might be replenished; but his father was before 
 him. 
 
 All that evening Mr. Mayne waited on Nan, quite ignoring 
 his son's claims. He had a special brand of champugne served 
 that Nan had once said she liked; and ho reminded her of this, 
 and pressed her to partake of it. 
 
 " This is to your health, my dear," he said, lifting his glass 
 of port to his lips when the servants had withdrawn; *' and to
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 383 
 
 yours too, Dick. " And then Nan blushed very becomingly, 
 and Diok thanked him a little gravely. 
 
 " I do think the old boy has fallen in love with you himself, 
 for he has nut let me come near you all the evening," whis- 
 pered Dick later on that night, pretending to grumble, but 
 in reality looking very happy. 
 
 " He has been so good to me," returned the girl; and she 
 repeated this for Mrs, Mayne's benefit, when at last the two 
 women found themselves free to indulge in a little talk. Nan 
 had coaxed her friend to sit beside her fire for a few minutes, 
 and then she had knelt down beside her, wrapping her arms 
 round her in the most affectionate way. 
 
 " Dear, dear Mrs. Mayne, how nice all this is! and how 
 good Mr. Mayne has been to me all this evening!'* 
 
 "My Ivichard never does things by halves," returned 
 Mrs. Mayne, proudly. "People can not always under- 
 stand him, because his manner is a little rough sometimes; 
 but 1 know, and none better, his real goodness of heart. 
 Why, he is so pleased with himself and you and Dick this 
 evening that he hardly knows how to contain himself; but he 
 is a little awkward in showing it." 
 
 " Oh, no; I did not think him aivkward at all." 
 
 " 1 must say you behaved beautifully. Nan, never seeming 
 as though you remembered that there had been anything amiss, 
 but just taking everything as he meant it. Of course I knew 
 how you would act: I was not afraid that 1 should be disap- 
 pointed," 
 
 " Of course I could not do otherwise." 
 
 " And Diuk, too, behaved so well, keeping in the back- 
 ground just to give his father full freedom. I must say I was 
 pleased with him, too, for most young men are so thoughtless; 
 but, then, his behavior to his father has b^en perfect through- 
 out." 
 
 " I knew it would be," whispered Nan. 
 
 ** I am sure it made my heart ache to see him. Sometimes 
 he would come iu whistling and pretending to be his old self, 
 so light-hearted and cheerful; and all the time he was fretting 
 himself to death, as 1 told Richard. Richard was terribly try- 
 ing sometimes — you know his way — but the boy bore it so 
 well. It was not till the last, when they had that walk, and 
 Dick was goaded into positive anger, that he ever lost his tem- 
 per in the least. I will say this. Nan, that though my Dick 
 may not be much to look at, he has the sweetest temper and 
 the kindest heart." And so the simple woman rau on, and 
 Kau listened, well pleased.
 
 ^^^ NOT LIKE OTHER GIELS. 
 
 should, as he stood thougl.l^ufi; e^;:it Itg t^te?^ '^^ 
 ^^ Well, Eichurd vvon^L you owu she is lovel/novvr^ 
 
 Humpl 
 he ret 
 Bessie 
 
 ^n ^.^^e; 4e is out 1.^^^:,;;;^^ .h:';^.!^: 
 
 xi""'", n"r^ ,^'^^1"°"^ i'^ *'^^- ^^"^bat^s voice ^^ '^ 
 Naa made Dick take her to all their old haunts the nevf 
 morning; but first of all they went to Glen Cot age Nan ,?a 
 through all the rooms with almost a child^sglee: nothil could 
 exceed her delight when l)ick showed her the draSoo^^^ 
 with the new conservatory opening out of it. ^ ' 
 
 her- " h n' "''' ' ^T^^^ ^'"^^'^ '^'^ ^^'^' glancing round 
 ?ransfo.m d ft ''T'^'P ^"^ the new furniture ha^ qufte 
 ThP vvhn7« 1 i^r ^'^^'-^led mother and the girls will bel 
 ihe whole house looks better than when we were in it " 
 
 Nonsense!- returned Dick, stoutly. " There never was 
 a house to compare with it. lalways loved it, and so d d you 
 Nan. What a summer we shall have here, when I am reading 
 up or honors in the long vacation! I mean to woHc p,et f 
 hard; for when a fellow has such an object as thaL--^rnd 
 
 guile^l^^oratt^Lr ^-^"^^^^ ^"^ ^^- -« -^ to bet^ 
 
 They were so happy and so young that they could afford 
 
 L^t? ^''"r "-^ '^'' ^l^ ^^ot'wishlDick to spe^k yefo? that 
 day that was looming m the distance. 
 
 She could only be sure of one summer at Glen Cot(ae-e- bnf 
 what a time they would have! She stood or a loni ^hi^e 
 
 m^r a^ern ons^'^^rt"^' ^^^^"'^ F ^°^^'^^^ ^^^^ o' -^- 
 Thl ■ \- n tenuis-ground was marked out already 
 
 m her imagination; the tea-table in its old place undei- the 
 trees; there was her mother knitting in her favorite wicker^ 
 frl'nds. ■' ^"''' ^"^"^ ""^ ^^^^''' ««rrounded bj theL 
 
 onLfurZ n-%' ?^°'- ^r y^^" ^oon-struck, or dreaming?- 
 questioned Dick, drawing her arm through his. - Do you re- 
 member what we have to do before luncheon? And Vigo 
 looks so impatient for his run. - But even Dick paused fo ?a 
 
 Tor'^Z^-''^r''^''^^ t?.«howNanthe roses she^had picked 
 lor him J ust there, and which still lay iu his pocket-bpok,
 
 NOT UKT. OTHER GIRLS. 385 
 
 All her old friends crowded round Nau to welcome her 
 back; and great were the rejoicings when they heard that Glen 
 Cottage was to be in the Challoners' possession again. Carrie 
 Paine and Adelaide Sartoris called first. Carrie embraced Nan 
 with tearful effusion: she was an honest, warm-hearted creat- 
 ure. But Adelaide looked at her a little curiously. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, the scandal that has been talked about you 
 all!^' she said, in a mysterious tone. " Carrie and I would 
 not believe it: could we. Car? We told people to hold their 
 tonguets and not talk such nonsense.'^ 
 
 " Never mind that now, Addie," returned Nan, cheerfully. 
 She felt she must be careful of what she said, for Dick's sake. 
 *' We have had our worries, and have worked as better people 
 have before us; but now it is all over." 
 
 " But is it true that your cousin. Sir Henry Challoner, has 
 bought Gilsbank?" broke in Carrie. " Tell us about him, 
 dear. Addie thought she saw him once. Is he a tall man 
 with red hair?'* 
 
 " Very red hair,'' responded Nan, laughing. 
 
 *' Then 1 did see him," replied Miss Sartoris, decidedly. 
 " He is quite a giant. Nan; but he looks very good-nat- 
 ured." 
 
 Miss Sartoris was just engaged to a dapper little colonel in 
 the hussars, so she could atford to be quizzed on the subject 
 of Sir Harry's inches; but Carrie, who was at present unat- 
 tached, was a little curious about the future master of Gils- 
 bank. 
 
 After this. Nan called at Fitzroy Lodge, and Dick went with 
 Iier. Lady Fitzroy, who was looking very pretty and deli- 
 cate, welcomed Nan with the greatest kindness. When Lord 
 Fitzroy came in with the rest of the gentlemen from hunting, 
 he questioned Nan very closely about their new neighbor. Sir 
 Henry Challoner, and made a great many kind inquiries after 
 his favorite. Miss Phillis. 
 
 " So we are to have you all back, eh?" he queried, pleas- 
 antly. " Well, 1 call that good news. I am bound that Evelyn 
 is as pleased to hear it as I am." 
 
 " I am very much pleased," returned Lady Fitzroy, gra- 
 ciously. " And you must tell your mother so, with my love. 
 Percival, will you ring for some more hot water, j^lease? 1 
 shall not be long: but I am going to take Miss Challoner up- 
 stairs to see our boy. " 
 
 Nan knew that a great privilege was being conferred on her 
 as she followed Lady Fitzroy into the grand nursery, where 
 the tiny heir lay in his bassinet.
 
 3§6 NOT LIKE OTHKn OTRtS. 
 
 " Is he nob just like Fitzroy?" exclaimed the proncl yonng 
 mother, as they stood looking down on the recl^ cruninlerl feat- 
 ures of the new-comer. " Nurse says she has never seen such 
 a striking likeness." 
 
 " He is a darling!" exclaimed Nan, who was, like other 
 girls, a devout baby- worshiper; then they discoursed very elo- 
 quently on his infantile beauties. 
 
 It was after this that Lady Fitzroy congratulated Nan on 
 her engagement, and kissed her in quite a sisterly way. 
 
 " Fitzroy and I do not think him half good enough for you,'* 
 she said, very prettily. " But no one who knows Mr. Mayue 
 can fail to like him, he is so thoroughly genuine and nice- 
 Will the engagement be a long one, Miss Challoner?" 
 
 " Not so very long," Nan returned, blushing. " Dick has 
 to read for honors; but when he has taken his degree his 
 father has promised to make things straight for us, while Dick 
 reads for the bar." 
 
 " He is to be a barrister, then?" asked Lady Fitzroy, in 
 surp:-ise. " You must not think me inquisitive, but I thought 
 Mr. Mayne was so very well off. " 
 
 " So he is," replied Nan, smiling — " quite rich, I believe; 
 but Dick would not like an idle life, and during his father's 
 life-time he can only expect a moderate income." 
 
 " You will live in London, then?" 
 
 " Oh, yes; 1 suppose so," was Nan's answer. " But we 
 have not talked much about that yet. Dick must work hard 
 for another year, and after that 1 believe things are to be set- 
 tled." And then Lady Fitzroy kissed her again, and they 
 went down-stairs. 
 
 Nan wrote home that she was feted like a queen, and that 
 Dick grumbled sadly at having her so little to himself; but 
 then Dick was much given to that sort of good-natured 
 gi'umbling. 
 
 The visit was necessarily a very brief one, as term-time was 
 ai)proachiug, and Dick had to go up to Oxford. On the last 
 morning he took Nan for a walk down to Sandy Lane. Vigo 
 and the other dogs were with them, and at the point where 
 the four roads met, Dick stopped and leaned his arms over a 
 gate. 
 
 " It will seem a long time to Easter, Nan," he said, rather 
 lugubriously. 
 
 " Oh, no," she replied brightly to this; " you will have my 
 letters — such long ones, Dick — and you know Mr. Mayne has 
 promise^ to bring Phillis and me down for a couple of days. 
 
 I
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 387 
 
 We are to stay at the Randolph, and of course we shall have 
 afternoon tea in your rooms." 
 
 " Yes; I will ask Hamilton and some of the other fellows 
 to meet you. I want all my friends to see you. Nan." And 
 as Dick thought of the glory of this introduction, and of the 
 enyy of Hamilton and the other fellows, his brow cleared and 
 his old spirits returneJ. 
 
 " I shall think of nothing but my work and those letters. 
 Nan," were his last words. " 1 am determined that next; 
 summer shall see you my wife." His voice dropped over the 
 last words almost shyly, but Nan saw a great brightuess come 
 into ills eyes. 
 
 " You must not work too hard," was all her answer to this, 
 AS she moved gently away from him. But her heart beat a 
 little faster at his words. No; she woukl only have another 
 summer at Glen Cottage. She knew that, and then the new 
 life would lie before them, which she and Dick were to live to- 
 gether. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIll. 
 
 JiRS. spaesit's poodle. 
 
 While Nan was being feted and petted at Longmead, Mat- 
 t!e's visit was dragging heavily to its close. Since the even- 
 ing of the tea-party things had been more unsatisfactory 
 than ever. 
 
 Archie and Grace were a good deal out. Grace was jier- 
 petually at the Friary, and Archie had resumed his old habit 
 of dropping in there for a morning or evening chat. Sir Harry 
 came almost daily, and often spent his disengaged hours with 
 them; but Mattie never saw him for a moment alone. Grace 
 was always in the room, and his conversation was chiefly ad- 
 dressed to her. When Mattie dropped sadly out of the talk, 
 or sat silent in her corner, he did not, in his old kind fashion, 
 try to include her in the conversation: indeed, he rarely noticed 
 her, except in his brief leave-taking. It hurt Mattie inexpress- 
 ibly to be thus ignored by her old friend, for from the first his 
 cordiality had had a sunshiny influence over her— he had 
 been so good to her, so thoughtful for her comfort, before 
 Grace oauie; but now he seemed to forget sometimes that such 
 a parson as Mattie even existed. Was it because Grace's fair, 
 j<erious face had bewitched him, or was there anything on his 
 mind? for more than once Mattie thought he seemed absent 
 and ill at ease. 
 
 Mattie could not understand it at all She was not ^ verjr
 
 9SS KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 acute little person, neither was she oversensitive by nature, 
 but this sudden coldness on Sir Harry's part was wounding and 
 perplexing in the extreme. Had she done anything to otfend 
 him? Mattie vrondered, or was he simply bored by her, as most 
 people were? 
 
 Once Archie had snubbed her very severely in his presence; 
 something had put him out, and he had spoken to Mattie as 
 though no one were present but their two selves. It was Grace 
 who called him so gently to order, and made hiQi feel ashamed 
 of himself. Sir Harry did not even seem to notice it: he had- 
 a paper in his hand, and he went on reading it. But as Mat- 
 tie left the room she heard him speaking to Grace in his usual 
 way about some political question or other. 
 
 Mattie cried bitterly in her room that day. Somehow, she 
 had never taken Archie's snubbing so much to heart before. 
 How could he speak to her like that? she thought. What 
 would Sir Harry think of her, and of him, too? Archie'j con- 
 science pricked him when be saw the traces of teai's on Mat- 
 tie's face that afternoon, and he was very kind to her all the 
 remainder of the day; but he did not apologize for hia 
 words; no one ever did apologize to Mattie. But to his sur- 
 prise, and Grace's too, Mattie's sad face did not clear. 
 
 It was her last afternoon but one at the vicarage, and Mat- 
 tie was sitting alone. All the morning she and Grace had 
 been packing together, for Grace, in her sensible way, had 
 begged her sister not to leaTe things for the last day.' It 
 would tire her for her Journey, she said; and the Challoners 
 were coming to spend Mattie's last evening with her at the 
 vicarage; and there were the Middletous probably coming for 
 an afternoon visit, and so Mattie had better kee23 herself free 
 for her friends. Mattie had assented to this, and she had 
 been very grateful to Grace for all the help she had given her. 
 Her boxes were ready for cording, and her little parting gifts 
 for the servants laid ready labeled in her drawers, and noth- 
 ing remained for her busy hands to do. 
 
 It was a cold, cheerless afternoon; a cutting north wind 
 and a gray cloudy sky made the fireside all the more tempt- 
 ing by comj5arison; but Mattie knew there was one duty un- 
 fulfilled that she ought to perform. She had promised to call 
 and say good-bye to an old acquaintance of hers who lived at 
 Eock Building. 
 
 Mrs. Chamberlain was not a favorite with most people: 
 she was an invalid of somewhat uncertain temper, and most 
 of her friends felt her society an infliction on their patience. 
 Mattie, who was very good-natured, had often done kindly lit-
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 389 
 
 tie offices for her, sitling wiili her for an hour or two at a 
 time, and teaching her some new stitch, to beguile her tedious 
 and often painful days. 
 
 Mrs. Chamberhain would feel herself aggrieved if Mattie dis- 
 appointed her. And she never had stayed at home for the 
 weather; only she was lazy — tired, perhaps, from her packing 
 — and reluctant to move. 
 
 Sir Harry was in the study, she knew; she had heard his 
 voice some time ago. He often turned in there of his own 
 accord, or perhaps Archie had waylaid him and brought him 
 in, for they were excellent friends now; Grace was there, of 
 course, but Mattie had hesitated to join them: none of them 
 wanted her, she said bitterly to herself. 
 
 A dim hope that Grace might come in search of her, or that 
 even Sir Henry m'ght saunter in by and by and ask for a 
 cup of tea in his old way, had kept Mattie in her place; but 
 now it was getting a little late, and perhaps after all Grace 
 would ring, and have the tea in there, as she had done once be- 
 fore; and it was no use waiting. And so, when Mattie reached 
 this poiut, she hurried upstairs and put on her hat and thick 
 jacket, and then, after a moment's hesitation, opened the 
 stuily door. 
 
 It was just the scene she pictured. Sir Harry was in the 
 big chair in front of the blazing fire, and Grace in her low 
 wicker seat, facing him, with a Chinese screen in her hand. 
 Archie v/as standing on the rug, with his elbow against the 
 narrow wooden mautel-i^iece, and all three were talking mer- 
 rily. Sir Harry stopped in the middle of a laugh as Mattie 
 entered, and shook hands with her a little gravely. 
 
 " How comfortable you all look I''' faltered Mattie. The 
 words came in spite of her efforts not to say them. 
 
 " Then come and join us," returned Archie, with unusual 
 affability. " Grace was just wondering what you were doing. " 
 
 " I v.us in the drawing-room alone. Ko, I can not sife 
 down, Archie, thank you. I am just going to bid old Mrs. 
 Chamberlain good-bye; she is expecting me, and I must not 
 disappoint her.'' 
 
 " Oh, but it is not fit for you," remonstrated Grace. " Sir 
 Harry says the wind is piercing. Do put off your visit until 
 to-morrow, Mattie, and we will go together." 
 
 " Fy, Miss Grace! never put off until to-morrow what can 
 be done to-day," observed Sir Harry, in his joking voice. 
 " What is it the copy-books say? Is it procrastination or 
 money that is the root of all evil?" 
 
 " Sir Harry is quite right, and I must go," stammered Mat-
 
 390 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 tie, made quite desperate by this joke; he knew how the wind 
 was sweeping over the gray sea, and yet he had not said a 
 word about her remaining. Poor Mattiel a miserable choking 
 feeling came into her throat as she closed the door on another 
 laugli and struggled along in the teeth of the wind. Another time 
 she would not have minded it, for she was hardy by nature; but 
 now the cold seemed to freeze her very heart; she looked quite 
 blue and j^inched when she entered Mrs. Chamberlain's draw- 
 ing-room. It seemed to Mattie as though hours had passed 
 before she brought her visit to a close, and yet she had been 
 sitting there only thiee quarters of an hour before she took her 
 leave. "J'he old lady was very gracious this afternoon; she 
 pressed Mattie again and again to wait a little until Sallie 
 brought up the tea and a nice hot cake she was baking. But 
 Mattie steadily refused even these tempting delicacies: she was 
 not cold any longer, she said; but it was growing late, or the 
 afternoon was darker than usual. And then she wished her 
 old friend good-bye — oh, good-bye for such a long time. Mat- 
 tie thought — and sallied forth bravely into the v/ind again. 
 
 It had lulled a little, but the scene before her was very des- 
 olate; just the gray expanse of sea, with the white line of surge 
 breaking into the shore, and here and there a wave tossing up 
 its foiimy head in the distance. The air seemed full of that 
 coutinuoiis low rolling and splashing of breakers on the beach; 
 a sea-gull was flying inland; the Parade looked white and 
 wind-bleached — not a creature in sight but a coast-gnard on 
 duty, moving backward and forward in a rather forlorn man- 
 ner, except — Here Mattie turned her head quickly, yes, a 
 little beyond there was a man in a rough pilot's coat, looking 
 out seaward — a nautical man, Mattie thought, by the way ho 
 stood, as though summer gales were blowing about his ears. 
 
 Mattie passed quite close to him, for the wind drifted her a 
 little as she did so. He turned coolly round and confronted 
 her. 
 
 " Sir Harry! Oh, I did not know you in the least,'' fal- 
 tered Mattie, standing still in her surprise. 
 
 "1 dare say not," he replied, quietly: "you have never 
 seen me in this costume before, and I had my back turned 
 toward you. I saw you coming, though, walking as unsteadily 
 as a duck in a storm. What a time you have been. Miss Mat- 
 tiel You ladies are so fond of a gossip." 
 
 " Were you waiting for me?" she asked, rather breath- 
 lessly, and then colored painfully at her question. How ab- 
 surd! Of course he was not waiting for her; his hotel was; 
 just opposite, and he was probably taking a constitutional 1>Q-
 
 i NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 391 
 
 fore his dinner. " Mrs. Chaniberlain pressed me to take tea 
 with her/'* she went on, bj way of saying someihiug, " but I 
 told her I would rather go home." 
 
 " Miss Grace was just ringing for tea when 1 left," he re- 
 turned. " No wonder you loolv cold or like a starved robin. 
 Miss Mattie. Why are you walking so fast? there is no hur- 
 ry, is there? I think you owe me some amends for keeping 
 me standing for an hour in this bitter wind. There! why don't 
 you take my arm and hold on, or you will be blown away?" 
 
 Mattie ahva3's did as she was bidden, and Sir Harrys tone 
 was a little peremptory. He had been waiting for her, then; 
 he had not quite forgotten her. Mattie began to feel a little 
 less chilled and numb. If he would only say a kind word to 
 her, she thought, she could go away more happily. 
 
 " 1 am thinking about that rejected cup o! tea," he said, 
 suddenly, when they had walked for a moment in silence: " it 
 will be all cleared away at the vicarage, and you do look so 
 cold, Miss Mattie." 
 
 " Oh, no, not very," she corrected. 
 
 " But 1 say that you do-" he jiersisted, in qnite a deter- 
 mined manner: "you are cold and tired and miserable — 
 there!" 
 
 " I — 1 am not particularly miserable;" but there were 
 tears in Mattie's voice as she uttered this little fib. " I don't 
 quite like going away and saying good-b3'e to people." 
 
 " Won't your people be kind to you?" Then changing his 
 tone, " I tell you what. Miss Mattie, no one is in a hurry for 
 you at home, and 1 don't see why we should not enjoy our- 
 selves. You remember my old friend Mrs. Sparsit, who 
 lives up at Rose Cottage — you know I saved her poodle from 
 drowning one rough day, when some boys got hold of it: well, 
 Mrs. Sparsit and 1 are first-rate friends, and 1 will ask her to 
 give us some tea." 
 
 " Oh, no," faltered Mattie, quite shocked at this; for what 
 would Grace say? " 1 only know Mrs. Sparsit a very little." 
 
 " What does that matter?" returned Sir Harry, obstinately: 
 " 1 am always dropping in myself for a chat. Now, it is no 
 use your making any objection. Miss Mattie, for 1 have got a 
 lot to say to you, and I don't mean to part with you yet. 
 They will only think you are still at Rock Building, and I 
 suppose you are old enough to act without Miss Grace's advice 
 sometimes." 
 
 Mattie hung her head without replying to this. "What a 
 feeble, helpless sort of creature he must tbink her! his voice 
 seemed to express a good-humored sort of contempt. Well,
 
 393 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 lie was right; she was old enough to do as she pleased, and she 
 would like very much to go with him to Mrs. Sparsit's. It was 
 rather a reckless proceeding, perhaps; but Mattie was too 
 down aud miserable to argue it out, so she walked beside Sir 
 Harry in a perfectly unresisting manner. Perhaps this was 
 the last time she would enjoy his company for a long time: 
 she must make the most of it. 
 
 " We need not walk quite so fast,^' he said, checking her, 
 for she was hurrying again. " Look here. Miss Mattie, I 
 want to ask you a queer sort of question, if only this con- 
 founded wind will let me make myself heard. Please don't 
 laugh; I don't want to be laughed at, for I am quite in ear- 
 nest. But have you any special objection to red hair? I mean, 
 do you particularly dislike it?" 
 
 Mattie opened her eyes rather widely at this. " No, 1 rather 
 like it/'' she returned, without a moment's hesitation, and 
 quite in the dark as to his possible meaning. 
 
 " Oh, that is all right," ho returned, cheerfully. " You 
 won't believe it. Miss Mattie, but, though I am such a great 
 big fellow, I am as bashful as anything; and I have always 
 had a fancy that no one would have me because of my red 
 hair." 
 
 " What an idea!" observed Mattie, with a little laugh, for 
 she thought this so droll, and had not the dimmest idea of his 
 real purpose in asking her such a question. 
 
 " Don't laugh, please," he remonstrated, " for I am quite 
 serious; 1 never was more serious in ray life; for this sort of 
 thing is so awkward for a fellow. Then, Miss Mattie, you 
 won't say * .No ' to me?" 
 
 Mattie starsd; but Sir Harry's face, red and embarrassed as 
 it was, gave her no clow to his meaning. 
 
 " 1 don't think you understand me," he said, a little impa- 
 tiently; " and yet 1 am sure I am putting it very plainly. You 
 don't object to me, do you. Miss Mattie? 1 am sure I will 
 do my best to make you happy. Gilsbank is a pretty place, 
 and we shall have Aunt Catherine and the girls near us. We 
 shall all be as merry as larks, it you will only promise to marry 
 me, for I have liked vou from the first; I have indeed. Miss 
 Mattie." 
 
 Sir Harry was a gentleman, in spite of his rough ways. He 
 understood in a moment, when Mattie's answer to this was a 
 very feeble clutch at his arm, as though her strength were de- 
 serting her. What with the sudden surprise of these words, 
 and the force of the wind, the poor little woman felt herself 
 reeling.
 
 NOT LIKE OTIinR GIBLS. 393 
 
 " Stand bore for a moment, and 1 will shelter you from the 
 wind. No, don't speak; just hold on, and keep quiet: there 
 is no hurry, j^o one shall scold you, if 1 can help it. 1 am a 
 little afraid " — speaking as gently as to a child — " that I have 
 been a little rough and sudden with you. Do you feel faint? 
 I never saw you look sd pale. What a thoughtless brute I 
 have been!" 
 
 '* No— oh, no," pauted Mattie; " only 1 am so giddy, and 
 — so happy." The last words were half whispered, but he 
 caught them. " Are you sure you really mean this. Sir 
 Harry?" 
 
 " As sure as that the wind blows," he returned, cheerfully. 
 " Well, that's settled. You ami I are to be in the same boat 
 for good and all— eh, Miss Mattie? Now let us walk on, and 
 I won't say another word until we reach Mrs. Sparsit's." 
 
 Perhaps he had taken this resolution because he saw that 
 Mattie found speech impossible. Her very footsteps tottered 
 as she struggled against the opposing wind. Only the arm on 
 which she leaned seemed to give her strength; and yet Mattie 
 no longer shivered in the cutting blasL She was no longer 
 cold and numb and desolate. Something wonderful and in- 
 credible and altogether unreal had befallen her — something 
 that had turned her dizzy with happiness, and which she could 
 not in the least believe. All she knew was that he had told 
 her that no one should scold her now. 
 
 "Here we are!" exclaimed Sir Harry, stopping at a trim 
 little cottage, with a side view of the sea; "and, by Jove! 
 there is the poodle himself at the window. How do you do, 
 Mrs. Sparsit?" as a jDleasant, wrinkled dame appeared on the 
 threshold. "You know Miss Drummond, I believe? though 
 not as well as you know me. How is Popples? Oh, there you 
 are, old fellow — ready to give me your paw, as usual! Look 
 at him. Miss Mattie! Now, Mrs. Sparsit," in a coaxing 
 voice, " this lady is dreadfully tired; and I know your kettle 
 is boiling—" bat here Mrs. Sparsit interrupted him: 
 
 Oh, yes, indeed. Sir Harry; and you shall have some tea 
 directly. Dear me. Miss Drummond, you do look poorly, to 
 be sure! Let me stir the fire a little, and draw out the couch. 
 Bettio has gone out to see her sick mother. Sir Harry; but if 
 you don't mind my leaving you a minute, while 1 just brew 
 the tea—" And without waiting for his answer, the worthy 
 creature bustled olf to her tiny kitchen, leaving Popples to 
 entertain her guests. 
 
 Sir Harry closed the door, and then he helped Mattie to di-
 
 394 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 vest herself of lier,warm jacket, and placed her in a snug cor- 
 ner of the old-fashioued couch. 
 
 " You will be all right directly/' he said, as he sat down 
 beside her. " The wind was too strong, and I was a little 
 sudden; wasn't I, Mattie?" And now the color began to 
 come into Mattie's face. 
 
 Sir Harry fcund plenty to tell her as Mrs. Sparsit brewed 
 the tea and prepared the hot buttered cakes. 
 
 Mattie shed tears of pure happiness when she heard from 
 his own lips how good and unselfish and amiable he thought 
 her, and how he had liked her from the first in a sort of way 
 — " not quite the right way, you know," explained Sir Harry, 
 candidly; " but every one was so hard on you, and you bore it 
 so well, and were such a good little woman, that I quite longed 
 to stand your friend; and we were friends— were we not, Mat- 
 tie? And then somehow it came to me what a nice little wife 
 you would make; and so—" but here Mattie timidly inter- 
 rupted him: 
 
 " But Grace — I thought j'ou liked Grace best!" 
 
 Sir Harry laughed outright at this; but he had the grace to 
 look ashamed of himself: 
 
 " So I did like her very much; but I was only trying you, 
 Mattie. 1 was not sure how much you liked me; but you 
 seemed such a miserable little Cinderella among them all that 
 I could hardly keep it up. If they snub you now they will 
 have to answer to me." And at this moment Mrs. Sparsit 
 entered with the tea-tray. 
 
 Dinner was nearly over at the vicarage when Mattie's step 
 was heard in the hall. Archie, who was the soul of punctu- 
 ality, frowned a little when the sound reached his ear. 
 
 " This is too bad of Mattie," he said, rather fretfully. 
 *' She has no right to put us to such inconvenience. I sup- 
 pose we must have the fish up again?" 
 
 " Miss Drummond desires that you will go on with your din- 
 ner, sir," observed the maid, entering at that moment. " She 
 has had a late tea, and will not require anything more." 
 
 " Very strange!" fumed Archie; but lie was a little pacified 
 by the message. But Grace slightly elevated her eyebrows 
 with an expression of surprise. Such independence was new 
 in Mattie. 
 
 The brother and sister had adjourned to the drawing-room, 
 and Archie was about to ring for his coffee before Mattie 
 made her appearance. 
 
 Grace uttered a little exclamation when she saw her sister: 
 
 " My dear Mattie, we have no visitors coming in this even-
 
 SrOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. §95 
 
 ing! Why have you put on your best gown? You exlrava- 
 gaut child!" for Maltie had come into the room rusth'ng in 
 her green silk dress, and her little dark face glowing from the 
 wind. " She looked almost pretty/' as Grace said afterward; 
 but at her sister's quizzical observation Mattie blushed and 
 seemed confused. 
 
 " It is no use saving it," she began. " Sir Harry is com- 
 ing in by and by. And, oh, Archie! he told me to say it, but 
 1 don't know how to do it." And then, to Archie's intense 
 surprise — for she had never done such a thing in her life — she 
 suddenly threw her arms round his neck. "' Oh. Archie! he 
 says you are never to scold me again — any of you,*' she sob- 
 bed, " because I belong to him now. And he — Sir Harry, 1 
 mean — is so good to me, and I am so happy. And won't you 
 wish me joy, both of you? And what — what will mother 
 say?" finished Mattie, as though this were the climax of every- 
 thing. 
 
 " Good heavens, Mattie!'* gasped Archie; but he did not 
 shake her off: on the contrary, he kissed her very kindly. 
 " Do you mean you are going to marry Sir Harry Challoner?" 
 
 " He means to marry me," returned Mattie, smiling in 
 spite of her tears; and then Grace came forward and took her 
 in her arms. 
 
 "I am so glad, dear Mattie," she whispered, soothingly. 
 *' Of course we none of us expected it, and we are all very 
 much surprised. Oh, dear! how happy mother will be!" 
 
 " I tell you what," exclaimed Archie, in great excitement, 
 " 1 will take you down myself to Lowder Street, and see what 
 she says. They will all be out of their senses with joy; and, 
 upon my word, Mattie, I never was so pleased about anything 
 in my life. He is a right down good fellow, I am sure of that; 
 and you are not such a bad little thing yourself, Mattie. 
 There!" 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 MATTIE IN HER NEW CHARACTER. 
 
 The family at Lowder Street were all gathered together 
 when the travelers made their appearance. There was a gen- 
 eral shout of delight when Archie's face peered in at them 
 from the dusky hall over Mattie's shoulder. Mrs. Drum- 
 mond's thin face flushed with the unexpected pleasure. 
 
 " Oh, Archie! my dear boy, I never thought you would sur- 
 prise us in this way!" she said, throwing down her work with 
 tremulous bauds. She kissed Mattie affectionately, but that
 
 396 NOT TJKE OTTJT-.-k GIRLS. 
 
 dark glow of tenderness in her eyes was for A.rcliie. In spite 
 of her ordinary uudemoustrativeness, she seldom spoke to him 
 without that involuntary softening of her voice. However 
 much she loved her other children, her maternal passion was 
 reserved for her first-born son. 
 
 ".How nanghty of you to steal a march on us in this man- 
 ner!" she said, playfully. " We have only prepared a meat- 
 tea for Mattie, because 1 knew she would not mind; but if you 
 had telegrajihed I would have had dinner ready for you, 
 Archie." 
 
 " Stuff! nonsense! why need he have telegraphed? I sup- 
 pose what is good enough for Mattie and the rest of us is good 
 enough for Archie!" 
 
 Mr. Drummoud spoke testily as he put down the paper. 
 These hints about the late dinners always nettled him. His 
 renunciation of them years ago had been a heavy piece of self- 
 denial, for he was a man rather fond of creature comforts; he 
 had done it for his children's sake; but it was more than tlesh 
 and blood could bear that this renounced luxury should be 
 served for his son's benefit. Was he not as good as Archie, 
 though he had not been to a University and become a fellow 
 of his college? 
 
 " Father is quite right," returned Archie, cheerfully. " I 
 would not telegraph, because I wanted to surprise you; and I 
 knew you were such a good manager, mother, that you would 
 ha7e plenty of aired sheets ready for my bed. Of course what 
 is good enough for Mattie is right for me. As we are both 
 as hungry as hunters, we shall do justice to anything you have 
 prepared." 
 
 " There is only some cold meat and some ham and eggs,'* 
 observed Mrs. Drummond, a little plaintively. She did not 
 dare auger her husband further by proposing even a chop, for 
 she knew how touchy he was about Archie's fastidiousness; 
 but if she could have had her own way she would have killed 
 the fatted calf for this dearest sou. Nothing was too good for 
 him in her eyes; and yet for the sake of tranquillity she dared 
 not even hazard the question of a chop. 
 
 " Cold meat — that is just what 1 should like," replied 
 Archie, with excellent sang-froid. He detested that stock 
 dish of the Lowder Street larder, ham and eggs. The eggs 
 were dubious, he considered — not actually new-laid, but a lit- 
 tle suggestive of lime. " But, there! you must not give me 
 all your attention, mother," he continued. " I have brought 
 Mattie home, you see, and you have never told her even how 
 she looks."
 
 NOT LIK-R OTHER GIRLg. 391? 
 
 " She looks very well," replied Mrs. DrummoiuL In spite 
 of her anxiety about Archie, she had been looking at her 
 daughter more than onoe with puzzled eyes. There was some- 
 thing different about her, she thought. It was hardly like 
 Mattie to come in so quietly among them all and take her place 
 beside her father. Mattie seldom did anything without a fuss; 
 it was her ordinary way to staui among thim chattering as 
 fast as her tongue would go, until some one reminded her that 
 it was time for her to take off her hat and jacket, or she would 
 be late for tea. But to-night Mattie had hardly oijened her 
 lips, except to answer her father's questions about the jour- 
 ney. She had kissed her sisters very quietly, and had asked 
 after Isabel, and had then proposed of her own accord to go 
 upstairs. 
 
 " Clara, go up with your sister. No, not Laura; you will 
 all get chattering, and then we shall be kept waiting. Is-abel 
 is upstairs, Archie: she has come in to sit with us this even- 
 ing, as Ellis has to go to a business dinner. He will call for 
 her on his way." 
 
 " I am very glad she is here," returned Archie, " for 1 have 
 to go back by the early train to-morrow. Ah, there she is. 
 Well, how are you, Belle?" greeting her affectionately as she 
 came up to him rather shyly. Archie could hardly help smil- 
 ing at the contrast between Isabel's brilliant evening toilet and 
 his other sister's stuff' dress. It was a little trying to his grav- 
 ity to see her putting on such pretty little airs of matronly 
 dignity. Mrs. Ellis Burton was an important person now; 
 that was sutKciently obvious; the plump little figure was most 
 lavishly adorned. But the round, childish face was certainly 
 very pretty; and as every other sentence brought in " Ellis," 
 and as Ellis's opinion appeared always right in her eyes, 
 Archie deduced that his sister was satisfied with her choice. 
 
 *' Oh, dear, Mattie! how droll it is to see you homo again!' 
 exclaimed Susie, who was noted for making awkward speeches, 
 *' And how funny you look beside Isabel!" 
 
 " We are very glad to have her back," returned Mrs. Drum- 
 mond, in her repressive tones. She was just refilling her tea- 
 pot from the urn, but she found opportunity to shake her head 
 at Susie. " People do not generally look smart in their trav- 
 eling-dress; but 1 think she looks very nice. Had you not a 
 commoner gown, my dear? That looks almost too good for 
 the purpose;" for Mrs, Drummond's sense of economy was a 
 little shocked by perceiving that Mattie's gown was a new one. 
 
 *' It is very well made," observed Isabel, critically, " 1 anr^
 
 398 KOT LIKE OTHER /5IRLS. 
 
 SO glad, Maltie, that you have given up that hideous plaid: it 
 never suited you/' 
 
 " If 1 had been you, I would have traveled in it," persisted 
 Mrs. Drummoiid, who never could remember that Mattie was 
 over thirty, aud might possibly have opinions of her own. 
 Archie listened to all this with great amusement. 
 " Don't you think it is about time 1 started a pleasanter 
 subject, Mattie?" he asked, laughing. "Have you finished 
 your tea, my dear? for I do not want to spoil your appetite; 
 biit^time is getting on, and—'' here he glanced at the clock. 
 
 Every one stared at this, for Archie had never spoken in ex- 
 actly that way to Mattie before; and, as he did so, Mattie'a 
 cheeks were burning. But what was their surprise when 
 Archie suddenly rose from his seat and laid his hand kindly on 
 Mattie's shoulder! 
 
 " She is too shy to tell you herself; I have come all these 
 miles to doit for her. Isabel, you need not look so conse- 
 quential. Ellis is a good fellow, I dare say, but our little Mat- 
 tie has done better than even you. Mother, you have achieved 
 a success in one of your seven daughters: let me introduce to 
 you the future Lady Challoner!" And then, still keeping his 
 hand upon her shoulder, he looked blandly round on them all. 
 " Well, 1 am sure!'' from Isabel, half pouting; but no one 
 else spoke except Mr. Brummond : 
 
 " What does this mean, Archie? Can't you speak for your- 
 self, my cirl? Is this a joke? Does he mean something 
 amusing?" asked the father; but his lip quivered a httle: if 
 it should be true— if it were no joke! 
 
 ''It is just as Archie says!'' replied Mattie, timidly, not 
 darnig to raise her eyes. " Sir Harry asked me to marry 
 him, and T said yes, because— because he was always so good 
 to me." And here Mattie laughed a little hysterically. 
 " And I did not think you would object, father." 
 
 "Me object!" replied Mr. Drummond, oblivious of gram- 
 mar just then. "Why, my little Mattie, what news is this? 
 Come here and_ kiss me, my girl. 1 am proud of you; I am 
 delighted to think a daughter of mine is going to make such 
 a splendid match. Why don't you speak to her, my dear?" 
 addressing his wife, with some excitement. " Bless my soul! 
 —Lady Challoner; my plain little Mattie Lady Challoner! Is 
 it possible? Why, you were telling us_, Archie, what a Croesus 
 this Sir Henry was, and how he had just bought quite a fine 
 place for himself." 
 
 '_' Mattie, come here. " Her children could hardly recognize 
 their mother's voice, it was so broken, aud the tears were run-
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 399 
 
 ning down her clieeks, though not one of them remembered 
 seeing her cry before, Mattie never felt her triumph greater, 
 never understood the magnificence of her own success, until 
 she saw those tears, and felt the presence of her mother's arms 
 round her. Never since the child Mattie had had to make 
 way for the new-born brother, and had toddled away with the 
 never-fofgotten words, " Mammy's arms are full; no room 
 for Mattie now," had she laid her head upon that mother's 
 shoulder to indulge in the good cry that was needed to relieve 
 her. Isabel looked almost affronted as she twirled her dia- 
 mond rings round her plump fingers. AVheu she and Ellis had 
 been engaged, her mother had not made all this fuss. And 
 Mattie was such an old thing; and it was so ridiculous; and 
 her father seemed on the verge of crying too. " But, then," 
 as Susie said afterward, " Belle did not like her consequence 
 to be set aside; and she and Ellis were just nobodies at all." 
 
 No one enjoyed the scene so much as Archie: that was how 
 his mother ought to be with her girls. Nevertheless^ he in- 
 terrupted them ruthlessly: 
 
 " Don't make your eyes too red, Mattie: remember who 
 will be in by and by." And as she started up at this and be' 
 gan to smooth her rumpled hair, he explained to them gener- 
 ally that they had not traveled alone; Sir Harry had accom- 
 ptmied them to Leeds, and was at present dining, he believed, 
 at the Star Hotel, where he had bespoken a room. " He 
 thought it best to make himself known personally to you; and, 
 as Mattie raised no objection, he announced his intention of 
 calling this evening — " but before Archie could finish his 
 sentence or the awe-struck domestic announce him properly. 
 Sir Harry himself was among them all, shaking hands with 
 everybody, down to Dottie. 
 
 And reallv, for a shy man, he did his part very well; he 
 seemed to take his welcome for granted, and beamed on them 
 all most genially. 
 
 " I suppose the parson has already introduced me," he said, 
 when Mr. Drummond senior held out his hand. " What a lot 
 of you there are!" he continued, as he reached Dottie, who, 
 dreadfully frightened at his size, tried to hide behind Susie. 
 Dottie co/npared him in her own mind to one of their favorite 
 giants. '• He was so dreadfully like Fee-fo-fum in ' Jack the 
 Gia:it-Killer,' " she pouted, when Mattie afterward took her 
 to task: " when he kissed me I thought he was going to eat; 
 me up." 
 
 ^ Mattie's dark little face lighted up with shy happiness when 
 she saw him sit down beside her mother and talk to her in his
 
 400 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 frank, pleasant way. In her eyes he was notliing less tlian an 
 angel of light. 'L'rue, the room had never looked so small 
 and shabbj' as it looked to-night, but what did that mattti' to 
 Mattie? the poor little Cinderella in the brown gown had 
 found her prince. By and by the pumpkin coach would fetch 
 her to a grand house, she would have jewels and fine clothes 
 — everything that the heart of woman could desire; but ifc 
 may be doubted if such thoughts ever crossed Mattie's mind. 
 That he had chosen her, this was the miracle; that she was 
 never to be scolded and laughed at and teased; that he had 
 Blooped to her, this noble, great-hearted man, to raise her from 
 ber humbleiifiss; that he could care for her, in spite of her 
 plainness and her many faults. No wonder if such happiness 
 almost beautified Mattie, as she sat a little apart, surrounded 
 by her young sisters, 
 
 Mrs. Drummond's stern face glov/ed with pleasure when Sir 
 Harry in a few simple words spoke to her of his pride in win- 
 niiig her daughter. Could it be her homely, old-fashioned lit- 
 tle Mattie of whom he was speaking, whose unselfishness and 
 goodnes he praised so highly? " I have never known a more 
 beautiful nature: she does not seem to rae to have an unkind 
 thought of any one. All my cousins love her. If you will 
 trust her to me, 1 think 1 can promise, as far as a man can, 
 that her life shall be a happy one," ISio wonder if the moth- 
 er's eyes filled with joyous tears at such words as these. 
 
 " Mattie, dear," said Sir Harry to her the next day, when 
 they found themselves alone-— a rather difficult thing to achieve 
 in the crowded household, but Mrs. Drummond had just left 
 the room — " I have been talking to your mother. She is a 
 sensible woman, aiid she thinks in six weeks everything can 
 be ready. What do you say?" 
 
 " If mother thinks so, I suppose she is right," returned 
 Mattie, very much confused by this sudden appeal to her opin- 
 ion. Sir Harry had already importuned for a speedy mar- 
 riage, and she had in much trepidation referred him to her 
 mother, feeling herself unequal to the task of answering him. 
 
 " Yes, your mother is a sensible woman," continued Sir 
 Harry, taking no notice of her confusion. " She knows that 
 a great house full of servants is more than a man can manage 
 alone; and so, as 1 told her that Gilsbank was ready, and its 
 master waiting, she was quite of my opinion that there should 
 be no delay. You see, Mattie," in a tone of great gentle- 
 ness, " though I am very fond of you, 1 can not help feeling 
 stifled in a small house full of people. There is no getting 
 you to myself, or being comfortablsj and a man of my sizQ
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 401 
 
 feels out of place among a lot of girls. So, if you are willing, 
 as of course you are/' very coaxiugly, " and I am willing, we 
 may as well get the thing over. It takes a good deal out of a 
 fellow to go through this sort of thing properly, and I don't 
 fancy 1 hit it off well: so we will say this day six weeks. And 
 to-morrow you will be a good little woman, and let me go back 
 to my comfortable quarters at Hadleigh, for one breathes only 
 smoke here; and how you have borne it all these years is a 
 mystery to me." 
 
 So Mattie let him go cheerfully. She had never been selfish 
 in her life, and of course she spoke no word to dissuade him; 
 but, though she had but few letters from him, and those of 
 the briefest possible kind— for Sir Harry was not fond of pen- 
 manship—those six weeks were far from being unhappy. 
 How could they be, when they were all so good to her, Mattie 
 thought? when hei opinion was deferred to even by her moth- 
 er, and when her brothers and sisters treated her with such re- 
 spect and affection? 
 
 Mattie had no sense of the ludicrous, or she would have 
 laughed at the change in Clyde's tone, or at the way Fred 
 boxed Dottie's ears for speaking rudely to Mattie. In their 
 eyes the future Lady Challouer was a person of the utmost 
 importance. The boys vied with each other in waiting on her; 
 the girls were always ready with their little services. Mattie 
 felt herself almost overwhelmed sometimes. 
 
 " Oh, mother, ask them not to do it!" she said one day, 
 with tears in her eyes. " I am only Mattie; I am not differ- 
 ent; I never shall be different. I shall want to wait on you 
 all my life — on you and all of them!" 
 
 " It is for them to wait on you more!" returned her moth- 
 er, gravely. " 1 am afraid they have not always been good to 
 you, and they want to make up for it." 
 
 But not all the attentions she received could move Mattie 
 from her own humble estimate of herself; and yet in some 
 ways, if she could have seen herself, she would have owned 
 there was a difference. Mattie no longer fussed and fidgeted: 
 always sweet-uatured, she grew placid in her new happiness. 
 
 " i consider myself a fortunate fellow, for I have the dearest 
 little wife in the world," Sir Harry said to her a few days after 
 they were married, when Mattie had, as usual, said something 
 disparaging of herself. " Never mind what you think, so 
 long as I am sptisfied; and it is very rude of you to be always 
 finding fault with my choice — ay, Lady Challonerl"
 
 402 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 PHILLIS'S FAVORITE MONTH. 
 
 Archie had been persuaded to remain until the following 
 evening, and to taiie the night mail up to London. "You 
 know you always sleep so soundly in a railway carriage," his 
 mother had said, with her eyes full of pleading. 
 
 " Perhaps so; but all the same it is dreary work to be 
 shunted on to a platform in the middle of the night, and to 
 have to find your way across London to catch a Sussex train." 
 
 But, in spite of his grumbling, he had lemained. For once 
 it was difficult to tear himself away from that happy family 
 party. 
 
 But all through that night he scarcely closed his eyes, but 
 sat staring at the swinging lamp and his drowsy fellow-pas- 
 sengers, or out into the blank wall of darkness, too wide awake 
 and full of thought to lose himself in his usual placid slum- 
 bers. The fortunes of the Jjrummond family seemed rit^ing a 
 little, he thought, with pleasure, llow alert and full of 
 energy his father had seemed when he had parted from him at 
 the station! lie had lost that subdued, despondent look that had 
 grown on him of late. Even his shoulders were a little less 
 bowed, as though the burden did not press quite so heavily. 
 
 " All this makes a great difference to me, Archie,*' he had 
 said, as they had walked to and fro on the platform. " Two such 
 wealthy sons-in-law ought to satisfy any father's ambition. 1 
 can hardly believe yet that my little Mattie — whom her sisters 
 always called ' the old maid ' — should have secured such a prize. 
 If it had been Grace, now, one need not have wondered so 
 much." 
 
 "You may leave Grace out of your reckoning," returned 
 Archie, smiling assent to this, " and consider you have three 
 out of your seven daughters provided for; for Grace will al- 
 ways be my care. Whatever happens in the future, 1 think I 
 can promise as much as that." 
 
 " Ay, ay! I remember when she was a little thing she al- 
 ways called herself Archie's wife. Well, well, the mother 
 must bring on Clara now: it would be a shame to separate you 
 two. Look, there is your train, my boy! Jump in, and God 
 bless you! You willcomedown to the wedding, of course, and 
 bring Grace. " 
 
 " Archie's wife." It was these two words that were keep- 
 ing him 80 wide awake in the rushing darkness, A dusky
 
 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 403 
 
 flush mounted to the youtig man's forehead as he pondered 
 over them. 
 
 He knew himself better now. Only a few weeks, scarcely 
 more than a fortnight, had passed since Grace had given him 
 that hint; but each day since then had done the work of 
 years. Caught at the rebound, indeed, and that so securely 
 and strongly that the man's heart could never waver from ita 
 fixed purpose again. 
 
 Now it was that he wondered at his blindness; that he be- 
 gan to question with a perfect anguish of doubt whether he 
 should be too late; whether his vacillation and that useless 
 dream of his would hinder the fulfillment of what was now 
 his dearest hope. 
 
 Would he ever bring her to believe that he had never really 
 loved her before — not, at least, as he coulrl love now? Would 
 he ever dare to tell her so, when she had known and under- 
 stood that first stray fancy of his for Xau's sweet face? 
 
 Kow, as day after day he visited the cottage and talked 
 apart with her mother, his eyes would follow Phillis wistfully. 
 Once the girl had looked up from her work and caught thaf; 
 long, watchful glance; and then she had grown suddenly very 
 pale, and a pained expression crossed her face, as though she 
 had been troubled. 
 
 Since that night when the young vicar had stood bareheaded 
 on the snowy steps, and had told Phillis laughingly that one 
 day she would find it out for herself that all men were mas- 
 terful, and she had run down the steps flashing back that dis- 
 dainful look at him, he had felt there was a change in her 
 manner to him. 
 
 They had been such good friends of late; it had become r 
 habit with him to turn to Phillis when he wanted sympathy. 
 A silent, scarcely perceptible understanding had seemed to 
 draw them together; but in one moment, at a word, a mere 
 light jest of his that meant nothing, the girl had become all 
 at once reserved, frozen up, impenetrable even to friend fchij}. 
 
 In vain he strove to win her back to her old merry talk. 
 Her frank recklessness of speech seemed over for the present. 
 In his presence she was almost always silent — not with any 
 awksvardness of embarrassment, but with a certain maidenly 
 reserve of bearing, as though she had marked out a particular 
 line of conduct for herself. 
 
 When Grace was in the room things were better: Phillia 
 could not be otherwise than affectionate to her chosen friend. 
 And when they were alone together, all Phillis's bright play-
 
 404 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 fulness seemed to return; but nothing would induce her to 
 cross the threshold of the vicarage. 
 
 The evening after his return from Leeds, Archie, as usual, 
 dropped in at the Friary; but this time he brought Grace with 
 him. They were all gathered in the work-room, which had 
 now become their favorite resort. On some pretext or other, 
 the lamp had not been brought in; but they were all sitting 
 round the fire, chatting in an idle, desultory way. 
 
 Phillis was half hidden behind her mother's chair; perhaps 
 this was the reason why her voice had its old merry chord. 
 She had welcomed Archie rather gravely — hardly turning her 
 face to him as she spoke; but as soon as she was in her corner 
 again, she took up the thread of their talk in her usual frank 
 way. But it was Grace that she addressed. 
 
 " Poor dear Harry! We have all been laughing a little at 
 the notion of Alcides being in love. Somehow, it seems so 
 droll that Mattie should turn out his Deianeira; but, after 
 all, 1 think he has shown very good sense in his choice. Mat- 
 tie will wear well.'' 
 
 " You seem to agree with the ' Vicar of Wakefield,' Miss 
 Challoncr," observed Archie, rather amused at this temperate 
 praise. " Did not that excellent man choose his wife for the 
 same reason that she chose her wedding-dress, with a view to 
 durability?" 
 
 " Oh, tiiere is a vast amount of wisdom in all that," re- 
 turned Phillis, with mock solemnity; for she did not mind 
 what nonsense she talked in the darkness. " If life had noth- 
 ing but fair-weather days, it might be excusable for a man to 
 choose his wife for mere beauty; but when one thinks of fogs 
 and east winds, and smoky chin meys, and all such minor evils, 
 they may need somoLhing a little more sustaining than a pink 
 eaniplexion. At least," catching herself up, and hurrying on 
 as though the real meaning of her words only just occurred to 
 her, " though Mattie may not be beautiful outwardly, she is 
 jirft the right sort of person for a regular east-windy day. 
 l>rot even a smoky chimney and a fog together will put her 
 out of temper." 
 
 " I will recollect your advice when the time comes," replied 
 Archie, rather audaciously, at this, as he laughed and stroked 
 his beartl. 
 
 It pleased him to see the old fun brimming over again, fresh 
 and sparkling; but, as he answered her in the same vein of 
 pleasantry, she colored up in her dark corner and shrunk back 
 into herself, and all the rest of the evening he could hardly 
 win a smile from her.
 
 KOT LIKF, OTHER GIRLS. 405 
 
 *' My dear, I think Mr. Drimimoiid comes very of (en," 
 Mrs. Ciialloner said to her eldest daughter that night. " He 
 is very gentlemanly and a most excellent young man; but I 
 begin to be afraid what these visits mean.'' But Nan only 
 laughed at this. 
 
 " Poor mother!'* she said, stroking her face. " Don't you 
 wish you had us all safe at Glen Cottage again? There are so 
 few young men at Oldfield." 
 
 " I can not bear young men," was the somewhat irritable 
 answer. " Wiiat is the use of having children, when jusc 
 when they grow up to be a comfort to you, every one tries to 
 deprive you of them? Dick has robbed me of you " — and 
 here Mvs. Challoner greiv tearful — " and Dulce is alwavs with 
 the Middletous; and 1 am not at all sure that Captain Middle- 
 ton is not begiiming to admire her." 
 
 " Neither am I," observed Nan, a little gravely; for, though 
 they seldom talked of such things among themselves, " son 
 Hammond's" attentions were decidedly conspicuous, and 
 Dulce was looking as shy and pretty as possible. 
 
 No; she could not give her mother any comfort there, for 
 the solemn-faced young officer was clearly bent on mischief. 
 Indeed, both father and son were making much of the little 
 girl. But as regarded Mr. DruramoPitl there could be no ques- 
 tion of his intentions. The growing earnestness, the long, 
 wistful looks were not lost on Nan, who knew all such signs 
 by experience. It was easy to understand the young vicar: it 
 was Phillis who baffled her. 
 
 They had never had anysecrels between them. From their 
 very childhood Nan had shared Phillis's every thought. But 
 once or twice when she had tried to approach the subject in 
 the gentlest manner, Phillis had started away like a restive 
 colt, and had answered her almost with sharpness. 
 
 " Nonsense, Nannie! What is it to me if Mr. Drummond 
 comes a dozen times a day?" arching her long neck in the 
 proudest way, but her throat contracting a little over the ut- 
 tered falsehood; for she knew, none better, what these visits 
 were to her. " Do you think I should take the trouble to in- 
 vestigate his motives? Don't you know. Nan," in her sweet, 
 whimsical voice, " that the masculine mind loves to conjugate 
 the verb ' to amuse '? Mr. Drummond is evidently bored by 
 his own company; but there! the vagaries of men are innu- 
 merable. One might as well question the ebbing tide as in- 
 quire of these young divinities the reason of all their eccentric 
 actions. He comes because we amuse him, and we like to 
 see him because he amuses us; and when he bores us we cau
 
 406 KOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 tell him so, which is better than Canute and the waves, after 
 all." And of coarse, after this. Nan was compelled to drop 
 the subject. 
 
 But she watched Phillis anxious!}'; for she saw that the girl 
 was restless and ill at ease. The thoughtful gray eyes had a 
 shadow in them. The bright spirits were quenched, and only 
 kindled by a great effort; and, as the time for their leaving 
 the Friary grew closer day by day, until the last week ap- 
 proached, she flagged more, and the shadow grew deeper. 
 
 " If he would only speak and end all this suspense!" 
 thought Xau, who knew nothing of the real state of things, 
 and imagined that Mr. Drummoud had cared for Phillis from 
 the first. 
 
 They had already commenced their packing. Sir Harry 
 was back in his hotel, solacing himself vvith his cousins' com- 
 pany, and writing brief letters to his homely little bride-elect, 
 when one fine afternoon he met them and Grace just start- 
 ing for the shore. 
 
 This was their programme on most afternoons, and of 
 course they had not gone far before Captain Middleton and his 
 father and sister joined them; and a little later on, just as 
 they were entering the town, they overtook Mr. Drummond. 
 
 Phillis nodded to him in a friendly manner, and then walked 
 on with Grace, taking no further notice; but when they were 
 on the shore, admiring the fine sunset effect, Grace quietly 
 dropped her arm and slipped away to join the others. Phillis 
 stood motionless: her eyes were riveted on the grand expanse 
 of sky and ocean. " It is so life-like," she said at last, not 
 seeing who stood beside her, while all the others were walking 
 on in groups of twos and threes, Dulce close to the colonel, as 
 usual. " Do you see those little boats, Grace? one is sailing 
 so smoothly in the sunlight, and the other scarcely stirring in 
 the shadow— brightness to some, you see, and shade to others; 
 and beyond, that clear line of light, like the promise of 
 eterniLy. " 
 
 " Don't you think it lies within most people's power to make 
 their own lives happier?" returned Archie so quietly to this 
 that she scarcely started. " The sunshine and shade are more 
 evenly balanced than we know. To be sure, there are some lives 
 like that day that is neither clear nor dark — gray, monotonous 
 lives with few breaks and pleasures in them. ' But perhaps 
 even that question may be happily solved when one looks out 
 a littlft further to the light beyond?' 
 
 " Yes, if one does not grow tired of wailing for the answer," 
 she said, a little dreamily. " There is so much that can not
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 407 
 
 be clear here." And then she roused with a little difficulty 
 from her abstraction aud looked around her. The others had 
 all gone ou : they were standing alone on the shingly beach, just 
 above a little strip of yellow sand— only they two. Was it for 
 this reason that her eyes grew wide and trouhled, and she 
 moved away rather hurriedly? But he still kept close to her, 
 talking quietly as he did so. 
 
 " Do you remember this place?" he said; " it reminds me 
 of a picture I once saw. I think it was ' Atalanta's Eace/ only 
 there was no Paris. It was just such a scene as this: tiiere 
 was the dark break- water, and the long line of surf breaking 
 on the shore, and the sun was shining ou the water; and 
 there was a girl running with her head erect, and she scarcely 
 seemed to touch the ground, and she stopped just here," rest- 
 ing his hand on the black, shiny timber. 
 
 "Do not," she answered, in a low voice, "do not recall 
 that day: it stings me even now to remember it." And as 
 the words " Bravo, Atalaiital" recurred to her memory, the 
 hot blush of shame mounted to her face. 
 
 " I have no need to recall it," he returned, still more 
 quietly, for her discomposure was great, "for I have never 
 forgotten it. Yes, this is the place, not where I first saw you, 
 but where 1 first began to know you. Phillis, that knowledge 
 is becoming everything to me now!" 
 
 " Do not," she said again, but she could hardly bring out 
 the words. But how wonderful it was to hear her name jjro- 
 nounced like that! " The others have gone on: we must join 
 them." 
 
 " May I not tell you what 1 think about you first?" he 
 a'iked, very gently. 
 
 "Not now — not yet," she almost whispered; and now he 
 saw that she was very pale, aud her eyes were full of tears. 
 " I could not bear it yet." And then, as she moved further 
 away from him, he could see how great was her agitation. 
 
 It was a proof of his love and earnestness that he sulTered 
 the girl to leave him in this way, that he did not again rejoin 
 her until they were close Lo the others. In spite of his impa- 
 tience and hjs many faults, he was generous enough to under- 
 stand her without another word. She had not repelled him; 
 she had not silenced him entirely; she had not listened to him 
 and then answered him with scorn. On the contrary, her 
 manner had been soft and subdued, more winning than ho 
 had ever known it; and yet she had refused to hearken to his 
 suit. " Not now — not 3'et," she had said, and he could see 
 that her lip quivered, and her beautiful eyes were full of
 
 408 XOT IJKE OTHER GIIiLS. 
 
 tears. It vras too soon, that was what she meant; too soon 
 for him to speak, and for her to listen. She owed it to her 
 own dignity that his atTection should be put to greater proof 
 than that. She must iiot be so lightly won; she must not 
 stoop down from her maidenly pride and nobleness at his first 
 words because she had grown to care for him. " It must not 
 be so, however much the denial may cout me," Phiilis had 
 said to herself. But as she joined the others, and came to 
 Nan's side, she could scarcely steady her voice or raise her 
 eyes, for fear their shy consciousness would betray her. " At 
 last," and " at last!" — that was the refrain that was rinoing 
 so joyously in her heart. Well, and one day he should tell 
 her what he would. 
 
 She thought she had silenced him entirely, but she forgot 
 that men were masterful and had cunning ways of their own 
 to compass their ends. Archie had recovered his courage; he 
 had still a word to £ay, and he meant to say it; and just be- 
 fore the clase of the walk, as they were in the darkest part of 
 the Bruidwood Head, just where the trees meet overhead, be- 
 fore one reaches the vicarage, Phiilis found him again at her 
 side. 
 
 " When may I hope that you will listen?" he said. " I am 
 not a patient man: you must remember that, and ]iot make it 
 too hard for me. I should wish to know how soon I may 
 come." 
 
 " Spring is very beautiful in the country," she answered, 
 almost too confused by this unexpected address to know what 
 she was saying. " I think May is my favorite month, when 
 the hawthorns are out." 
 
 '* Thank you, 1 will come in May." Then Phiilis woke up 
 to the perception of what she had said. " Oh, no, I did not 
 mean that," she began, incoherently; but this time it was 
 Archie who moved avva}', with a smile on his face and a cer- 
 tain vivid brightness in his eyes, and her stammered words 
 were. lost in the darkness. 
 
 The whole week was much occupied by j^aying farewell 
 visits. On the last afternoon Phiilis went down to the White 
 House to say good-bye. It was one of Magdalene's bad days; 
 but the unquiet hour had passed, and left her, as usual, weak 
 and subdued. Her husband was sitting beside her; as Phiilis 
 entered he rope with a smile on his lips. "That is right, 
 MissChalloner!" he said, heartily. " Magdalene always looks 
 better the moment ehe hears your voice. Barby is unfortu- 
 nately out, but I can leave her happily with you." 
 
 "Is he not good.'*" exclaimed his wife, as soon as he had
 
 ifOT LIKE OTIft:R GIRLS. 400 
 
 left them. "He has been sitting with me all the afternoon, 
 my poor Herbert, trying to curb his restlessness, because he 
 knovrs how much worse 1 am without him. Am I not a trying 
 ^rife to him? and yet he says he could not do without me. 
 There, it has passed: let us talk of something else. And so 
 you are going to leave us?" drawing the fresh face down to 
 hers that she might kiss it again. 
 
 " Yes, to-morrowl" trying to stifle a sigh. 
 
 " There are some of us that will not know what to do with- 
 out 3^ou. If 1 am not very much mistaken, there is one per- 
 son who — " but here the girl laid her hand hurriedly on her 
 lips. " What! am I not to say that? "Well, I will try to bo 
 good. But all the same this is not good-bye. Tell your 
 mother from me that she will not have her" girls for long. 
 Captain Middleton has lost his heart, and is bent on making 
 that pretty little sister of your lose hers too; and as for you, 
 Phillis — " but here Philiis stooped and silenced her this time 
 by a kiss. 
 
 "Ah, well!" continued Magdalene, after a moment's 
 silence, as she looked tenderly into the fair face before her; 
 " so you have finished your little bit of play-work, and are 
 going back into your young ladyhood again?" 
 
 "It was not play-work!" returned Thillis, indignantly; 
 " you say that to provoke me. Do you know," she went on, 
 earnestly, " that if we should have had to work all our lives 
 as dress-niakers, Kan and 1 would have done it, and never 
 given in? We were making quite a fine business of it. AVe 
 hud more orders than we could execute; and you call that 
 play? Confess, now, that you repent of that phrase." 
 
 " Oh, I was only teasing you," returned Magdalene, smil- 
 ing. " 1 know how brave you were, and how terribly in ear- 
 nest. Yes, Phillis, you are right; nothing would have daunted 
 you; you would have worked without complaint all your life 
 long, but for that red-haired Alcides of yours." 
 
 " Dear Harry! ])ow much we owe to him!" exclaimed Phil- 
 lis. 
 
 " No, dear, you will owe your happiness to yourself — the 
 happiness," as the girl looked at her in surprise, " that is com- 
 ing to you and Dulce. It was because you were not like other 
 girls— because you were brave, self-reliant gentlewomen, 
 afraid of nothing but dishonor; not fearful of small indignities, 
 or of other people's opinions, but just taking up the work that 
 lay to your hands, and going through with it — that you have 
 won his heart; and, seeing this, how could he help loving you 
 as he does?" But to this Phillis made no answer.
 
 410 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 
 
 The next day was rather trying to them all. Phillis's cheer- 
 fulness was a little forced, and for some time after they had 
 left the Friary— with Grace and Archie waving their farewells 
 from the road — she was very silent. 
 
 But no sooner had they crossed the threshold of Glen Cot- 
 tage than their girlhood asserted itself. The sight of the 
 bright, snug rooms, with their new furniture, the conservatory, 
 with its floral treasures, and Sir Harry's cheery welcome, as 
 he stood in the porch with Mrs. Mayne, was too much even 
 for Phillis's equanimity. In a few minutes their laughing 
 faces were peering out of every window and into every cup- 
 board. 
 
 " Oh, the dear, beautiful home! Isn't it lovely of Harry 
 to bring us back!" cried Phillis, oblivious of everything at 
 that moment but her mother's satisfied face. 
 
 In a few days they had settled down into their old life. Ifc 
 •was too early for tennis v/liile the snow-drops and crocuses 
 were peeping out of the garden borders. But in the after- 
 noon friends dropped in in the old way, and gathered round 
 the Challoner tea-table; and very soon — for Easter fell early 
 that year— Dick showed himself among them, and then, in- 
 deed. Nan's cup of happiness was full. 
 
 But as Ajn-il passed on Phillis began to grow a little silent 
 again, and it became a habit with her to coax Laddie to take 
 long walks with her, when Nan and Dulce were otherwise en- 
 gaged. The exercise seemed to quiet her restlessness; and the 
 spring sights and sounds, the budding hedge-rows, and the 
 twittering of the birds as they built their nests, and the fresh, 
 leafy gveen, unsoiled by summer heat and dust, seemed to 
 refresh her flagging spirits. 
 
 It was the first of May when one afternoon she called to 
 Laddie, who was lying drowsily in the sunny porch. Nan, 
 who was busily engaged iu training the creeper round the pil- 
 lars of the veranda, looked up in a little surprise: 
 
 " Are you going out again, Phil? And neither Dulce nor I 
 can come with you. Mrs. Mayne has some friends coming to 
 five-o'clock tea, and she wants us to go over for an hour. It 
 is so dull for you, dear, alwaj^s to walk alone." 
 
 "Oh, no; I shall not be dull, Nannie," returned Phillis, 
 with an unsteady smile, for her spirits were a little fluctuat- 
 ing that afternoon. " I am restless, and want a good walk; so 
 I shall just go to Sandy Lane, and be back in time to make tea 
 for mother." And then she waved her hand and whistled to 
 Laddie as she unlatched the little gate. It was a long walk. 
 But, as usual; the quiet and the sweet air refreshed her, and
 
 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 411 
 
 by the time she reached Sandy Lane her eyes were brilliant 
 with exercise, and a pretty pink tinge of color was in her 
 cheeks. " It is May-day — the first of May. I wonder how 
 Boon he will come/' she thought, as she leaned on the little 
 gate where poor Dick had leaned that day. 
 
 There were footsteps approaching, but they made no sound 
 over the sandy ruts. A tall man with a fair beard and st 
 clerical felt hat was svalking quickly up the road that leads 
 from Oldfieid; and as he walked his eyes were scanning the 
 path before him, as though he were looking for some one. At 
 the sight of the girl leaning against the gate his face bright- 
 ened, and he slackened his steps a little, that he might not 
 startle her. She was looking out across the country with a 
 far-oif, dreamy exj^ression, and did not turn her head as he 
 approached. It was Laddie who sasv him first, and jumped 
 up with a joyous bark to welcome him; and then she looked 
 round, and for a moment her eyes grew wide and misty, for 
 she thought it was a continuation of her dream. 
 
 " Laddie saw me first," he said, stepping up quietly to her 
 side — for he still feared to startle her — and his voice was very 
 gentle. " Phillis, you must not look surprised! Surely you 
 expected me? It is the first of May!" 
 
 "Oh, 1 knew that," she said; and then she turned away 
 from him. But he had not dropped her hand, but was hold- 
 ing it very quietly and firmly. " But 1 could not tell the day; 
 aud — " 
 
 " Did you think I should wait an hour beyond the time you 
 fixed?" he answered, very calmly. " May is your favorito 
 month; and what could be more beautiful than May-day for 
 the purpose 1 have in hand? Phillis, you will not go back 
 from your promise now? You said you would listen to me in 
 May." 
 
 There was no answer to this; but, as Archie looked in her 
 face he read no repulse there. And so, in that quiet lane, 
 with Laddie lying at their feet, he told all he had to tell. 
 
 " Are you sure you can trust me now, Phillis?" he asked, 
 rather wistfully, when he had finished. " You know what 1 
 am, dear — a man with many faults." 
 
 " Y^es; now and forever," she answered, without a moment's 
 hesitation. " 1 am not afraid — I never should have been afraid 
 to trust you. I have faults of my own, so why should I wish 
 you to bo perfect? I care for you as you are, you will believe 
 that?" far there was almost a sad humility in his face as he 
 pleaded with her that went to her heart. 
 
 *' Oh, yes; 1 believe what you tell me. You are truth it-
 
 412 KOT LIKE OTHEK GIRLS. 
 
 self, my darling — the bravest and truest woman T have ever 
 met. You do not know how happy you have made me, or 
 how different my life will be when I have you by my side. 
 Phillis, do you know how ^lad Grace will be about ihis?" 
 
 " Will she?" returned Phillis, shyly. They were walking 
 homeward now, hand in hand, toward the sunset — so, at least, 
 it seemed to tlie girl. 'No one was in sight, only the quiet 
 country round them bathed in the evening light and they two 
 alone. "Archie!" she exclaimed, suddenly, and her beauti- 
 ful eyes grew wistful all at once, " you will not let this make 
 any difference to Grace? She loves you so; and you are all 
 she has at present. You must never let me stand between 
 you two. 1 am not so selfish as that." 
 
 " You could not be selfish if you tried, dearest. How 1 wish 
 Grace could have heard you! No; you are right. We must 
 not let her suffer from our happiness. But, Phillis, you know 
 who must come first now." And then, as she smiled in full 
 understanding, he put her hand upon his arm, and held it 
 there. His promised wife — Archie's wife! Ah. the Drum- 
 mond star was rising now in earnest! His life lay before him, 
 like the road they were now entering, white and untrodden 
 and bathed in sunlight. What if some cloud should come 
 and some shadows fall, if they might tread it together to the 
 end? And so, growing silent with happiness, they walked 
 home through the sunset, till the spring dusk and the village 
 lights saw them standing together on the threshold of Glen 
 Cottage, and the dear faces and loving voices of home closed 
 round them and bade them welcome. 
 
 THE END.
 
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