Chapter Twenty Four.

All’s Well that Ends Well.

One dark December morning Theo found a letter lying on her plate on the breakfast-table; not the long, white envelope addressed in her own writing, which her soul abhorred, but a business-looking epistle, stamped on which was the magic name of The Casket Magazine. She gulped, tore open the envelope, and read the golden news: “I have read with much interest your original little story, and have pleasure in accepting it for the magazine.” “Your original little story—have pleasure in accepting it.” Theo gulped again, and laughed with the tears in her eyes. Oh, how often she had dreamt of this moment! How she had longed for it, and sickened with dread lest it should never come! She turned a radiant face upon her sisters, and waved her letter in the air.

“Hurrah! At last! From Mr Hammond! He has accepted my story, and calls it very original. A story in the Casket! Girls, do you realise it? Do you realise how you are honoured by sitting at the same table with me!” She laughed again, in tremulous fashion, and Madge bowed elaborately, coffee-cup in hand.

“Your health, my dear! I look towards you! You have done it this time. To be a contributor to the Casket is like being hung on the line in the Academy. Sha’n’t I brag about you at the Slade?”

“It is simply splendid, dear. I do hope they will put your name to it. It will be so disappointing if they don’t,” said Philippa the tactless. She was overflowing with sympathy with Theo in her success, and yet, poor dear! she must needs call attention to the one existing drawback; for the Casket was as conservative as it was high-class—scorned to invite popularity by illustrations or artistic cover, and more often than not left a blank opposite the titles of stories and articles. It was at such moments as these that Theo felt that she could endure with resignation Philippa’s speedy marriage and departure from the home circle. Only five minutes since she had heard the wonderful news, and already a little cloud came floating across the brightness of the sky; for it was little use appearing in the best magazine of the day if no one knew of it but yourself, and an admiring public remained in ignorance of your name.

“How horrid of you to suggest such a thing! You might let me enjoy myself when I can,” she cried irritably. “You are a perfect wet blanket, Philippa—always sitting on us, and depreciating what we do. It is too bad—spoiling my pleasure when I have waited so long.”

“I! I spoil your pleasure—I depreciate you!” Philippa was fairly gasping with surprise and wounded feeling. “When I slave for you all day long! When I take everything off your hands, so that you may give your time to your work! When it is through me you are here at all! You cruel, ungrateful girl, how can you have the heart to speak to me in such a way?”

“I’m sure I don’t want you to slave for me. I am quite capable of doing my own mending, if you refer to that. I should like to take more share in the housekeeping, but you are so jealous if any one interferes.”

“Jealous! Oh, oh! Jealous!” repeated Philippa dramatically. Her eyes were beginning to grow tearful. Theo’s dark brows met in an ominous frown; there were all the signs of a row royal, when Hope came flying to the rescue.

“Girls, girls, be quiet!” she cried, banging her fist on the table in imperative fashion. “You shall not quarrel when we ought to be so happy! This is the best success we have had, and it would be disgraceful to spoil it by quarrelling like babies. You are both to blame, so no apologies are needed, but for goodness’ sake smile and look pleasant.”

“I’m sure I am only too willing. I want to smile if I am allowed,” said Theo gloomily.

“I’m sure I don’t want to quarrel. Perhaps I had better go away and leave you to yourselves, since I am such a wet blanket,” sniffed Philippa into her pocket-handkerchief. Madge gave Hope a warning kick under the table, and began to chatter as unconcernedly as if nothing had occurred.

“You can always write ‘Contributor to the Casket, etc,’ beneath your name on the back of your MSS, Theo. No need to mention that the et cetera means the Penny Penman! And if you intimate to all whom it may concern that you write anonymously for the Casket, you may get credit for half-a-dozen stories instead of one. I wonder what they will pay you for it, and how soon it will appear. Won’t the Hermit be impressed? He says it is the only magazine worth reading. Do knock at the door and tell him, Phil, as you go out for your shopping.”

Wily Madge wished to offer a sop to each of the combatants, and had the satisfaction of seeing Philippa smile faintly, and the complacent expression return to Theo’s face.

“I knew it was a splendid story when I sent it off,” said the author modestly. “Ten pounds at least, I should think, as it is such a first-class magazine. It took me less than four days, with all the correction and rewriting. Ten pounds a week; how much is that a year? If I earned five hundred a year it would make a difference in our exchequer, wouldn’t it, Phil?”

The olive branch was held out with a smile, and as Philippa checked herself on the verge of remarking that it would be difficult to sell a story a week, peace was restored once more. The housekeeper went about her duties, and the author experienced that alternate elation and depression which follows artistic success. She had created something of real merit and power; that was a thrilling reflection, but quickly following came the dreary certainty that virtue had gone out of her, and she would never be able to do so well again. She hastened to her desk, hoping to disprove the dread by writing something better still; but, alas! her heroine sulked persistently, refused to be cajoled into conversation, and after being dragged through half-a-dozen pages, was promptly condemned to the flames. It appeared that even when one had begun to ascend the ladder there was imminent danger of falling off!

Years later, when Theo had made a name for herself as an author of power and originality, she used to look back on that morning and smile at her own ignorance in having supposed for a moment that the battle was won. It was only begun, and it was a battle which had to be waged to the end. There could be no sitting down and congratulating one’s self on victory; no relaxation of care and study, for each fresh success brought its onus of responsibility, and made it more imperative for her to maintain her best. There were times when she thought wearily of Mr Hammond’s suggestion of “the bonnet-shop,” and realised that millinery would have been easier end more remunerative, but there was never an hour when she regretted her choice of a career. It seemed to her that no other work could be so absorbing—such a constant refuge from self.

Fortune had evidently made up her mind to smile upon the Charrington sisters this Christmas-tide, for Minnie Caldecott approved enthusiastically of the design for her concert programme, and the nursery frieze found a purchaser the first time it was exhibited. Madge had summoned courage to show the latter to “Pepper” on its completion, when he found a dozen faults, and made huge pencil-markings to illustrate his meaning, the while the artist writhed in agony; but finally he turned up trumps in the most delightful manner by giving her an introduction to the firm with whom she finally transacted her bargain. Judging from the experiences of the past few months, she had a future before her in this particular branch of her art, and might in time make a comfortable income; but it was not in the least the work she had coveted. She burned to create great subjects on great canvases—to paint with strong, lurid brush—and lo! it appeared that it was her mission to design pretty leaflets and comic pictures for the nursery. It was a blow, but Madge had the good sense to realise that it is better to excel in humble work than to struggle painfully after the unattainable.

As for Hope, she sang and danced about the house with a sudden return to her old light spirits, which puzzled two sisters, and furnished valuable copy to a third. The short interview with Truda Bennett had made everything rose-coloured again, though in truth it was a trifle exasperating to remember Mrs Loftus’s invitation. Oh, to think that even now she might have been at The Shanty, with no secret promise to hinder her enjoyment of Ralph’s society; that they might have been walking together along the country lanes; sitting side by side in the evenings!

“That tonic has given you quite a colour. I shall try it myself,” said Philippa, looking up from her stocking-basket to admire the sweet pink-and-white face at the opposite side of the table. “Mr Neil was saying the other day that so few town girls have any colour. I have lost mine with sitting so much in the house, but I might try what a bottle would do. It only costs a shilling at that wholesale chemist’s. I do look such a faded old creature beside you, Hope; and, after all, I am only two years older!”

Hope laughed—a delightfully scornful, reassuring laugh.

“Faded old creature, indeed! when we were only remarking this week that you were looking handsomer than ever. And happier, too. That’s because Barney will be home so soon; isn’t it, dear?”

“Of course. What else should it be?” said Philippa; and, to do her justice, she spoke in all sincerity.

Theo’s suggestion that she should consult the Hermit as to Barney’s future had been accepted with an unmoved face, and put into immediate execution; and as a result of the conference a letter was even now on its way to Mr Neil’s younger brother in Canada, asking if it would be possible to receive the boy as a pupil on his large farm and ranch, and train him for future work on his own account. Philippa shed bitter tears at the thought of parting from her boy, but the Hermit insisted that it was the right thing to do, though he was much perturbed at the sight of her distress.

“I seem fated to make you cry,” he said miserably. “Do you remember that first time! I shall never forget your face, all streaming with tears, and with such a miserable, helpless expression!”

“I must have looked very—ugly,” said Philippa, with a sob. She reflected that by the same course of reasoning she must look ugly now, and dried her eyes with remarkable promptness, while the Hermit sat in admiration of her fortitude.

If Barney was to be at home for a short time only, his sisters were determined to make that time as happy as possible, so that his recollections should carry with them no sting of reproach. In conclave together they agreed that the dear boy would be embarrassed and depressed, and that all means must be taken to convince him of their full and free forgiveness, and to put him at his ease once more.

“I shall go to meet him,” Philippa said. “It will be less trying for him than having to see us all at once. And I am going to put up new curtains in his room—he hated those old moreen atrocities—and make it look bright and cheerful, as if it had been kept ready for him all the time. I’m going to be so busy this week, I don’t know how I shall get through all I want to do in the way of preparation.”

Alas for Philippa! her work during the next few days was to lie in bed and burn and shiver with an attack of the prevalent influenza. Hope acted nurse, and Theo said blandly, “Don’t worry, dear; I will look after the house. I know exactly what to do”—a statement which the invalid received with undisguised incredulity.

“Shell make an awful mess of it,” she sighed; but Theo had no intention of failing. She was a clever, capable girl, who could do most things well if she chose to give them her attention; and, as we know, she had a special reason for displaying her housekeeping powers. She put aside her writing for the time being, studied the cookery-book and the shop windows in the morning, and in the afternoon enveloped herself in a huge white apron and put into practice what she had learned. All old housekeepers are apt to get into a rut and supply the same dishes over and over again, and Philippa was no exception to the rule, so it happened that the very novelty of Theo’s menus commanded success, and the invalid was constantly assured that she need not hurry out of bed, since all was going on swimmingly without her. If she shed tears at the intelligence, it was put down to the depression which was a part of the illness, and she was urged to take a cup of Theo’s beef-tea—“Such excellent beef-tea!”—or to take some of Theo’s jelly—“Wonderfully good jelly!”—by way of restorative.

There could be no going to meet Barney now. The most she could do was to crawl out of bed an hour before he was expected and look on feebly at the final preparations. She searched for a dozen deficiencies—hoping, if the truth were told, to see tangible proofs of her absence—but all was orderly, dainty, and appropriate: the best china on the table, flowers in the vases, the fatted chickens roasting in the oven, and Barney’s favourite pudding all ready to be served, with its whipped cream ornamented in professional style with candied cherries and angelica.

“You must sit still in that easy-chair, poor darling! I’ll carve,” said Theo kindly; but Philippa felt much more inclined to snap than to be grateful for her consideration. She hated to be out of her usual place on this evening of all others, and to be obliged to play the part of spectator while Theo issued orders for the prodigal’s reception.

“Madge, you must chatter as hard as you can. You are always bragging about your powers of conversation; now let us see what you can do. There must be no awkward pauses. It doesn’t matter what you say, but say something.—Hope, you had better run to the door and meet him first—no one could be afraid of you—and sit next to Steve at table, and stamp on his toes if he makes improving remarks. There will be plenty of time for that later on. We mustn’t spoil the first evening. We won’t let Barney linger over the greetings, but hurry him off to his own room to prepare for dinner. It shall be served the moment he comes back. It is so much less formidable to talk when one is eating!”

She had thought of everything—all the little niceties of consideration which Phil herself had planned but had not yet put into words. She could think of no objection which would have been reasonable to advance, but made a feeble plea to be allowed to be first at the door, when Theo cried loudly, “My dear, with that face! You would frighten the poor boy into running away again!” and there was plainly no more to be said.

At six o’clock Barney’s train was due at Waterloo. It was calculated that he would reach home before the half-hour, and soon after the quarter Theo set the front-door ajar, and the four sisters sat trembling with excitement, straining their ears for the first footstep. Steve and the Hermit were to bring the boy home from the station, and Philippa thought pitifully of his embarrassment as he sat opposite the two solemn faces. This home-coming must be an awful ordeal, despite the letters of encouragement and forgiveness which had been sent to Madeira, and again to Southampton, and for her own part she dreaded to see the bright face clouded and ashamed.

The moments passed and no one spoke; it was half-past six—twenty-five minutes to seven—and still Barney did not come. The invalid shivered and drew her shawl more closely round her; Theo poked the fire and swept the grate clear of ashes; Hope was in the act of leaving the room to peer over the banisters, when a sound from below startled all four sisters into instant attention. It was a sound with which they were all familiar; perhaps the last sound in the world which they expected to hear at that moment—a burst of merry, boyish laughter.

“Bar-ney!” gasped Phil in an incredulous whisper. The other girls stood like so many statues, frozen into the position in which the sound had reached them. The leaping footsteps drew nearer and nearer, a voice called out, “Avast, there, my hearties!” and a big, bronzed fellow threw open the door, and seizing each sister in turn, swung her off her feet in the ardour of his greeting. Madge’s embrace was every whit as loving as that given to her sisters; for Barney had forgotten that he had left her in anger, forgotten her bitter words, as, alas! he seemed to have forgotten his own folly and wrong-doing.

There was no need for Theo’s elaborate precautions; the truant was as absolutely, transparently at his ease as if he had been out for half-an-hour’s stroll, instead of a voyage across the world. It was his sisters who sat silent and embarrassed through the meal which followed, while he ate three helpings of chicken and pudding, and discoursed in picturesque fashion on a life on the ocean wave. Steve, always anxious to improve an occasion, had many questions to ask concerning the distant lands which had been visited; but though Barney could converse fluently enough on the iniquities of the sailors or the idiosyncrasies of the passengers on whom he had waited, he was but a poor hand at useful information. What he approved was “ripping,” what he disliked was “tommy rot,” but these descriptions were hardly satisfactory from a geographic or climatic point of view.

By nine o’clock Philippa was wan and spent, and went off to bed, trying in vain to reason away the ache at her heart. It was all so different—so very different from what she had expected! She did not want to see her boy broken in spirit, but this unabashed assurance frightened her, as indicating a deeper carelessness and lack of moral fibre than she had suspected. It seemed incredible that Barney should show no sign of regret for the anxiety which he had caused; yet, on the other hand, what was the sense of writing that bygones were bygones, and all offences forgiven and forgotten, and then of lamenting because she was taken at her word! Philippa tossed restlessly on her pillow, and being weak and tired, cried steadily from the time she lay down until some one came into the room with her next dose of medicine, and turned up the gas over the mantelpiece.

“Don’t, Hope,” she cried weakly; but it was not Hope, but Barney himself, who raised her head on his arm and held the glass to her lips.

“Now then, old lady! I’m no end of a good nurse nowadays, so I thought I had better come and look after you myself. There was an old Johnny coming home from the Cape, in one of the deck-cabins.” He stopped suddenly, and Philippa knew that he had noticed her tear-stained eyes. “He was very bad, and I had to dose him every hour,” he concluded lamely, then bent over her with curious gaze. “What have you been crying about? About me?”

“I’m—not well. It has upset me seeing you again, and thinking of all that has happened.”

“Was it that that made you ill to start with—my going off, I mean!”

It was a curious change of feeling to have taken place in a couple of hours, but Philippa actually found herself wishing that she could answer in the affirmative, and casting about in her mind for some honest reply which would yet lay some burden of responsibility upon those careless shoulders.

“I have been laid up only a week, but I think I was run down by all the strain and suspense. We had a terrible fortnight—”

Barney frowned and drew his hand away from the coverlet.

“So had I. I was beastly sick. It is all right, though, Phil. I’ve brought home enough money to pay you back. I got some rattling good tips. That old Johnny I told you of—”

“Oh Barney, Barney, it was not the money! I never thought of the money,” cried Phil, with such a wail of despair as brought the boy’s eyes upon her with startled questioning. The two faces confronted each other, so like, yet so unlike, and the boy flushed darkly through his tan.

“Well, you needn’t have worried about—that either. I told you I would remember. I gave my promise, and I—kept it, Phil. There were lots of things I wanted to do. It was awfully dull not being able to go about with the other fellows, but I kept my word. And I wanted to spend the money, too. There was the ’cutest little monkey you ever saw, trained to do all sorts of tricks. It was jolly hard lines not being able to bring it home as a present to you girls, but I thought under the circumstances it might be bad form.”

“Oh Barney, Barney!” cried Philippa, laughing uncontrollably even as the tears rolled down her cheeks. It was such balm in Gilead to know that the promise had been kept; it was so ridiculously, inimitably like Barney that he should mix up monkeys with the story of his repentance. “I’m so very, very thankful for everything,” she whispered; “for the things you didn’t do, and—the monkey that didn’t come. Kiss me, Barney. I shall get well quickly now that you are back.”

Barney did as he was asked, not once, but many times over, and kept his big fingers clasped closely round hers while he asked anxiously:

“You won’t want to send me back to an office, will you, Phil? The Hermit has been telling me about his brother in Canada. That’s the sort of thing I should like if it could be arranged. It will be beastly leaving home again. I never knew it was such a thundering nice place until I left this time. But it is my only chance; I should never do any good in the City. You will let me go, won’t you, Phil?”

“Yes, Barney,” said Philippa sadly. “It is the hardest thing you could ask me, but if it is for your good I must not think of myself. You shall go, dear, as soon as an opening is found; and we will give you as complete an outfit as can be bought, but after that we can do no more. You will have to stand by yourself and fight your own battles. There will be no home open if you run away from your work, and no stupid old sister to spoil you and give you a fresh start.”

The smile with which Barney regarded her was at once charming and pathetic—so full of warm-hearted affection, so radiantly complacent and assured.

“Canada is not far off; it would be as good as being in England, for it is under the old flag, and the people are so jolly loyal and brave. I could come back every two or three years, and when I get a home of my own you will have to come out and visit me. Don’t you worry, old girl; I’ll get on like a house on fire, and I promise you to keep out of mischief. There will be no chance of getting into it, for one thing, away out in the wilds.”

“Oh Barney, Barney, don’t be so sure! There will be difficulties and temptations wherever you go, and you must be prepared to meet them. Don’t be content to promise me, dear. Promise yourself—the strong, good man you were meant to be. Promise God, Barney, and ask Him to help you to stand fast.”

It was not Philippa’s habit to preach, and the fact gave additional weight to her solemn words. Barney looked awed and impressed, and thoroughly uncomfortable into the bargain. “All right, Phil, I’ll remember,” he said softly; but the next moment he discovered that she looked tired, and hurried away. Philippa heard him go into his own room, and presently the sound of his voice reached her ears, raised in happy strains:

“Jack’s the boy, when girls are sad,
To kiss their tears away.”

He had been serious for five minutes on end, and the strain was evidently too much for his constitution; but Philippa lay awake far into the night, talking to God about her boy, asking His help where she had failed. It was the truest of all comforts to feel that the far-off country was still near to Him.

Fortunately for all concerned, the letter from the Hermit’s brother proved in every respect satisfactory, for the Loftus family washed their hands of Barney, going out of their way to refuse help before it was asked. The ‘mannikin’ would, no doubt, have acted differently had he been permitted, but his wife told him sternly that he could not allow all his friends to be victimised by that dreadful boy, when he said, “Yes, my dear—yes! No, my dear—no!” and collapsed, as his custom was. The Charringtons were hardly disappointed, for they had learned long ago that—except where Hope was concerned—it was useless to expect sympathy from Aunt Loftus. Avice’s affection for Hope made her a welcome guest, and she was frequently asked to fill a vacant place at a dinner-table, or presented with a ticket for an afternoon concert which she would not otherwise have been able to afford. It was at such a concert that Hope’s next meeting with Ralph Merrilies took place, and through all her embarrassment she noticed the glance exchanged between him and Avice as he seated himself in the vacant stall by her side. There was no surprise in her cousin’s languid eyes, but something very, very like triumph at the completion of a well-laid scheme. Could it be possible that the seat had been designedly reserved?

As we all know, well-bred people never dream of whispering or talking at classical concerts, and Hope’s devotion to her programme was so continual and absorbing that her next-door neighbour could study her profile at his ease, and wonder if there was another girl in the world who had such long eyelashes and such a sweet, winsome mouth. The interval seemed a long time in coming, but it came at last, and then Avice gave Ralph another eloquent glance and carried off her mother to speak to some friends at the other side of the hall. The occupants of stalls to right and left were also moving about and chattering together, and to the two who were left seated there was a sense of solitude in the midst of a crowd.

“Wasn’t it beautiful?” asked Hope, still studying her programme.

“Very!” replied Ralph; but they were not referring to the same subject. He rested his arm on the back of the seat and said softly:

“Never mind that programme just now. Talk to me. I haven’t seen you for months. Mrs Loftus told me that you refused her invitation to The Shanty. I had been hoping to meet you there.”

“And I was sorry not to go, but we were in trouble at the time, and I felt I ought to stay at home. Did you have a good time?”

“Fairly so. It suffered from contrast. It was amusing to meet Miss Bennett in her new rôle.”

“I met her a few weeks ago at the Carlton.”

“So she told me.” There was a meaning expression in his voice which made the blood rush into Hope’s face. He bent nearer to her, his eyes fixed earnestly on hers. “What made you think that? What made you imagine for a moment that she could be engaged to met.”

“I can’t tell you,” replied Hope, truthfully enough. She stared down at the programme, and became intently occupied in plaiting its cover between her fingers. “I knew it was some one whom I had met at The Shanty, and I took for granted that it was you.”

“You can’t truthfully tell me that you thought I was in love with her last year?”

“N-no.”

“Did it ever strike you that I was in love with some one else?” The elbow moved its position and encroached on the corner of her own chair. “Hope, I want you to answer a question. Did you refuse to let me call upon you in town because you knew I loved you, and thought it was impossible to care for me in return?”

The grey eyes were lifted at that with an air of startled disclaimer.

“Oh no, no! Quite the contrary!” cried Hope eagerly.

The next moment confusion seized her as she recognised the inference, but the words were spoken beyond recall, and Ralph’s glowing face showed that he was not likely to forget them.

“You darling! Hope, do you mean it? Have we been misunderstanding each other all this time?” He stretched his hand towards hen, then hurriedly drew it back as an old lady put up her pince-nez to regard him from afar. “Hang these people! What a nuisance they are! I’ll tell you a secret, Hope. I fell in love with you that very first evening while you were singing your little song, and I’ve been uncommonly miserable ever since. Well?”

“Well—what?”

“One expects some response to a statement like that!”

Hope gave a soft, contented laugh.

“I—liked you too, and I have been wretched! What made you come here to-day?”

“Truda told me about your interview, and volunteered the intelligence that you seemed relieved to discover that I was not the happy man. She spoke to Avice too, I imagine, for I was asked to join you this afternoon in a very marked manner.”

So Truda had repented her jealous exactions, and had tried to undo the mischief which they had wrought. That was generous of her, but Hope blushed with a discomfited air as she said:

“I thought I pretended so beautifully! I thought no one could guess. There is something else I want to explain. That evening last winter when you wanted to see me home—it was not my fault that I disappeared before you came back. Mrs Welsby asked me to take charge of a little girl, and sent me off in a cab.”

“Humph!” exclaimed Mrs Welsby’s brother dryly. “What a comfort it would be if people attended to their own business in this world! And were you sorry, Hope? Were you disappointed?”

“I cried,” said Hope simply; and once again Ralph Merrilies looked round at the other occupants of the stalls and breathed a wish that they were at any other part of the world than just that inhabited by Hope and himself.

At the conclusion of the interval Avice came back to her seat, and looking shyly around, found the answer to her question in two flushed, radiant faces.

“I’m so glad, Hope!” she whispered, pressing her cousin’s hand beneath the shelter of that useful programme. “It is just what I wanted. I helped you a little, didn’t I? I asked him on purpose.”

“I shall love you for it all my life,” said Hope shyly.

“So shall I,” said Ralph; “but—why didn’t you do it sooner?”

Two hours later Hope ascended the stairs leading to the little flat, having dismissed an unwilling lover who had been anxious to introduce himself to his future sisters-in-law and fix the date of his wedding without a moment’s delay. She tried hard to control her features as she entered the dining-room, and to look less ridiculously happy, but it was of no avail. The girls gaped at her in astonishment as she stood blushing and smiling before them, and Madge cried severely:

“What is the matter! You look mightily pleased with yourself, my dear. What mischief have you been up to this afternoon?”

“Please,” said Hope humbly, “I’ve been getting engaged!” and the scene which followed approached delirium in its excitement.

“And to think that I did not even know his name!” Philippa exclaimed when a hundred questions had been asked and answered, and Hope had been kissed and hugged to her heart’s content. “You were quiet about it! How did you manage to get along without some one to comfort you all these long months?”

“Theo knew,” said Hope; and at that a little frown showed itself on Philippa’s forehead. It was a blow to her vanity to find that another had been chosen before herself, and though she made no comment, she was filled with a yearning for a closer sympathy and appreciation than she received in the home circle.

“Sometimes I feel as if I had come to the end of my work,” she said wistfully to the Hermit when he came upstairs during the evening to congratulate the bride-elect. “When Barney goes abroad and Hope marries we shall be a very small family, and Theo is growing so clever at housekeeping. When I was ill they got on quite well without me. It seems as if the time had come when I was no longer needed. It makes me feel quite sad!”

“You must not feel that. Er—er—fresh duties may arise,” stammered the Hermit in consolation.

Madge looked at them across the room, and dropped her sagacious chin.

“At this rate,” she said to herself—“at this precipitate rate—they will be finding out what they want in the course of the next three or four years!”

The End.