Doctor Luttrell's First Patient

by Rosa Nouchette Carey

"Olive, look what Mr. Gaythorne has given me."

"Jack Travers! is that the poor man in the Models? Oh, Marcus, how splendid of him to give all that; it will be quite a fortune to the poor things."

"Yes, it will pay their rent until Travers gets about again; he is not going to die this journey. Was it not liberal of the old fellow? but if you had only seen the way he gave it to me, as though he were ashamed of the whole thing.

"'That is for the man you told me about last night,' he said, in quite a grumpy voice; and he had hardly seemed as though he had listened yesterday; and he would not let me thank him, he turned testy at once; by-the-bye, Livy, he wants you to go and see him; you have evidently won his heart, my dear. 'If Mrs. Luttrell has half an hour's leisure I shall be pleased to see her,' those were his very words."

"I hope you told him that it would be rather difficult to find leisure with all my numerous engagements," returned Olivia, saucily, "but that I would do my best for him. How many callers have we had since we were married, Marcus? let me see, the Vicar and Mrs. Tolman, oh, and one day Mrs. Tolman brought a friend. I remember how excited I was that afternoon, and that horrid little Sarah Jane had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows when she opened the door, and I dared not offer them tea because I knew she would never have had boiling water. Oh, yes," continued Olivia, merrily, "I will look over my visiting list, and see how I am to squeeze in a call at Galvaston House. What hour do you think would suit him best, Marcus?"

Then Dr. Luttrell, who had been much amused by his wife's drollery, gravely considered the point.

"About three o'clock, I should say; I think he wants to show you his flowers; he is going to have his couch wheeled into the conservatory, or his winter garden, as he calls it. Why should you not go across this afternoon? Now I must be off to the Models;" and as Olivia took up her work again there was a soft flush on her cheek, and a happy look in her eyes as she listened to his light springing tread.

"Dear Marcus," she said to herself; "how pleased he is about this, it has done him good already. Oh, how I hope Mr. Gaythorne will take a fancy to him; he is rich and liberal, I am sure of that; he will pay Marcus well, and perhaps before long someone else will send for him. What, Dot, my sweet, must I love Jacko too?" as Dot laid her treasure on her mother's lap.

When Olivia rang at the bell of Galvaston House that afternoon the same rosy-cheeked maid admitted her.

"If you will step into the library a minute, ma'am," she observed, "I will tell Mrs. Crampton," and Olivia was left alone in the beautiful room she remembered so well.

A bright fire burned cheerily on the hearth and the blind hound lay on the rug; he came up to Olivia and thrust his slender nose into her hand in a friendly fashion. It was in this room that Mr. Gaythorne evidently passed his days; the tables bore signs of his numerous occupations; one table seemed loaded with books of reference. A pile of neatly written manuscripts were on the escritoire. Portfolios of engravings and a microscope on a pedestal stand occupied one corner, and a small inner room seemed full of cabinets and cases of stuffed birds and butterflies.

Mr. Gaythorne was evidently a collector and a man of culture; the volumes in the carved oak book-cases were mostly bound in Russian calf. Olivia had only time to read a few titles when Mrs. Crampton appeared; her comely face had a pleased smile on it.

"Mr. Gaythorne will be extremely obliged if you will step upstairs and see him, ma'am," she said, civilly; "he has been wheeled into the conservatory; my master thinks a deal of his flowers—books and flowers—they are his main amusements when his cough keeps him from going out Oh! you must come too, Eros, of course," as the hound followed them closely.

Galvaston House had been built in rather an unusual fashion; a conservatory had been thrown out at the back of the first floor landing and ran along one side of the house, forming a sort of verandah to the lower rooms.

As Mrs. Crampton opened the glass door, the warm fragrant air met them deliciously. At the farther end Mr. Gaythorne lay on a couch under a tall palm, with an oriental quilt thrown over him; his dark crimson dressing-gown, and black velvet cap gave him a picturesque appearance; with his white peaked beard and moustache, and his dark sunken eyes, he would have passed for a Venetian Doge; the mass of brilliant bloom, and the warm flower-scented air made Olivia slightly giddy.

"This is very kind of you, Mrs. Luttrell," observed Mr. Gaythorne, in a slow, precise voice, as she stooped over him and took his hand. "Crampton, bring a chair for the lady. I have been wanting to thank you for your kind assistance that unlucky evening. I told the doctor so, and he has been good enough to give you my message."

"Indeed, I did very little," returned Olivia, in her mellow voice. "You seemed so feeble that I could not help watching you cross the road; and then you slipped, and I felt you had hurt yourself. I fear from what my husband tells me that it will be some little time before you will be able to get out again."

"So he says, and he threatens me with crutches," returned the old man, grimly; "but, as I seldom cross the threshold in winter, I need not trouble myself about that. Are you fond of flowers, Mrs. Luttrell?" as Olivia's eyes wandered to the splendid exotics round her. "Crampton shall cut you some presently. My library and my winter garden form my entire world now."

"And you live among all these lovely things!" observed Olivia, almost in a tone of awe. "Oh, if only Aunt Madge could see these flowers!"

She spoke impulsively without considering her words, and blushed a little when she saw Mr. Gaythorne lift his eyebrows cynically.

"I was only thinking of my aunt, Mrs. Broderick," she said, apologetically. "She is such a sad invalid; she has never been out once since Uncle Fergus died, and that is ever so many years ago, and she suffers such dreadful pain sometimes. The doctors say her complaint is incurable, and she is not at all old. She lives all alone with her maid, and never goes beyond her two rooms, and yet no one hears her complain."

"Mrs. Broderick must be a wonderful person. She beats Job," returned Mr. Gaythorne, with a cynical curl of his lip; but Olivia was too much engrossed with her subject to notice it.

"Oh, she is wonderful!" she returned, earnestly. "I never met any one like her. She is the bravest woman I know. Even the Vicar says so. Don't you love pluck, Mr. Gaythorne? So few people are plucky in that sense. Aunt Madge has lost everything she cares for—husband and child and health; but she bears it all so beautifully, and makes the best of things. I could not help thinking of her when I saw all those lovely flowers; she simply dotes on flowers! There are always some on her little table; flowers and books, those are her sole pleasures."

"What on earth made you hold forth on Aunt Madge's virtues, you absurd child?" was Marcus's comment when Olivia repeated this portion of her conversation. "Fancy entertaining Mr. Gaythorne with an account of your relations!"—and Olivia blushed guiltily.

"It does sound odd if you put it in that way, Marcus," she returned; "but when I saw all those beautiful flowers, Aunt Madge just jumped into my head, and I always do speak out my thoughts so. But I could see he was interested. He said little sharp sneering things at first, but afterwards he questioned me a good deal. Oh, we got on splendidly! He began asking me about ourselves, and if you had much of a practice. Oh, he said it quite nicely!" as Marcus dropped the loaf he was cutting and frowned anxiously. "He was quite gentlemanly, and only hinted at things; but I understood him, of course."

"And you told him, I suppose, that he was my first patient," in an annoyed tone. "You may as well own it, Livy; you are honest enough even for that," and there was no denying that Marcus's voice was decidedly sarcastic. With all her virtues Olivia never did know when to hold her tongue.

"Oh, Marcus dear, how could I help it," replied Olivia, nervously. "Of course I had to tell him that we were just beginners, and how Dr. Slade had deceived us; that there was no redress, as he was dead. But I told him, too, how hard you worked among the poor—— He did not say much. I don't think he is a great talker, but he stroked that funny beard of his and nodded his head. Then when Mrs. Crampton came up he told her to bring coffee, and he made me stay and pour it out for him. There was such a lovely chased coffee-pot and cream-jug, and such delicious cakes, and when I said at last that I must go he thanked me quite pleasantly. 'It is long since I have been so well amused, and I hope you will come and see me again.' Yes, he said that, Marcus, so I am sure he did not mind my frankness. But oh, dear! he quite forgot to tell Mrs. Crampton to cut me some flowers."

"You need not expect any flowers now," returned her husband, impatiently. "You have done for yourself and me too I expect. A beginner you said, Livy, and you a sensible woman! When I go this evening, I have no doubt I shall be civilly told that a second opinion will be desirable. My dear girl, don't you know that a modest reticence, a judicious silence, is sometimes the safest policy. A professional beggar may whine and show his sores, but a needy doctor out at elbows must wear a good appearance;" but Olivia, who was on the verge of tears from sheer vexation at her own impulsiveness, did not seek to defend herself.

If she had imperilled Marcus's professional reputation by her carelessness, she felt she should never hold up her head again, but Marcus, who was tired and a little out of humour, was not disposed to comfort her.

He had had a worrying day among his poor patients, the one bright spot had been his visit to the Models, when Jack Travers had sobbed and broken down in the attempt to speak his gratitude. And now just as they were getting on so well, Olivia's want of tact and that terribly honest tongue of hers had spoilt everything. Was it likely—was it within the bounds of possibility—that a man of the world—a rich man too—would be content with the services of an unknown practitioner? If he put himself in Mr. Gaythorne's place, he knew that he should be disposed to request Dr. Bevan to call. It was not only a sprained ankle. Mr. Gaythorne was an ailing man, and needed medical care. Marcus, who was clever and quick-witted, had already formed a pretty correct diagnosis of the case. "There is mental as well as physical trouble," he had said to himself the previous evening, and with professional reticence he had kept this opinion to himself, but he was already deeply interested in his patient. So much was at stake, and their fortunes were at so low an ebb, that Marcus might be pardoned for his unusual touchiness. Yet when he left the room without further remark, Olivia's heart sank within her.

"Why could I not have held my tongue," she thought, with tardy repentance. "What could have induced me to talk so much, but Mr. Gaythorne really seemed interested, and somehow he encouraged me to go on. If he had appeared bored or tired I should have stopped at once, but he seemed so curious about Aunt Madge, he even asked if she had a good doctor. Oh, dear, surely that is not Marcus going out!" as the street door opened; and now there were actual tears in Olivia's eyes.

In all the two years of their happy married life they had never had more than a momentary misunderstanding. If a hasty word had been uttered by one of them, the other had always an eager protest or a smooth answer ready. When Olivia had been impatient and captious, Marcus had only laughed and coaxed her into good humour again. And even when he had indulged in a few sarcastic speeches, Olivia's soft voice and ready acquiescence had avoided friction.

Marcus often told her that they were a model couple, and had earned the Dunmow Flitch over and over again, but in reality their mutual respect and thorough understanding of each other's salient points had conduced to this harmony.

That Marcus should leave the house therefore without speaking to her alarmed Olivia excessively. She must have vexed him, indeed, if he could do such a thing as that, and here one or two bright drops ran down on the blue pelisse.

She was actually crying like a scolded child, when two or three minutes later the parlour-door opened and Marcus entered. His face wore a queer expression, and in each hand he held an exquisite bunch of hot-house flowers; their perfume reached Olivia before he laid them before her.

"There, Olive," he said, "I take back my words;" then, as he caught sight of her tear-stained face: "Oh, you foolish little woman, you absurd child," but his hand rested affectionately on her soft, brown hair, as she put back her head against him.

"Oh, Marcus, I could not help crying to think I had vexed you so. Somehow it is the one thing I cannot bear, to think my foolish tongue should have harmed you."

"I was in an awful funk, certainly," returned Marcus, frankly, "but I never meant to bother you like that. Cheer up, Livy, I daresay it is all right, and I know you will be a model of discretion for the future. Aren't you going to look at your flowers?" and then Olivia did permit herself to be consoled.

"Think of his cutting all those lovely flowers for me," she cried, ecstatically. "Is he not an old dear, Marcus? But why two bouquets?" knitting her brows in a puzzled fashion.

"You had better open that folded slip of paper," suggested her husband, sensibly, "it may explain matters," and Olivia took his advice.

"Mrs. Luttrell, with Mr. Gaythorne's compliments," was pencilled in a shaky hand, and on the second slip, almost illegibly, "For Mrs. Luttrell's aunt."

"Oh, Marcus, how sweet of him!" and Olivia looked almost lovely in her excitement, and Marcus agreed that he was a good old sort.

"If you are going to write a note of thanks, you must just hurry up, as it is nearly time for me to go across," and then Olivia put the flowers in water, and got out her writing-case.

CHAPTER VI.

"I REMIND YOU OF SOMEONE?"

"The fire in the flint
Shows not till it be struck."—Timon of Athens.

Although Marcus had other visits to pay, and would not be back until quite late, Olivia sat up for him on pretence of finishing Dot's pelisse, but to her disappointment he had very little to tell her on his return.

Mr. Gaythorne had been tired and out of spirits, and he had had no inducement to prolong his visit; he had not read Olivia's note, only placed it beside him.

"Perhaps he was a shade more civil than usual," observed Marcus, dryly, "but his manners certainly want mending. Could you not illuminate that motto, Livy, 'Manners makyth man?' and we would frame it, and give it him as a Christmas present." But Olivia could not be induced to see the joke; Mr. Gaythorne was still an old dear, and the perfume of his flowers was sweet to her.

Marcus would have wondered if he had intercepted one of the searching glances that were reading him so acutely; those deep-set, melancholy eyes could pierce like a gimlet; sometimes a vivid blue light seemed to dart from them. "When master has one of his awful looks on, I dare not face him," Phoebe would say, and Mrs. Crampton, conscious as she was of rectitude and the claim of long and faithful service, felt there were limitations to her intercourse with her master.

Once, and once only, had she ventured on a tabooed subject, and had retired from the room with her comely face quite pale with fear.

"I thought he would have struck me," she said to her confidante, the middle-aged housemaid, "or that he would have had a fit; I should have one myself if I ever tried it on again; but I never will, Rebecca, I will take my oath of that."

"Master has an awful temper when he is drove wrong," returned Rebecca, primly; "I don't wonder at Mr. Alwyn myself. I don't hold with keeping too tight a hand over a young man, it fairly throttles all the goodness out of them. He was none so bad that he would not have done better, if only he had had a word of encouragement instead of all those flouts and jibes."

"Those are exactly my sentiments, Becky," returned Mrs. Crampton, wiping her eyes with her snowy-frilled apron, "and having a boy of my own, bless him, I am a pretty fair judge. Tom was a pickle before he went to sea, but neither his poor father nor me ever cast it at him. He ran away and took the Queen's shilling, though it nigh broke our hearts. Well, he is a sergeant now, and Polly makes him a good wife, and all's well that ends well. But I must be looking after master's supper," and Mrs. Crampton bustled away to her duties.

Olivia took her flowers round to Aunt Madge as soon as her household duties were done in the morning. Mrs. Broderick, who had had a sleepless night of pain, looked more worn and languid than usual, but she brightened up at the sight of the flowers, and poked her long nose into the heart of a rose with an air of rapt enjoyment, but the next moment she frowned.

"Livy," she said, severely, "I am extremely angry! how dare you be guilty of such extravagance, even if it be my birthday! Don't I know what these exquisite flowers must have cost!" then Olivia's face fell a little.

"Oh, Aunt Madge, I had no idea it was your birthday, and I have brought you nothing, nothing at all. Do let me explain," and then Mrs. Broderick listened with much interest to Olivia's recital.

"The flowers are even sweeter than I thought them," she said, presently, and her face flushed a little. "I thought the day would be so blank, and that I should just lie here missing Fergus. He always made such a fuss on my birthdays; they were red-letter days to him, and now this friendly message has come to me. Give me my writing-case, Livy. I must scrawl a few lines to your old gentleman," and she refused to dictate the note to Olivia.

"MY DEAR SIR," she wrote, "do you know what you have done? You have given a poor invalid a very happy day. Your beautiful flowers have come to me like a lovely message of sympathy and goodwill from an unknown friend.

"If you were ever sad and lonely, if life has not always been easy to you, it will sweeten your solitary hours to know that you have given enjoyment to a crippled sufferer.

"To-day is my birthday, the forty-sixth milestone on my life's journey. During a long, wakeful night of pain I have been counting up past blessings, and the new day seemed a blank to me, and then your flowers came, and I thanked God and took courage.

"Dear sir, I remain,
"Yours gratefully,
"MARGARET BRODERICK (widow)."

That was one of Aunt Madge's fads, one of her harmless little peculiarities, to sign herself in that fashion. "There is so much in the word widow," she would say; "if it were not for seeming odd or making people smile, I would always sign myself 'Fergus's widow,' instead of my proper name," but nothing could induce her to send even a note without that curious signature.

Olivia could not quite get over her grievance of forgetting Aunt Madge's birthday.

"It was so horrid of me," she said, with a long face, "but, anyhow, I will come to tea."

"No, dear, not to-day," returned Mrs. Broderick, quietly. "To-morrow Deb and I will be delighted to welcome you. And Deb shall bake some shortbread and scones. Marcus might come too, it is long since I saw him."

"But why not to-day, dear Aunt Madge?" persisted Olivia, rather curiously.

"Fergus and I always spent the day alone together, and I keep up the custom still," returned Mrs. Broderick, in a dreamy voice. "He never gave me his present until the evening, and it was always such a grand surprise. His last present to me was that revolving book-table. How splendid I thought it, and what a comfort it has been to me all these years. Don't look so serious, Livy, I don't mean to be dull, I never am, but I like to fancy that on my birthday I have Fergus near me still," and nothing that Olivia could say would shake her resolution.

Olivia hesitated to repeat her visit to Galvaston House, and when she consulted Marcus he advised her to wait a little.

"We must not be too pushing. I daresay one of these days Mr. Gaythorne will send you another message. He is rather ailing and out of sorts just now, and inclined to bristle up at a word," but, though Marcus laughed in this way, he had not found his berth an easy one.

Mr. Gaythorne was often irritable, and the least contradiction—even the assertion of an opinion—would ruffle him. Once, when Marcus had proposed discontinuing his evening visits, Mr. Gaythorne had appeared quite affronted.

"If I can afford to pay for medical advice, I suppose I may be allowed to have it," he had returned, testily. "Of course, if your time is too valuable——"

But Marcus, flushing at the covert sneer, answered, in his quick, straightforward way:

"I wish it were more valuable; but as I have no wish to pick your pocket, I thought it would be only honest to tell you that the evening visit is no longer necessary."

"Very well, then we will regard it in the light of a luxury," returned Mr. Gaythorne, a little less grimly. "By-the-bye, Dr. Luttrell, I want to ask you if you will kindly let me have your account at the end of the month. Monthly payments are my rule, if it will not inconvenience you."

Marcus assured him he was quite ready to meet his wishes.

Olivia, who had few amusements, often thought longingly of that beautiful winter garden, and wished to revisit it. She had described it so vividly and graphically to Aunt Madge, that Mrs. Broderick declared she could picture it exactly. She was never weary of hearing her niece's description.

"I feel as though my world were enlarged, and that I had got a new friend," she said one day, and Olivia was amused to hear that the faded flowers had been carefully pressed.

She was much delighted then when one raw, foggy November morning Marcus brought her a message. Mr. Gaythorne felt himself better, and would be very pleased if Mrs. Luttrell would give him an hour that afternoon.

Her visit was a very pleasant one. The yellow fog outside had been extremely depressing, but as she stepped into the hall, the whole house seemed brightly illuminated. Mr. Gaythorne, who was on crutches, met her at the head of the staircase. He had discarded his dressing-gown, and wore a black velvet coat that became him still better.

The conservatory, lighted up by lamps cunningly concealed among the foliage, looked more like fairyland than ever. And the deep easy-chairs, with their crimson cushions, were deliciously inviting.

Her admiration seemed to gratify Mr. Gaythorne, and as he pointed out his favourite flowers, and descanted on their habits and peculiar beauties, Olivia listened with such intelligent interest, and asked such sensible and pertinent questions, that he was drawn insensibly into giving her a botanical lesson.

They were so engrossed with their subject that it was almost an effort to break off when coffee was brought.

Mrs. Crampton had sent up a profusion of dainty cakes, and as Olivia drank her coffee and feasted on the various delicacies, the one drawback to her pleasure was that Marcus was not there to share it. At this present moment he was in some slum or other supplementing the labours of the overworked parish doctor.

How surprised Dr. Luttrell would have been if he could have seen the transformation in his patient's appearance—the lean, cadaverous face had lost its fretful look, the melancholy dark eyes had grown bright and vivid, the slow precise voice had waxed animated and even eloquent as he discoursed learnedly on his floral treasures.

Flowers, butterflies, and birds were his great hobbies, and his magnificent collections had been gathered from all parts of the world; he had been a great traveller in his early manhood.

"I have been everywhere and seen everything," he said once. Towards the end of the afternoon Olivia had been much touched by a little incident; she had asked him a question about a curious cactus. "If you will come with me, my dear," he had answered, "I could show you a better specimen"—and then a dull red had risen to his forehead. "Excuse me, Mrs. Luttrell. I forgot whom I was addressing—and—and—you——" but here he checked himself.

"Oh, do finish your sentence!" she said, in her bright persuasive voice. "You were going to say that I remind you of someone?"—and as he met her kind friendly glance, his shy stiffness relaxed.

"Yes," he said, simply, and a great sadness came into his eyes, "you remind me of my daughter. That first evening when you spoke to me you reminded me of her then."

"And you have lost her! Oh, I am so sorry! Does it pain you to speak of her? I should so like to know her name!"

"Her name was Olivia," he returned, slowly, "but we always called her Olive. She was born at Beyrout, under the Syrian sun, and in the land of grey olive-trees."

"How strange! What a curious coincidence!" returned young Mrs. Luttrell, softly. "That is my name too, and Marcus often calls me Olive; and I remind you of her?"

"Yes, Olive spoke in just that brisk, cheerful manner. She was so full of life and energy. She died of fever at Rome—we were staying there. She was only two-and-twenty, and she was to have been married that summer. Her poor mother never got over the shock; before the autumn she had followed her."

"Oh, how sad—how dreadfully sad!" observed Olivia, with tears in her eyes. "What a tragedy to live through. And her poor lover too!"

"Oh, yes, Arbuthnot; he was bitterly cut up. He is a judge now, and has a good wife, but I doubt if he has ever forgotten Olive. She was no beauty, but she had a way with her. Stay—I will show you her picture."

"Poor man! No wonder he looks melancholy," thought Olivia, as he slowly hobbled away on his crutches. "How strange that I should remind him of her, and that she should be Olive too!" but when Mr. Gaythorne returned and placed a beautiful miniature before her, she could see no resemblance to herself in the dark sweet face of Olive Gaythorne.

No, she was not beautiful, but there was something wonderfully attractive and winning in her expression; the eyes, deep-set like her father's, had a frank soft look.

"Your only child—and you lost her," murmured Olivia, sympathetically.

"My only daughter," corrected Mr. Gaythorne, in a tone so peculiar, that Olivia raised her eyes, and then she felt a little frightened. There was a curious pallor on Mr. Gaythorne's face, which made it look like old ivory, and his bushy eyebrows were drawn closely together.

"It is a sweet face—a dear face," returned Olivia, hurriedly. She was a little nervous over her mistake. "It is kind of you to show me this, and I like to think her name was Olive." And then she closed the case reverently and put it back in his hands. "I must go now," she said; "it has been such a lovely time, and you have taught me so much. Will you send for me again when you want to see me? I think that is best; it would be such a pity for me to disturb you when you felt tired or disinclined for visitors."

"You are my only visitor," returned Mr. Gaythorne, in his old grim manner. "The Vicar's wife—what is the woman's name?—forced her way in one day, but I do not think her reception pleased her. The Vicar himself is an honest man. I have given him a hint that he will be welcome if he comes alone, but no bustling prying vicaress for me."

"Oh, poor Mrs. Tolman; well, she is a little officious, as Marcus calls her, and I know she often sets Aunt Madge's nerves on edge."

"Oh, by the way, I intend to send Mrs. Broderick some more flowers; will it be a trouble to you to take them, or shall one of the lasses carry them straight to her house?"

"Oh, no; please let me have the pleasure of taking them. If you had only seen Aunt Madge's delight——"

"She wrote me a pretty sort of note," returned Mr. Gaythorne; "but tell her not to do that again, gratitude is for favours to come; you may remind her of that. Does she always sign her name in that fashion—Margaret Broderick, widow——?"

"Yes, always; it is one of Aunt Madge's whimsies; but you will never get her to alter."

"It does not sound badly, but it is certainly unique. How would it answer if one were to follow her example. John Alwyn Gaythorne, widower," and here Mr. Gaythorne gave a short sardonic laugh.

"Marcus! oh, Marcus!" exclaimed Olivia, coming into the room in her breezy fashion. "I have so much to tell you. Mr. Gaythorne is a widower—and he has lost his only daughter, and her name was Olivia, and that is why he has taken to me, because I remind him of her; but"—checking herself as she caught sight of her husband's face—"you have something to tell me too."

"Only that they sent for me from Fairfax Lodge, that is that ivy-covered house next to Galvaston House. A child taken suddenly with croup. I have been there most of the afternoon."

Then Olivia clapped her hands with a little exclamation of delight. Marcus's tone had been quite cool and matter-of-fact, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. The tide had turned at last.

CHAPTER VII.

BLOWING BUBBLES.

"How pleasant it is to be acquainted with new and clever things."—Aristophanes.

Marcus certainly carried his head a little higher than usual that evening; as for Olivia, she trod on air. As she sat at her needlework later on, waiting until Marcus returned from his second visit to Galvaston House, her thoughts were busy about the future.

Marcus would soon have a large practice; it was all very well for Aunt Madge to be sententious, and say that one swallow does not make a spring; but already the second harbinger of good luck had put in an appearance.

There was no fear of parting with Martha now; before long Olivia was building magnificent castles. The house next door to Galvaston House was to let, it had a garden and a small conservatory, and Marcus had once remarked that it was just the house for a medical man; the reception-rooms were good and there was a capital stable.

"Supposing we were ever rich enough to take Kempton Lodge," she said to herself.

Marcus threw back his head and indulged in a hearty laugh, when he heard where his wife's imagination had landed her.

"Kempton Lodge—my dear child—why do you not suggest Prince's Gate, or Belgravia? My own thoughts had not gone further than a new greatcoat this winter. I am afraid my old one is getting a little seedy." And at this remark, Olivia's airily constructed fabric dissolved into nothingness.

To blow bubbles is an enchanting pastime even with grown-up children. The big bright-coloured bubbles soar into the air and look so beautiful before they burst. One is gone, but another takes its place, just as rainbow-tinted, and gorgeous. There are people who blow endless bubbles until their life's end, who cannot be induced to discontinue the harmless pursuit.

"Life is so hard and dreary," they say. "The wheels of drudgery are for ever turning and grinding; let us sit in the sun a little and float our fairy balls. What if they are dreams and never come to anything; the dreams and the sunlight have made us happy; there is plenty of time in which to do our work."

Marcus laughed at his wife's fancies; but he never crushed them ruthlessly. "Poor little Livy," he thought, "why should she not build her air castles if they make her happy, and perhaps, after all, who knows——" but Marcus did not finish his sentence even to himself.

But the next day when he went to Maybrick Villas to fetch his wife home, he had a good deal to say about his new patients.

"I am in luck," he said, as he stood warming himself before the fire, while the two women watched him. "I thought of course when they sent for me that it was because I was the nearest doctor, and that perhaps their own medical man was engaged—in an imminent case like that it is impossible to wait—but no, it was nothing of the kind. Mrs. Stanwell told me herself—she is such a nice little person, Livy—that they have only been a few months at Fairfax Lodge, and that before that they had lived in Yorkshire.

"Being strangers in the place they were sadly perplexed on the subject of doctors, until the nurse told her mistress that she had seen me going in and out of Galvaston House. And this decided Mrs. Stanwell to send for me. As I was able to do the child good, they are ridiculously grateful. I am likely to have another patient there; Mrs. Stanwell has an aunt living with her, and she is ailing. I have only taken a hasty diagnosis of the case, but I am going again to-morrow. I am half afraid the poor old lady is in a bad way."

"It is a long lane that has no turning, Marcus," observed Aunt Madge. "There, you must take Olive away, she has been wearying the past half-hour to get back to Dot!" but as they left her alone in the firelight she said to herself:

"Dear things, how happy they look! at their age life is so dreadfully exciting. I believe myself Marcus will get on; he is really clever, and never spares himself, but I doubt if Livy or I will ever be so interested in anyone as we are in Marcus's first patient."

Olivia would have indorsed this sentiment readily; before long Mr. Gaythorne became an important factor in her daily life, the friendship between them ripened rapidly.

Olivia kept to her resolution of never going to Galvaston House unless she were specially invited; but every three or four days a message from the old man reached her.

Olivia, whose only dissipation had been a weekly tea with Aunt Madge, and a biannual call at the Vicarage, with or without tea, according to Mrs. Tolman's mood, found these afternoons at Galvaston House very stimulating.

At first she was sorry when Mr. Gaythorne gave up sitting in the winter garden, and ensconced himself in the library, but she soon changed her opinion when he began to show her his curiosities and rare prints. He had so much to tell her about the birds and butterflies in the museum as he called the inner room, that the hours flew past as she listened to him, and it was always with real regret that she took her leave when the time came for her to go home.

"Aunt Madge and Marcus find me so much more interesting ever since you have taken me in hand," she said once. "I try and repeat all you tell me, but, of course, I forget half. Very often Marcus helps me to remember—he has read so much on these subjects, you see."

Perhaps it was this artless speech that led to Mr. Gaythorne showing Marcus a case of curious insects, and Dr. Luttrell had been so fascinated, so utterly engrossed, that the old man, much flattered, had cordially invited him into the museum. Marcus, who had still much time on his hands, often spent a pleasant hour or two with his patient. Mr. Gaythorne lent him books, and gave him choice brands of cigars.

Olivia was highly delighted at these evident marks of favour, but it troubled her that Mr. Gaythorne never liked them to come together. Olivia was always invited pointedly when Marcus's visit had been paid, and now and then he would ask Dr. Luttrell to have a chat with him after dinner. Once when Olivia had ventured to hint her disapproval of this he had answered with unwonted irritability.

"I like to take my pleasures singly, Mrs. Luttrell. I am sorry if I keep you from your husband. I am a selfish old misanthrope, I am afraid;" but Olivia, alarmed by this decided acerbity, hastened to assure him that her remark had meant nothing.

"It is so natural of me to want Marcus to share my pleasure," she said so sweetly that Mr. Gaythorne was mollified.

Even Marcus noticed a decided improvement in his patient's manner. He was less irritable and contradictory, and was evidently grateful for the relief he had derived from his doctor's treatment. The bare civility with which he had at first tolerated Marcus soon changed into greater cordiality. Dr. Luttrell's intelligence could appreciate Mr. Gaythorne's culture and learning. Before long they were on the best of terms, but it was Olivia who was the prime favourite.

When Olivia's face appeared on the threshold Mr. Gaythorne's eyes brightened under their rugged brows, and his voice insensibly softened. To her, and her only, he showed his real self.

"He has a strange complex nature," she said once to her husband. "He is very reserved, there are some things of which he never speaks. He has not once mentioned his son. I should not have known he had one, only I saw the name of Alwyn Gaythorne in a book. 'I thought your first name was John?' I said rather heedlessly.

"'So it is, John Alwyn,' he returned; 'that book belonged to my son,' but his voice was so constrained that I did not venture to say more. Depend upon it there is a mystery there, Marcus."

"'Perhaps Alwyn the younger is a Nihilist," returned Marcus, in a teasing voice. "Probably he is at Portland at the present moment, undergoing his sentence. No wonder poor Mr. Gaythorne is such a recluse;" but Olivia refused to be entertained by this badinage.

"I am quite in earnest," she returned, with a grave air. "So you need not trouble yourself to be ridiculous, Marcus. Why should he talk so much of his daughter and never mention his only son?"

"According to you he is almost as silent on the subject of his wife."

"Oh, that is different," she answered, hastily. "He once said to me that he could never bear even to hear her name mentioned, that it upset him so. 'I was a happy man as long as she lived,' he said, so sadly, 'but it was all up with me when I lost her. She was a peacemaker, she always kept things smooth; her name was Olivia too.'"

"Poor old boy," was Marcus's irrelevant remark at this.

"Yes, he is a strange mixture," went on Olivia, thoughtfully. "He has an affectionate nature, but he is hard too; he could be terribly hard, I am sure of that. And then see how good he is to those poor Traverses and to Aunt Madge. Could anyone be more generous. And yet he is not liberal by nature. That very day that he sent Mrs. Crampton to the Models with all those good things—jellies and beef-tea and chicken and actually two bottles of port wine—he was as angry as possible with Phoebe, because she had broken his medicine glass. Mrs. Crampton had orders to deduct the price of the glass from her wages. 'I always do that,' he said to me, 'it teaches them to be careful,' but poor Phoebe cried about it afterwards.

"'I call it real mean of master,' Phoebe had said; 'it is the first thing that ever I broke in this house, and it was all through Eros getting between my feet. It is not the few pence I mind, for we have good wages paid down on the day, but I call it shabby of master to be down on a poor servant-girl like that.'

"His servants don't seem to love him," went on Olivia. "They serve him well, because it is their interest to do so, but even Mrs. Crampton, who has been with him twenty years, does not dare to contradict him."

"Anyhow, he is liberal to us," returned Marcus, patting his waistcoat pocket, for he had that morning received his first cheque.

Marcus's first act had been to go to the coal merchant and order in a ton of excellent coal, then he had gone home and told his wife in a peremptory tone to put on her hat and jacket.

"I am going to take you to Harvey and Phelps to get a new dress and jacket," he said, severely. "I am not going to put up with that rusty old serge any longer," and Olivia had remonstrated in vain against such extravagance.

It was all very well to blow bubbles and furnish Kempton Lodge from garret to basement, but when it came to spending Marcus's first cheque——!

"Marcus, dear," she said, imploringly, "my old dress is quite tidy. I put new braid round it yesterday, and I would so much rather you got a new great-coat. Even Aunt Madge noticed that your present one was dreadfully shabby."

"Of course I shall get a new coat too," returned Dr. Luttrell, coolly. Then at the thought of this lavishness Olivia was stricken dumb.

Marcus made his purchases with great discretion; the grey tweed and warm jacket to match suited Olivia's tall supple figure perfectly—he had a momentary debate with himself before he ventured on a modest black straw hat with velvet trimmings, but in the end the order was given.

"Oh, Marcus, how could you!" exclaimed Olivia, who was at fever point by this time.

"Hold your tongue, Livy!" returned Marcus, good-humouredly. "I mean my wife to be well-dressed for once in her life. Now I must go to the tailor's for that great-coat. There won't be much of Mr. Gaythorne's cheque left by the time I get home. We shall want the balance for Christmas groceries."

Olivia groaned in spirit over Marcus's recklessness, but she could not bear to damp his enjoyment. She unburdened her mind to Mrs. Broderick the next day.

"Don't you think it would have been wiser to have put it by for a rainy day?" she said, anxiously. But Aunt Madge did not seem quite to share this opinion.

"My dear," she said, shrewdly, "I think Marcus knows what he is about; it would never do for him to go to those good houses in a shabby greatcoat. A little outlay is sometimes a good investment."

"Oh, yes, but I was thinking of the dress and jacket and that hat, Aunt Madge——"

"Ah, well, we must forgive Marcus that extravagance! It hurt his pride to see you calling at Galvaston House in that old serge dress. He is not really improvident, Livy. You have enough in hand for present necessities, and there will be something coming in next month."

"Oh, dear, yes; and do you know, Aunt Madge, they have sent for Marcus to attend the lodger at number seventeen. He is a music-teacher and very respectable, and can afford to pay his doctor, so that is swallow number three."

"Then I am sure you can wear your new dress with an easy conscience," and then Olivia's last scruples vanished.

Olivia looked so distinguished in her grey tweed that Marcus made her blush by telling her that she had never looked so handsome.

Mr. Gaythorne gave her an odd penetrating glance when she entered the library.

"I hardly knew you, Mrs. Luttrell," he said, dryly, and then his manner changed and softened. "That was her favourite colour," he said. "Olive was always a grey bird; she liked soft, subdued tints; she was a bit of a Puritan. I often told her so."

"I am glad you like my new dress," returned Olivia, simply. "My husband chose it for me, he has such good taste."

"You need not tell me that, Mrs. Luttrell." And again Olivia blushed like a girl at the implied compliment.

Mr. Gaythorne was looking over a portfolio of water-colour paintings. Olivia had not yet seen them, and she was full of outspoken admiration, as Mr. Gaythorne placed one after another before her.

"They are all the work of a young artist who died at Rome," he said. "I bought them of his widow. They are very well done; he had great promise, poor fellow. If he had lived, he would have done good work. These were merely pot-boilers, as he called them—little things he painted on the spur of the moment."

"To me they are perfectly beautiful," returned Olivia. "Those two are so lovely that I could not choose between them. Please let me look at them a little longer, Mr. Gaythorne, I want to tell Aunt Madge about them." And Olivia, who was always charmingly natural in her movements, propped her chin on her hands, and looked long and earnestly at the pictures.

Their beauty lay in the soft rich colouring and a certain suggestiveness in the subject.

One was a little grey church on a hill-side; the church was ruinous and out of repair, the churchyard full of weeds and thistles; a storm had just broken, and an old shepherd in a ragged smock had taken refuge in the porch, his rough-looking dog at his feet. The bowed figure and knotted hands, and the peaceful look in the wrinkled face were wonderfully striking, the patient eyes turned upwards were gazing at the rainbow. "'Tis a love token, I reckon," were the words written underneath the sketch.

Olivia could almost hear them through the parted lips; ruins and thistles and weeds and a broken storm, and beyond them the message of peace, written on the bright tints of the rainbow, for one simple heart to read.

"Aunt Madge would understand that," she said to herself; "she would like that picture best, but this is just as beautiful to my mind."

The second sketch was equally suggestive; it was a cornfield with poppies growing in it; under the hedge in the cool shade lay a brown baby asleep. A dish tied up in a blue handkerchief and a stone bottle lay beside the infant; an old terrier kept watch over them both.

"Keeping watch and ward" was the title of this picture; it was certainly very well painted. A breeze seemed rippling through the corn in the nook where the child lay; there were festoons of honeysuckle and dog-roses, and long sprays of traveller's joy. The stumpy grey terrier sitting erect at his post of duty was full of significance and individuality. The mother was evidently among the reapers in the far distance.

"One would never be tired of looking at that cornfield," observed Olivia, and though Mr. Gaythorne smiled at her enthusiasm, he would not spoil her enjoyment by pointing out to her one or two defects that he had already noticed.

By-and-by he called her to pour out the coffee—Mr. Gaythorne never indulged in afternoon tea.

"This is not much like Christmas weather," he said, looking out at the cold mizzling rain; "the forecasts promise a change, however. I suppose I must not ask if you dislike Christmas, it would not be a fair question at your age."

"No, indeed; I love it dearly. I have only had one sad Christmas—the year dear mother died—it is my birthday too, that makes it doubly festive. I am so glad I was born on such a beautiful day; that is why my second name is Noel."

"And you hold high festival on it?"

"Well, we cannot do much. Marcus and I always go to the early service, that is how we begin the day, and then he always has some little present on the breakfast table. It is the one day in the year we always dine with Aunt Madge; she is such an invalid, you see, that very little tires her; but on Christmas Day, we first dine with her quietly, and have an early tea, then come home; we are generally back by six o'clock, and have a long evening by ourselves. Do you spend Christmas Day quite alone, Mr. Gaythorne?"

"Yes, quite alone," he returned, gloomily; "but I have plenty of ghosts to visit me," and his face twitched, and he stooped over the pictures as he spoke.

CHAPTER VIII.

"'TIS A LOVE TOKEN, I RECKON."

"It is in men as in soils—where sometimes there is a vein of gold which the owner knows not of."—Dean Swift.

"Marcus, I have an idea."

Olivia had been sitting for some time in a brown study, staring into the red caverns, where the yellow fire-elves were beating out their rainbow gold on their glowing, hissing anvils.

It was in the gloaming, and the little sitting-room was warm and cosy. Dot was on her mother's lap, toasting her pink toes gleefully, and chuckling over them in baby fashion. And Marcus, who had finished his day's work, had left off trying to read by the light of the flickering flame, and was indulging in a furtive doze. He roused up when Olivia's clear voice broke the silence.

"Marcus, do you hear me? I have such a nice plan."

"Is it a riddle?" he returned, lazily. "I give it up." Then he contemplated his small daughter with much satisfaction. "I wonder none of you advanced women have ever turned your attention to baby-language," he observed presently; "we are studying the ape-vocabulary, you know. Dot has got quite a little language of her own. As far as I can make out each sentence is finished off with a 'gurgle-doe.' Something between the 'gobble, gobble' of a turkey and the coo of the ring-dove. I suppose it all means something."

"Means something!" and Olivia kissed the little rings of curly hair with passionate fondness. "Of course my girlie means something! I understand her as well as possible. She is scolding the fire, because it has burnt her dear little toes. Look, she is showing them to me. Naughty fire, to burn my baby." And thereupon followed one of those maternal and infantine duets, which appear such hopeless jargon to the masculine mind.

To Marcus it had a lulling effect, his eyes began to blink drowsily again, but Olivia, who had passed a solitary day, was not disposed for silence.

"You are not a bit curious about my plan, dear," she said presently. "I have been thinking so much of that sad, sad speech of Mr. Gaythorne's yesterday. I cannot bear to think of him alone all Christmas Day, with only the ghosts of happier years to haunt him."

"There is no need for him to be alone," returned Marcus, coolly. "He could invite us to supper. Why don't you propose it, Livy? You seem to say anything that comes into your head. A good bowl of steaming punch would drive all the grey and black spirits away. I would undertake to amuse him." But Olivia only looked at him rebukingly.

"Marcus, it is so tiresome that you will always joke when I want to be serious. Now, do give me a straightforward answer, if you can. Shall you have any visits to pay on Christmas Day?"

"My dear child, how can you expect me to answer in that off-hand way, and without consulting my visiting list? Well, if you must know," as Olivia uttered an impatient exclamation, "I shall have to go up to the Models after tea, to see that poor woman who was confined yesterday. The baby is not likely to live; and then I shall look in on Travers. I don't suppose I shall be out more than an hour."

"Oh, that will do nicely," returned his wife, in a satisfied tone. "Marcus, do you know, I have made up my mind to pay Mr. Gaythorne a surprise visit on Christmas evening. We are always back by six, and I know he does not dine until half-past seven. Do you think I dare venture? You see, I have never been without an invitation yet."

"And you actually mean 'to beard the lion in his den, and Douglas in his hall,'" spouted Marcus. And then, in his ordinary voice, "Well, you might try it, if you like; but I should not be surprised if you got snubbed. Christmas ghosts have a ghastly effect, and rub a man up the wrong way."

"Oh, I will take my chance of that," returned Olivia, cheerfully. "Now I will put Dot to bed, and leave you to finish your nap in peace."

"Thank goodness!" was on the tip of Marcus's tongue, but he refrained and only curled himself up afresh in his easy-chair. He had sat up late over his books the previous night, wasting lamp-oil and coals, as his wife had remarked, rather severely, and the cold air, with a touch of frost in it, had made him sleepy.

Olivia had been bristling all day, like a blissful porcupine, with little plans and surprises: first, she had actually saved out of Aunt Madge's Christmas gift enough money to buy Marcus another of Thackeray's novels; last Christmas she had given him The Newcomes, and this year she had fixed on Esmond.

Marcus was devoted to Thackeray, and thirsted for a complete set of his works, but at present only Vanity Fair and The Newcomes were on his modest bookshelves. Neither the husband nor wife thought it right to spend even those few shillings on the purchase of books, when they could make use of the Free Library.

The new copy of Esmond looked decidedly inviting, with its clean, uncut pages, and then there was really a handsome work-bag for Aunt Madge, fashioned by Olivia's skilful fingers out of a yard of cretonne. Olivia had already received her Christmas presents, and had nothing to expect. Her new outfit, and Dot's pelisse, and Martha's wages were all birthday and Christmas gifts. Nevertheless when Marcus came on Christmas Eve to hang up their scanty store of holly, he was met by his wife's excited face.

"Oh, Marcus!" she exclaimed, "I thought you would never come home; there is such a hamper from Galvaston House, and I am waiting for you to open it. And oh! do you know, dear, Aunt Madge has sent us some of her delicious mince pies, and a Christmas cake!"

"She is a good old soul," returned Marcus, fervently. "By-the-bye, Olive, could not we have supper earlier? for this sharp air—and it is freezing hard, let me tell you—has made me as hungry as a hunter." And as Olivia conceded this point graciously, he was induced to follow her to the small kitchen, where Martha, all smiles and excitement, awaited them.

Martha had her best dress on, for she was going round to her mother's presently, with her little store of Christmas gifts: a red knitted shawl for her mother and half a pound of tea, a comforter for her father, and some warm cuffs for the boys, and gingerbread-nuts and some oranges for the children, to which Olivia had added a bag of mixed sweets.

Martha's round eyes widened with amazement when the hamper was opened, and a plump turkey, and a fine York ham came to view; there were also half a dozen bottles of old port-wine for Dr. Luttrell, with Mr. Gaythorne's compliments, and a box of candied fruit and a jar of preserved ginger for his wife.

"Oh, Marcus! is not this kind?" Olivia's voice was almost awe-struck; her acquaintance with turkeys had hitherto been strictly limited to a partial view of their limp bodies as they dangled above her in the poulterers' shops; now her little larder would be filled to overflowing.

"Shall I step across and thank him, while you put those things away?" suggested Marcus. And as Olivia agreed to this, he caught up his hat and vanished.

When everything was safely stowed away, and Martha had been made supremely happy by the gift of two mince pies for her mother, and had trotted off red in the face with excitement, Olivia busied herself in getting the supper ready. The unsightly remains of a cold shoulder of mutton had been transformed into tempting rissoles. Olivia always treated her husband to a hot supper on Christmas Eve. Potatoes cooked in their coats, and a couple of Deborah's mince pies, finished off the menu, to which Marcus did ample justice. Afterwards he hung up their holly, and then Olivia fetched her work-basket, and Marcus went on with the novel that he was reading aloud, and both of them looked at the clock in amazement when Martha's modest ring told them the evening was over.

When Marcus put on his new great-coat the next morning, he shrugged his shoulders as he opened the front-door. Instead of the frost he had expected, the icy coldness of the air and the heavy aspect of the wintry sky were premonitory signs of a snow-storm.

"It is hardly fit for you to go out," he said, as Olivia joined him, but she only smiled at him, her vigorous young strength was proof against the cold.

"We must hurry, Marcus," she said, briskly, "or we shall be late, and I want to enjoy my Christmas service," for she had already arranged to take care of Dot during the morning, while Martha went to church. Marcus had his rounds, and would fetch her in time for the early dinner at Maybrick Villas.

The quiet service in the warm, well-lighted church was very soothing and refreshing. As Olivia knelt beside her husband, her heart swelled with thankfulness for countless blessings. "I have not deserved to be so happy," she said to herself, as she thought of her two treasures.

Martha had breakfast ready for them on their return, and Olivia hurried upstairs to take off her hat. She was just stepping into the dining-room, when Marcus caught hold of her, and blindfolded her playfully.

"No, you are not to look yet!" he said, teasingly. "There is a surprise in store for you." But as he took his hands from her eyes, she uttered a little cry of ecstasy.

On the breakfast-table, propped up with books, was a small framed picture, the very cornfield, with the brown baby asleep under the hedge, and the old terrier guarding it, that she had so admired. A card, with Mr. Gaythorne's compliments and Christmas greeting, was beside it.

"What do you think of your friend now, Livy?"

But Olivia seemed to have no answer ready, her lips trembled, and the tears gathered in her bright eyes. Marcus, who was almost as pleased as she was, patted her on the shoulder kindly, and bade her pour out the coffee, but for a long time Olivia could not be induced to go on with her breakfast.

"If only I could take it to show Aunt Madge!" she said at last. But Marcus negatived this at once; the picture was heavy, and the damp, cold air might injure it.

That was a happy morning to Olivia, as she played with Dot, and then sang her to sleep. When Marcus came home he told her to wrap up as warmly as possible. "The damp quite gets into one's bones," he said; and even Olivia owned that it was disagreeably cold.

Aunt Madge received them with her usual kind welcome, but she looked at her niece with a queer expression.

"Livy," she said, "I feel as though I were living in the days of Aladdin and his wonderful lamp. I had to pinch myself this morning, to be sure I was not dreaming. What do you think our dear old magician has done now?" And as she pointed to the table beside her, Olivia saw the picture of the ruined church, and the old shepherd in his tattered smock. "'Tis a love token, I reckon," repeated Aunt Madge, but her voice was not quite steady. As for Olivia, the tears were fairly running down her face.

"Dear Aunt Madge, I do love him for this. What do you think, he has sent me the picture of the cornfield that I described to you, and such a hamper of good things!"

"Yes, and a brace of pheasants have come to me. Livy, do you know what that picture means to me? I have just been feasting my eyes on it all the morning. I mean to get an easel and stand it at the foot of my couch, with that Indian scarf of mine just draped over it; won't it cheer me up on one of my bad days when I can't read or work, and even thinking is too hard for my poor head? ''Tis a love token, I reckon,' I shall just say that to myself."

"Marcus, I shall have to pay that visit," observed Olivia, desperately. "Oh, dear, if only we could do something in return for him! Don't laugh at me, you tiresome boy; it is all very well for you, you are doing him a good turn every day, that is why it is so grand to be a doctor, but Aunt Madge and I want to have our share too."

"Take off your hat, Livy," interrupted Aunt Madge, "for I hear Deb dishing up the dinner, and Marcus looks blue in the face with cold and hunger." And at this reminder Olivia hurried.

Mrs. Broderick always gave them the same dinner, a roast fowl and a piece of boiled ham, with plum pudding and mince pies to follow, but Deborah's cookery always gave it a different and most delicious flavour.

When dinner was over they sat by the fire and roasted chestnuts, and talked softly to each other, while Aunt Madge dozed. She roused up when Deb brought in the tea-things, and chatted in her old bright way, but Marcus's professional eyes detected lassitude, and in spite of her entreaties took his wife away rather earlier than usual.

"Livy," observed Aunt Madge, as her niece stooped over her to kiss her, "I have not been able to write a note of thanks to Mr. Gaythorne yet, but will you tell him that I have not had such a Christmas gift as that since my husband left me, and that I have been praying for him off and on all day, that he may have his heart's desire—there, tell him that——" And then she sank back wearily on her pillows.

CHAPTER IX.

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST.

"This life of ours is a wild Aeolian harp of many a joyous strain;
But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain."—Longfellow.

Olivia felt a little nervous as she sent in her name by Phoebe; the girl had looked at her dubiously.

"I am not sure whether master will see you, ma'am," she said. "He never sees anyone on Christmas Day; and Mrs. Crampton says he is but poorly;" nevertheless, at Olivia's request, she had taken the message.

After a brief delay she returned. Her master would see Mrs. Luttrell; but Olivia's heart beat a little quickly as she entered the library. For the first time she was not sure of her welcome.

The grand old room looked unusually gloomy. The tall standard lamps were unlighted, and only the blazing fire and a small green reading-lamp made a spot of brightness. Deep shadows lurked in the corners, and the heavy book-cases and window recesses only seemed to add to the gloom.

Mr. Gaythorne sat in his great ebony chair—with its crimson cushions. His face looked more cadaverous and sunken than usual; the fine features looked as if they were carved in old ivory, they were so fixed and rigid; as he held out his hand to Olivia there was no smile of welcome on his face—the melancholy deep-set eyes were sombre and piercing.