A MISCHIEF-MAKER.
ALDYTH was feeling more out of temper than perhaps she had ever felt before. It was Thursday evening, and Miss Lorraine had gone to the lecture, leaving her alone. She had yielded to her uncle's wish from a sense of duty; but it was impossible to feel resigned to the deprivation his absurd crotchet was causing her. The absurdity, the unreasonableness of it struck Aldyth more and more as she sat dismally picturing Kitty and Hilda and her other friends enjoying the lecture from which she was shut out. She could settle to no occupation. It was impossible to feel her former interest in the course of reading prescribed by the lecturer. Needlework was still more distasteful. She began a letter to her sister Gladys, the beautiful daughter of whom her mother wrote with pride that she was creating quite a sensation in Melbourne society; but Aldyth dropped her pen in the middle of a sentence, and, springing up, began to poke the fire with far more vigour than its condition demanded. It was of no use trying to think of anything except the lecture from which she was so provokingly excluded. Would Mr. Glynne observe her absence? she wondered, with a little sigh.
"Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice."
What brought the words to her mind at that moment? Truly she had little of the spirit of self-sacrifice. Perhaps it was well that her will for once should be thwarted, that she might learn to sacrifice her own wishes without murmuring. John Glynne had been wise when he reminded her that Duty would not always wear a smile upon her face. He was one to obey Duty under any circumstances without a murmur. He was a strong man. She knew instinctively that he had already sacrificed his own inclinations many times for the sake of his mother. Would he, with his rare abilities, have taken such a post as that he held in the Woodham Grammar School, had he not been anxious by means of his salary to increase the comfort of his mother's life?
Aldyth felt ashamed of herself as she thought of one so much nobler. She turned to the piano, and began to practise diligently a difficult passage in a sonata, but her thoughts were at the lecture the while. The clock struck nine. Aunt Lucy should return soon, but she was one of those persons on whose punctual return to their homes it is never possible to depend. She would be sure to have much to say to everybody when the lecture was over, and various things might happen to detain her.
The neat little housemaid—Miss Lorraine was famous training young housemaids, whom, when their education was completed, she passed on to her friends—came to lay the supper, full of wonder why Miss Aldyth had remained at home instead of going out with her aunt, as she usually did on Thursday evenings. Just then the door-bell rang. Sarah hastened to open the door, and returning, ushered into the room Mr. Glynne.
Aldyth was so taken by surprise that she coloured deeply as she advanced to welcome the visitor. He was last person she expected to see at that hour. He too seemed surprised to find her there alone, having evidently passed the evening in solitude.
"Good evening, Miss Aldyth," he said, regarding her with grave, searching eyes. "Have I arrived before Miss Lorraine? I thought I should overtake her. She had left the hall when I came away."
"Perhaps she went into Mrs. Bland's," said Aldyth. "It is never certain that aunt will come straight home. But she will be in directly, no doubt, if you wish to see her."
"Oh, I was only going to ask her kindly to give you this," he replied, producing from his coat-pocket a small, rather ancient-looking book; "you said you would like to see it."