And then the tea-bell sounded through the house, summoning all the young folk to the large, plainly furnished dining-room where Lois Franklyn presided over the tea-tray. "Just her mother over again," was Dr. Franklyn's description of his eldest daughter, but there seemed little resemblance, nowadays, between the fragile invalid and this tall, capable young woman of three-and-twenty. Lois was not so handsome as Kathleen, but there was a certain indescribable charm about her, a nameless something which was wont to retain the admiration that Kathleen's more youthful beauty at first sight attracted.
From furtive glances at Kathleen and Olive, Elsa gathered that no serious trouble had arisen between the sisters; indeed, Olive seemed on her best behaviour. So Elsa breathed freely, and concluded that the turpentine incident had blown over, as no mention was made of it. The meal passed merrily enough; Kathleen's racy account of her contretemps with Mr. Bertram amusing them very much. Paddy and Joan were just being reprimanded by Lois for running away, when Dr. Franklyn appeared on the scene, tired out after a long round of visits, and his children vied with each other in making him comfortable.
"How is your mother, Lois?" was his first query, as she poured out a cup of tea, and begged him to drink it at once, assuring him that the invalid had rested a little, and felt a trifle better.
He drank it hastily, and then set the cup down, saying: "I will have some more when I come back: only one of you girls need wait for me."
And Lois, seeing that he was physically worn out, despatched the younger ones in various directions, as soon as they had finished their tea, and thus secured a quiet room for her father in which to have his long-waited-for meal in peace.
CHAPTER III.
"I'M MOVED UP!"
The Rev. Herbert Drury sat in his study chair deep in thought. His writing table was strewn with letters answered, and unanswered, for he had been trying to make up arrears in his correspondence that morning. At his elbow lay his well-worn Bible, open, for very few of his letters were written without consulting that; but the case under consideration, just now, needed personal help rather than clerical advice.
His dark hair, already thickly streaked with grey, although he was less than forty-five, was crisply cut, and an iron-grey moustache gave him a decidedly military appearance. His keen, dark eyes could, on occasion, flash a scrutinising glance, and delinquents felt he must be reading their very thoughts, but their habitual expression was one of kindly sympathy. Mr. Drury had only been Vicar of St. Paul's, Osmington, for a couple of years, but he had won the love and respect of all his clerical brothers in the neighbourhood, although their doctrinal opinions widely differed; his was such a singularly attractive personality. His church-workers felt no work was tedious or uphill, for was not their vicar interested in every detail, aiding personally every scheme that was set on foot for the evangelising of the very poverty-stricken part of the town which comprised his parish. Of money, he had by no means a superabundance, for the living was a poor one, and he was a younger son; but, like St. Peter of old, he could say with truth: "Such as I have, give I thee."
And if the vicar was beloved, his wife was no less so: she was, in every sense, a true help-meet. He was thinking of her now, as he considered the sad case which had just been brought to his notice by a note from one of the district-visitors, and he decided to ask her advice. He strode across the study, and opening the door, called "Nora" in a resonant voice, which was calculated, if necessary, to penetrate to the topmost story of the roomy vicarage.