Cover art

GERALD CARVED THE MUTTON, TEDDIE SERVED THE VEGETABLES (p. [248])

HAZELHURST

BY

ENID LEIGH HUNT

(MRS. DEREK EDWARD THORNTON)

AUTHOR OF
"THE ADVENT OF ARTHUR"

LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON AND CO., LTD.
1908

MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
PURNELL AND SONS, PAULTON (SOMERSET) AND LONDON

HAZELHURST

PROLOGUE

The present generation of the Le Mesuriers were possessed of powerful lungs, the same being a heritage.

It is true that many of the great vaulted rooms and galleries of Hazelhurst, which had rung to the clear tones of the Le Mesurier voice for some three or four hundred years, were now so empty of furniture, so devoid of thick hangings and tapestries—the very floors being stripped bare of the covering natural to well-appointed floors—so denuded, in short, of everything wherein, and behind which, the rich quality of the Le Mesurier voice might lurk and muffle itself, to ring on thinned while suffering no loss of compass, that this might, in some measure, make explanation of the seemingly exceptional strength of their vocal capacity; nay, further, might exonerate them from all charge of exceptionality, but for the fact that as children the Le Mesuriers had shouted with precisely the same lusty vigour and resonance from the lap of luxury. For it was but seven years since that the feet of the five Le Mesurier boys, with the pair belonging to the one Le Mesurier girl, had stridden or trotted, according to their respective length of limb, over deep-piled carpets, from one magnificently furnished apartment to another. They had been seated in the great oak-panelled dining-room, at a table groaning under its weight of massive silver, to feast upon the daintiest fat of the land, tended by noiseless human machines in the Le Mesurier livery. So that if, when sitting deep and well covered in the lap of luxury, the Le Mesurier voice was acknowledgedly sonorous, it is unreasonable to suppose now that it was only seemingly so, under the condition of over-much empty space wherein to resound. Besides, if further proof be needed: five-and-twenty years ago, when the first of the five Le Mesurier boys was born, Doctor Dash, a most eminent authority from London, had remarked upon the voice, and the nurses had declared they had never heard anything like it. It was further agreed to be a very beautiful voice when not raised in grief; even then its beauty remained for the mother; and each new Le Mesurier baby commanded a most interested and attentive audience, the more flattering in their attendance that they came in the full cognisance that no gracious words were to be expected, but solely in the keenness of their desire to learn whether or not the newcomer was possessed of the widely appreciated and justly valued constituent of the Le Mesurier personality.

The sixth and last baby, a girl, in no wise shamed her family nor disappointed those who attended her first summons by any deterioration in lungs. The voice, in its infancy certainly, like the rest of her, was undeniably present, clear, authoritative, cultured, albeit softer-toned than her brothers', as was seemly in a girl.

This last-born Le Mesurier, last-born at least in the direct descent, if not of the generation, while being neither a disappointment nor a disgrace, was an immense surprise. No guard left the side of the white satin-hung cradle whilst she slept, nor the little silver tub wherein she splashed, nor the soft white carpet spread over a portion of the nursery floor whereon she took her exercise, on her back, kicking, ever and anon deeming it advisable to expand the famous lungs in cooings and trills and, on occasion, exerting more lustiness in other sounds, pertaining to babyhood. I repeat, no guard left her until relieved by one equally vigilant. But for the voice, she would, despite this fact, have created serious doubts in the minds of the respective members of her family, and all connected with it, as to whether some changeling was not usurping the cradle, the tub, and the exercise ground of the rightful Le Mesurier girl.

For the child had brown hair and eyes; and the skin, though exquisitely clear and delicate, was, of necessity, darker than that which went to constitute a well-ordered, self-respecting Le Mesurier.

In the first days of her life, therefore, in spite of the love that encompassed her, the child was held to be something of an alien. The pride in the lovely little creature that overflowed the mother's heart came rather timidly, rather deprecatingly, from her lips. None of her boys had presumed to be anything but fair, the most daring among them attaining to only light brown hair, and all looked upon the world with the traditional blue eyes. The case, however, was not unprecedented; and when this fact was ascertained, the family was free to recover its natural calm and to pursue the even tenor of its way, holding its head even higher than heretofore.

One day, as Helen Le Mesurier was exhibiting the little beauty to a host of admiring friends, with a wistful and slightly apologetic manner, in which attitude she vainly sought to veil her pride, Hubert, her husband, was struck with a sudden thought. Hastily quitting the room, unnoticed, he sped in some excitement to the picture-gallery, situate in the west wing of the great house. Too impatient to brook the delay of unbarring the heavy shutters, he seized and lighted a lamp, which he held at arm's length above his head, as he eagerly and swiftly scanned row upon row of dead and gone Le Mesuriers portrayed upon the walls. Everywhere fair hair, from light brown to gold, gleamed in the lamplight, straight-featured, broad-browed, the women dazzlingly fair of skin, the men square-chinned, and, for the most part, curly-headed—one and all blue-eyed.

But Hubert passed these by, for some vague memory had awakened within him. Surely his father had once shown him, as a child, the portrait of a dark-eyed girl, half in pride, half in apology. If his memory were not tricking him, such a portrait must be in existence. He made his way directly to the more secluded parts of the room. His diligence was soon rewarded, for there, within a corner niche, almost at his feet, he discovered the object of his search: a small portrait of a lovely little girl, scarcely above miniature size, surrounded by an oak frame. Her hair, of a nut-brown, waved and rippled to her waist, and a pair of wide brown eyes looked out, mischievously, upon the beholder; the wonderfully clear and delicate skin was warm of tone.

Setting down the lamp, Hubert, his fingers trembling with eagerness, unfastened the picture, and, turning it, read upon the back: "Hazel Le Mesurier, aged five years, 1671."

Thus it was that the Le Mesurier girl came to be named Hazel.

At five years of age a painting was made of her head and shoulders, in like pose, on the same sized canvas as that of her namesake, and, behold, the two faces, allowing for the dissimilarities of style arising from the difference of the schools of painting of so remote a period from those of the present time, were as like, one to the other, as two—hazelnuts!

When his daughter had attained to her ninth year, Hubert Le Mesurier fell ill and died, being then in the forty-fifth year of his age.

The twenty-and-odd years of his majority had been one hard struggle to redeem the heavily mortgaged estate inherited from a spendthrift father and grandfather. His endeavours ended in failure; he had speculated deeply for many years, keeping his fortunes, with few fluctuations, at the same dreary level. On his demise came the inevitable crash: the foreclosure of the mortgage. Other debts there were; so that, when Helen and her eldest boy, Guy, of some nineteen or twenty years, who, having the ordering of these things, had quieted and pacified even the loudest crying among their creditors, and were once more enabled to breathe freely, now that so heavy a burden as debt was removed from the delicate shoulders of the mother and the youthful ones of the son—so inapposite a load for either to bear—they found the great house a very barrack in its echoing bareness, being, indeed, divested of many things.

Heavy oak furniture, some dating from Queen Anne's time, covered in decent palls, was moved away in vans down the gloomy avenue of great trees, with funeral gait. Also much valuable plate and almost priceless china.

But the mourners who had sustained this loss were left rejoicing in that the portrait gallery, sacred to the Le Mesuriers, doubly sacred to Helen as her husband's dying trust, was left inviolate; and as the poor thing stood, surrounded by her five sons, in the huge marble-paved entrance hall, she exclaimed, tears of very thankfulness coursing down her cheeks:

"Why should we grieve while we have each other? While together we can protect what my Hubert, what your father held so dear."

Each Le Mesurier boy, in varied pose of heroic resolve, protested his loyalty and devotion to his father's memory, and to the honoured name of ancient lineage which he bore; and each Le Mesurier boy's heart beat strong and fast according to the stage of development in which his inherent pride of race had found expression and proportionally to the valorous and chivalric feeling that stirred in the depth of each affectionate Le Mesurier boy's nature toward his lady mother.

Hazel, with outspread skirts, gravely danced, twirled and pirouetted with light, quick feet in the background; but on hearing the tears in her mother's voice, with a little caressing cry she flew to Helen's side, flung her arms about her and, looking up into her face, cried:

"Mother, mother, don't forget that you have me"; and Helen, as she stroked the curly head, and looked into the upturned brown eyes, felt warm comfort glow at her heart, in that nought but death could wrest from her these six priceless treasures, her children.

The stables and carriage-house were emptied. Then came the disbandment of the company of servants. Many wept, and, refusing the wage due to them, took sorrowful leave of their mistress and the young masters whose infancy they had tended.

Two, however, there were who did not weep and who, on the almost indignantly named plea of having left their former beloved master and mistress, Helen's parents, for the express purpose of following the fortunes of Helen herself, on her marriage with Hubert Le Mesurier, stood their ground in the most literal sense, by obstinately declining to go. These two were Miles the butler and Martha Doidge, who, kitchenmaid in her early youth, at thirty—the age of her exodus with Helen—had been raised step by step till now, at fifty, the good woman had attained to the dignity of housekeeper at Hazelhurst.

"But my dear, faithful Martha," Mrs. Le Mesurier expostulated, "you forget: there will be no field for such services as yours. Most of the rooms will be closed and your cupboards will be empty. And you, Miles, your duties have been wrested from your hands."

Such arguments were vain. Martha Doidge established herself as cook and general factotum, managing, with the help of two young girls from the neighbouring hamlet, with great dexterity and order, the domestic affairs pertaining to the habitable part of Hazelhurst.

As for Miles, who was nigh upon sixty years, he did all that a faithful, hardworking servant might, indoors and out. Five o'clock in the morning would often find him gardening assiduously, polishing windows, or engaged in some such work, attired in a dilapidated old suit, which he called his "undress"; but nine o'clock would see him serving the simple breakfast with all the old dignity and with even added respect, arrayed, as became the butler of "high family," in all the glory of the fast-growing-shabby-and-shiny full dress of his vocation.

Almost speechless was Miles with indignation, and something more, when Helen—deeply concerned for her old servant, that he should put aside all his own interests in his devotion to herself and her children—made to him the proposition that he should seek the position of butler at Earnscleugh. She had heard that the young master was about to return from his sojourning abroad, to take up his abode permanently in the home of his fathers; that great preparations were in making, and that the usual staff of servants was needed in the completion of these preparations. As for her own household, Helen urged, the two young maids could serve the simple meals that Doidge so daintily prepared; but in their adverse fortunes they could not expect to command the services of the best servant, she verily believed, in the land, nor could she wish to be instrumental in helping to deter him from his self-advancement.

Thus, by flattering and cajoling, did Helen endeavour to dissuade the old retainer from continuing in what she deemed so great a sacrifice; but she had not calculated on the very real affection that, deep-rooted, had sprung up in the old man's heart during all the years of his servitude, and when, his anger cooled, Miles pleaded, visibly affected, that to go, to turn his back on the family, would to him be leaving all honour and grateful love behind; that his only wish was to end his days in her service, she at length desisted from her efforts to render the faithful fellow more worldly wise; and pressing his hand, assured him of the affection and esteem with which she and her family regarded him; of how rejoiced they would all be to learn that, despite their recent losses, they were not to part with their old retainer; that he, who had been with them so long, was to be with them yet.

So it was that Helen soothed the poor fellow's wounded sensibilities, and Miles continued butler at Hazelhurst.

Various were his ingenuities in that capacity, and gradually Helen and her children learned to respect the innocent devices out of regard for the feelings of their perpetrator. The sideboard was ever furnished with decanters of wine, which—seeing that the cellars had been emptied of all, save the old port deemed necessary by the physician and friend of the family for Helen, in the rather delicate state of her health—might well be looked upon somewhat dubiously and hastily declined in favour of the clear, crystal water, a gourd of which Miles was careful to offer with the wine. Nor was such refusal made difficult, for Miles did not press the doubtful beverage on his young masters, seeming rather to be relieved that it should be held in disfavour among them, though he religiously continued, during luncheon and dinner, to carry it round the table, sometimes under one name, sometimes by another.

Whether the wine was procured at the village grocery or whether it was tinted water, as Hazel ingeniously suggested, remained a mystery to all but Miles himself; but certain it was that the decanters seldom needed replenishing, so that no fears were entertained of a drain upon the household disbursements or the private pocket of the Le Mesuriers' butler.

Dire was the wrath of Miles should any of the womenfolk presume to encroach upon his right. Since the day of his coming to Hazelhurst—twenty years ago, to be exact—the young footmen under his supervision were most deferential to an old retainer upon whom the family conferred so many honours, and in whom they reposed so much trust and confidence. Miles had enjoyed his power and made the most of it, ordering, regulating, and drilling his satellites with perfection of manipulation. Now, however, that Fortune had frowned, things would indeed have come to a pretty pass, to Miles's thinking, had he permitted women to fulfil the functions pertaining to the table that had hitherto been performed by men only. No; the fiat had gone forth that Miles himself undertook to wait upon the family at meals; but woe to the maid who failed to be at hand at the right moment, to bear the required dish, or to receive the whispered communication. Woe also to her, who, lacking nicety of perception in such matters, or, more blameworthy still, in mere feminine curiosity, ventured a step into the room, or stood without in such position as should discover to those at table the agency by which the butler carried out his duties with such order and precision.

Whether Helen and her family were supposed to be in ignorance of the number and sex of their attendants, or whether matters were ordered thus by the redoubted Miles, upon the prompting of his own delicate feeling on the point, remained as zealously guarded a mystery as the wine.

On one occasion the maid from the hamlet engaged by Martha Doidge, being new to her duties, after knocking to attract the butler's attention did most unwisely and erroneously open the door and advance three steps into the sacred precincts of the dining-room, bringing some course for which Miles was not yet ready: a fact which his stern disregard of her summons should have made plain to her.

So frightened was the girl when, on turning her fascinated eyes from the table, they encountered those of the butler, who seemed to be bearing down upon her, swift and noiseless, awful in the majesty of his wrath, that, setting the dish upon the floor, she turned and fled. Miles, pausing beside the dish in momentary hesitation as to which of these barbaric proceedings he should first give attention, followed in hot pursuit, closing the door behind him.

Hazel and the boys were convulsed with stifled laughter, and Helen, herself somewhat discomposed, could only beg of them to control themselves before the faithful servant returned to the room.

The girl had evidently not retreated far, judging by the space of time that Miles was absent, judging also by the ominous sniffs that fell upon the ears of the dinner party when the door was reopened.

Miles entered, red of face and somewhat short of breath; but nothing could surpass his dignity. He lifted the dish from the ground, and renewing the plates with miraculous speed, handed it round with the utmost composure, to all outward seeming.

The meal over, Miles sought an interview with his mistress, apologising for any laxity of order that she might have noticed, assuring her that the like should not occur again; and that Mrs. Doidge had discharged the girl for her remissness. Helen had much ado to get the sentence of dismissal commuted to a month's trial.

CHAPTER I

On a bright day in late June, Hazel, now a tall slip of a girl of sixteen, was wandering through the bit of woodland that stretched from the immediate vicinage of Hazelhurst on its right flank to the boundary of the land that had been left to the Le Mesuriers when, seven years since, the greater part of the estate had been sold. Tempting offers had been tendered, both for the ground as it stood, and for the timber grown upon it; but Mrs. Le Mesurier had remained firm, and her sons had resolved that no poverty should induce them to part with this last remaining portion of their heritage.

As to Hazel, the woodland was her kingdom, her empire. She loved every inch of its leafy, winding tracks; she was acquainted with every squirrel and bird housed within its hospitable shelter; she gloried in each veteran oak and cherished each tender sapling.

To-day, as she sauntered on, her small brown hands clasped before her, pensive, her head bent, the soft brown hair falling like a mantle around her, she seemed a very wood-nymph in her simple gown—the exact shade of the gnarled trunks, in which russet tint it was her mother's fancy to clothe the girl.

Presently, wearied of pursuing the beaten pathways she turned aside to stroll over a thick, springy carpet of last year's crumpled leaves, strewn with fir cones, pine needles, acorns, and acorn cups. A squirrel ran by her, paused and looked back, with what seemed to the girl a roguish twinkling of his bright eyes; then, with a salute of his bushy tail, was gone. Birds of sorts, ceaselessly trilling their sweet notes, hopped to the lower branches as she passed; presently one or two, leaving the piping chorus for a space, fluttered to the ground near her feet and, as she paused, seemed to be considering her in a conclusive, bright-eyed way, with heads first on this side, then on that, as if questioning the cause of her muteness.

And, indeed, Hazel was unlike herself this summer morning. It was her wont to greet her subjects graciously with chirps and chirrups and all manner of sweet wood-notes. At her soft cooing a ringdove would belike perch upon her shoulder, when she was minded to have one confidante! But her "twee-twee" would create a whirr among the tree branches, and a very medley of her feathery vassals would appear on the lowest boughs, hopping, chirruping in bright-eyed questioning. In bright-eyed greed also; for they little doubted that when their liege lady had done with her clear piping to that great, greedy, black thrush, who responded with bows which would have been deferential and dignified had they only been less choppy, and if he would only have desisted from shuffling his feet and sidling restlessly up and down his perch the while performing them; when she was pleased to stop chirping caressingly to the robins and sending forth clear wood-note calls to summon the few pet woodlarks to her presence, the manchet of bread which usually bulged her pocket would surely be drawn out and dispensed in crumbs around her.

But to-day the pocket of the brown gown was suspiciously and ominously flat, and Hazel held her peace, as if she feared to render unhappy the pretty winged creatures by the sad-toned chirps and chirrups which would surely be all she could contrive this morning if she endeavoured to be sociable.

Presently the girl came upon a rugged oak-tree. She paused and looked wistfully up into its branches, watching the sunlight glinting in and out among the leaves, marking each delicate shape in relief against its background of yellow light or blue shadow, each articulation of the brown branches outlined clean and distinct, affording delicious peeps of blue sky between.

Hazel, with impulsive motion, threw her arms about the trunk, and, kissing the rough, sweet-smelling bark, turned her head and pressed her soft pink cheek against the rugged surface of this lifelong friend.

"Ah," she said aloud, yearningly, "ah!" and the brown eyes filled with tears, "I wish I could earn some money."

However strangely this admission may have sounded to any winged or bushy-tailed audience that chanced to be within hearing, they were too polite to allow their surprise to show itself, either by excited increase of trills and cooings, or by sudden cessation of all sound. The sunlight gleamed in quivering, shimmering shafts, as before; the topmost tree branches waved slightly overhead; and the mischievous squirrel, who must have been within earshot, now discovered himself and, taking his seat not far from the girl, looked upon her more in sympathy than in condemnation.

That the remark did sound out of place and somewhat mercenary is hardly to be denied, coming as it did from this brown-haired Dryad amid such pacific surroundings. For Dryads are not supposed to know the worth of money, nor to be harassed with such need: the woods wherein they dwell and have their being affording them everything of the freshest and fairest that they can possibly require. Still the wish expressed was not so unfitting in its nature as might at first appear; for this particular wood-nymph had a mother—quite a peculiarity among Dryads, it is generally understood. And this mother was less well than usual, causing much anxiety and distress to her little daughter, who, however odd it may seem, possessed a very human heart beating within her breast, an immense capacity for joy and sorrow, and a great sympathy withal; though, for her, personal acquaintance with grief was, happily, slight.

Mrs. Le Mesurier had never recovered from the shocking grief that her husband's death had caused her. For her children's sake she had mastered herself to some extent, to all outward seeming becoming once more the cheerful little mother whom they had always known and adored: ready in her sympathy with the young life around her, wise in her counsel and, in her protection, loving. But she, and she only, though the family physician could testify to the results, knew of the bitter suffering in the hours of dark and quiet, that sapped her strength and told on her vitality. Hers was a nature that could better bear a selfish indulgence of that suffering, even if it should cast an abnormal melancholy over her naturally joyous temperament, than the pent-up emotion which, when the strain became too great, burst with terrible force over the poor thing, leaving her so inert and listless that the armour of bravery, which in sheer habit she would buckle on with each new day, was sometimes very thin and worn, affording her but a poor guard against the assailing sorrow.

Of late her health had fluctuated strangely. No sufficient reason accounting for such ebb and flow, the doctor was fain to lay the charge to the strength-stealing propensities of an early, warm spring and hot summer.

Hazel had gone daily to the village in person to select a couple of choice peaches or other dainty luxury—alas! all too seldom seen now at Hazelhurst, where once upon a time great baskets of such delicacies were pressed upon the poor of the neighbourhood. But to-day the poor child had made the last disbursement from her slender store of pocket-money, and was searching her mind for some suitable means by which to make replenishment. Each of her brothers gave his mite toward the support of the household: why not she?

Guy, the eldest, through great good fortune and the exertion of influential friends, had become a private secretary in a Government office, for which post he was taken from college, and was now earning a modest income. Cecil, the second, was abroad, doing well in the Indian Civil Service. Gerald, the third, articled to a chartered accountant, was hoping to pass his examination in a couple of years. Hugh, the fourth, and Teddie, the fifth Le Mesurier boy, both at the present time "something in the City," accompanied their brother Gerald to town each Monday morning, returning to the family roof-tree for the week-end, so hungering for the simple delights of their quiet home, and for the sweet, fresh air of their beloved woods, that from the train window, as they approached their destination, each curly head would be thrust forth to catch the first sight of Hazel, who never failed to be awaiting their arrival upon the platform, her eager face and glad eyes an earnest of her welcome; and each famous pair of lungs would greedily drink in each faintest breeze wafted to them from the direction of Hazelhurst.

Gerald, of a steady, plodding temperament, gave no slightest cause for uneasiness, either to his mother or to the kind patron who had helped the boy to this opening in life. But, alas, of Hugh and Teddie otherwise! Cyril Westmacott, a younger brother of Helen's, had kept the two boys at school till the age of eighteen, but, having sons of his own, could not afford a college education to follow. Hugh, therefore, for the last two years, had lived a somewhat desultory life since leaving school till the present time, when he held a rather vague position in a London office—a life which greatly unfitted the boy, never of a studious or persevering nature, for such steady application as nondescript appointments in the City render desirable for the attainment of a more lucrative post.

Teddie, only a few months from school, was equally restless under restraint and impatient of all monotony. Unfortunately, monotony constituted, in great part, the high-stooled City life of the two youngest Le Mesurier boys.

To-day was Monday, a depressing fact to Hazel, who accompanied three long-legged and long-faced brothers to the station, some two miles distant from Hazelhurst, with mournful regularity in the early morning of that day, come wet, come shine, after a hearty breakfast at half-past six, served to the party by Miles, who, respectful and deeply sympathetic, urged one and all to keep up their strength for the trying ordeal they were about to undergo. Nor were his efforts vain, for no excitation of mind, not even that of sorrow, to the best of his knowledge, had ever affected the wonderful appetites of his young masters.

And now the girl, returned to the quiet house to find her mother not yet risen, had found its solitude unbearable, the very echoes that the famous Le Mesurier voice had awakened within its walls having died now into quite disproportionate silence, it seemed to Hazel, who, fleeing to the woods, had given herself up to sad meditation, in which the wistful desire to earn money herself held prominent place.

Lying on a bed of soft mosses, she lost herself in thought, and more than an hour must have passed when the sound of footsteps fell upon her startled ears. Raising herself to a distrustful sitting posture, the girl awaited what should chance, presently descrying the figure of Miles the butler, evidently in quest of herself, though at the moment of her discovery she could perceive him passing among the trees along many and divergent tracks.

"Miles," she cried, "Miles"; and, springing to her feet, the girl ran to meet the old servant. "Is mother asking for me?" she inquired.

To her surprise, for all answer, Miles, rummaging in the breast pocket of his coat, produced an orange-coloured envelope: a telegram addressed to Hazel; and, placing the missive upon a tiny salver he was carrying, presented it to his young mistress; then retiring a few paces, awaited her pleasure.

Truly the two figures presented an odd contrast one to the other; the girl slim, graceful, upright as the feathery larch near which she stood, pink-cheeked, bright-eyed, the embodiment of delicate, supple youth; the old man, clothed in shabby black, the fresh green around rendering his poor habiliments more rusty-looking and threadbare than ever, the baggy knees lending to his attitude the effect of a curtsey from which he had never recovered. Yet the face, though seamed with many a line, was fresh-coloured and well favoured, possessing a cheery, bland expression, born of peace and contentment—heritage of advancing age into which, alas, all too few come.

Hazel, recovering from her astonishment at finding herself the recipient of a message of sufficient importance to necessitate a telegram, with trembling fingers opened the envelope and read the following words:

"Been sacked: break news gently to mother: meet afternoon train, TEDDIE."

"Miles," the girl said tremulously—and as the servant approached she regarded him in awed solemnity—"to be sacked is to be discharged, isn't it?"

"Yes, miss," Miles replied, his eyes almost as dilated as those of his young mistress, "is—is the message from one of the young gentlemen, miss? Has one of them been—er—discharged, miss, if I may make so free?"

Hazel, flushing red, then pale, read aloud the contents of the telegram, Miles listening with bated breath; after which the two regarded one another in silence, both guiltily conscious that their emotions were not altogether of such a nature as the occasion seemed to demand.

True, Hazel did feel consternation in that this darling of her heart, this same Teddie, who for three long months had been self-supporting, was now to be returned to them: for the girl was aware that her idol, to put into words her own half-sad, half-humorous thoughts on the subject, was an expensive luxury; that the slender resources of Hazelhurst were sorely tried during the redoubted Teddie's visitations. Her mind was further exercised as to the cause of his dismissal, though she guessed it to be, and rightly, largely owing to the, it must be confessed, somewhat peppery temper of Teddie. She was distressed, on these several accounts, for the sake of her mother, from whom it was essentially necessary to keep all matters of a character likely to prove agitating or disturbing. So that it was with feelings very mixed, though a delicious exultation predominated, that Hazel made her way to the house to acquaint her mother, using what gentle tact she might, with the exciting intelligence. Miles followed. In his way he was equally rejoiced with his little lady, for the quietude of Hazelhurst from Monday at 7 a.m. till Saturday at 4 p.m. was hardly more to his taste than to hers.

On the threshold Hazel paused and, turning, asked Miles to bring her a glass of port and biscuits, it being close upon the customary hour at which her mother partook of that refreshment.

On entering her mother's room, Hazel found herself in the moment of time for the performance of the duties of tirewoman; for Helen, seated before the mirror, brush in hand, was engaged in smoothing her hair, somewhat surprised at her little daughter's tardiness to be at this, her dearly loved, self-imposed task. Setting the wine upon a side-table, Hazel crossed the spacious room, and, kneeling beside her mother's chair, placed her arms about her and kissed her.

"Good morning to you, sweet my mother," she said, gaily, looking lovingly upon the delicate face that was so dear to her. "I hope I see you well and that you have only just begun to brush your hair. You were not up when I came home this morning, and I have got late somehow. I was in the wood, where I do believe," the girl added, half laughing, "that time is not."

With that she rose to her feet and, taking the brush from the table, where her mother had laid it—the better to return her daughter's caress—with gentle hand proceeded to smooth the masses of fair hair that rippled and waved so like her own; presently, with deft fingers, skilfully twisting and coiling it into a great knot behind the shapely head. Then assisting her mother to exchange her dressing-gown for a simple morning-gown of some soft, black material—Helen always wore black—the girl placed the tray containing biscuits and wine before her, bidding her eat and drink whilst she told her some news.

"Really important news," Hazel said, "and not altogether good," she added, rather at a loss to know how to follow Teddie's wise dictate, of which her own heart so wholly approved.

"It cannot be altogether bad," her mother returned, "though half afraid: you also look very glad about something, Hazel."

"Well," Hazel responded, "I must not keep you on tenterhooks, mother; so, if you promise to keep before you the delicious, really delicious, view of the case, and try not to mind the—er—rather awkward side, I will tell you. Teddie has been sack—has been dismissed, you know," Hazel amended, then paused and regarded her mother apprehensively.

To her immense relief, Helen, albeit a little startled at this really alarming intelligence, was smiling at her daughter's ingenuous way of breaking the same.

"One can't help being glad, can one?" Hazel said simply, her countenance radiant, quite mistaking the tenor of her mother's thoughts. And the girl, fully reassured, dropped all hesitancy of speech and, becoming less guarded in the expression of her exultant joy, proceeded without further dalliance to lay before her mother a hundred-and-one good reasons for rejoicing in the return of this redoubtable youngest son, only lamenting the lack of a fatted calf for killing.

"We must hope that he will find something to do before leaving his present position," Helen remarked, Stroking the soft pink cheek, as Hazel, having exhausted her repertory to hand, paused to collect further store wherewith to swell the arguments in favour of her generous premises.

Her raptures thus unwittingly checked, she could only gaze upon her mother in mute dismay, truly concerned to find that so important a detail of the momentous announcement had yet to be imparted.

"Dearest," she said at length, "that is not likely. He has so little time—the—the fact is, he is coming home to-day"; and she drew from her bosom, where it had lain, carefully concealed, the fateful pink paper.

"Hazel," her mother exclaimed, more alarmed than the girl had yet seen her, "what can he have done to be dismissed at a moment's notice? Something must be seriously wrong!"

"He has probably shied an inkpot at Carrots' head," Hazel returned laconically. "But, motherling, he may get some job or another quite quickly. You know what taking manners Teddie has, how every one likes him the first moment of seeing him."

"Hazel, my dear child, what extraordinary expressions! You really must not use such words," Helen remonstrated, her breath fairly taken away by the girl's remarkable suggestion as the solution of the proposition, and her glib and peculiar phraseology in wording it. "And why," Helen proceeded, "why should you imagine that Teddie, a gentleman—a Le Mesurier—should so demean himself as to throw inkpots at—er—at Carrots, did you say, dear? at Carrots' head? Who is Carrots, pray?"

"I don't know who he is, motherling. They call him Carrots at the office because his hair is so red—Carrots or the Lout. Teddie generally speaks of him as the Lout," Hazel rejoined meekly, in pretty penitence.

Mrs. Le Mesurier glanced uneasily at her daughter. "Probably of French extraction," she murmured, the suspicion, that this again might be a word not commonly used among ladies, ousted from her mind on encountering Hazel's innocently candid brown eyes. "But, dear, you have not yet explained. Why should you imagine for a moment that Teddie——"

"Well, you see, mother dear," the girl interposed, eager to justify herself, "Teddie did it once before—I thought he would have told you—and so I supposed it not unlikely, considering how he enjoyed doing it that time—having tasted blood, as it were—he should, if roused, be unable to resist doing it again. He says there was a fearful row that time," she went on enthusiastically, "Carrots gave a sort of bellow when the inkpot struck him, and at that moment, who should come into the room but—the boss. I am not exactly using slang now, mother," the girl hastened to explain, breaking off the narrative at this most critical juncture, "I am only quoting Teddie, who tells the story so graphically—somehow, more classical language would not suit it. Now would it?" she asked, quaintly deprecative.

"I fear you are too much with the boys, Hazel," her mother remarked, gravely, "or rather, were too much with them," she amended, a little sigh escaping her for those absent ones, "and your mind was always impressionable, your memory retentive. Even as a tiny child you would always clothe a story in the exact words in which it had been told you, whether by servant, schoolboy, or your mother and father."

"Yes, I do that rather," Hazel admitted contritely. "I must always let people know I am quoting. That would make it better, at all events less bad, wouldn't it, mother?" and she nestled fondly against her mother's knee.

"Well, go on, dearie." And Helen smiled to herself as she stroked the curly head. "What happened when Mr. Hamilton came in?"

Thus encouraged, Hazel resumed the thread of her narrative. "Teddie says that Carrots blubbed pretty badly—mind, dear, I am quoting Teddie," the girl again interrupted herself, somewhat abashed to find that the tale seemed to fairly bristle with words of doubtful repute, "and, being a sneak, he instantly went and blabbed."

"What is that?" Helen asked. "It is fortunate you don't quote Teddie very often, Hazel."

"He told the—Mr. Hamilton all about it," Hazel explained, "and Mr. Hamilton said: 'Le Mesurier,'"—here Hazel assumed a dramatic pose, suggestive of righteous wrath denouncing an evildoer—"'Le Mesurier, if such scandalous behaviour occurs again, I shall discharge you on the spot. Had you been any young man other than you are,'" Hazel continued, speaking in a voice that would make righteous wrath itself tremble, "'I should have requested you to leave my office instantly. As it is, I shall expect you to apologise to Mr.'—I don't know his name, mother—'and to make what amends you can for your most unwarrantable behaviour.'"

"And did Teddie apologise?" Mrs. Le Mesurier asked, much diverted.

"Not he," Hazel cried exultantly. "The sequel to the story bespeaks the character of both. Teddie offered Carrots five shillings instead—you know what a very little pocket-money he has, mother; and if you will believe it, the Lout accepted it. The next day," Hazel continued, after a pause devoted to pacing the room in some excitement, "Mr. Hamilton called Teddie into his private office, and inquired whether a reconciliation had been effected. Teddie answered that Carrots was satisfied. 'You did apologise, then, Le Mesurier?' Mr. Hamilton asked, Teddie thought in some surprise, though he tried to hide it. 'No, sir,' says Teddie. 'No?' says Mr. Hamilton, puzzled. 'You said just now that the young man was satisfied. Explain yourself, if you please.' 'I did not apologise, I would rather leave you, sir, than do so; I offered five shillings instead, and the'—I think Teddie said the cad," Hazel broke off apologetically, "'and the cad accepted it.'"

"Yes?" Mrs. Le Mesurier said interrogatively, too much interested to expostulate.

"That was all," Hazel returned. "Teddie says that just then Mr. Hamilton had a fit of coughing, and, as he held his handkerchief to his face, Teddie could not see the expression. So he took Mr. Hamilton's wave of the hand as a sign to leave him, and went."

"My boy must have entertained an extraordinarily poor opinion of the young man, to have proposed giving him money instead of asking his pardon," Mrs. Le Mesurier commented.

"Yes indeed," agreed Hazel. "It was a far worse insult than having an inkpot thrown at your head. But Teddie was justified in his opinion, mother, for Carrots was quite pleased."

"And you don't know what it was that so angered Teddie in the first instance?" Mrs. Le Mesurier asked.

"No, he would never tell me," Hazel answered.

CHAPTER II

On this fateful Monday the five o'clock train was miraculously punctual. At precisely two minutes to the hour its serpentine, many-jointed body rounded the bend of the line, gracefully and with dignity, being neither flurried nor dilatory in its smooth, gliding motion, emitting neither shrill whistle nor vulgar puffings, as some quite well-appointed trains do, thinking to force recognition of the length of their run and their hard-pressed punctuality by triumphant noise or most distressful breathing. It is true that the great engine gave vent to a soft, long-drawn sigh, and that its huge body seemed to pulsate slightly as the train ranged itself obligingly along the platform; but so unostentatiously, so obviously desiring not to attract attention, that it was to be supposed the monster's heart really was a little delicate, occasioning palpitation and more or less exhaustion.

A fair, curly head, unmistakably a Le Mesurier's, had emerged from the window of a third-class compartment some ten minutes before the train was stationed, drinking in, with the usual rapacity, the sweet sun-warmed air; and presently, the bend rounded, a smile lighted the boyish face, as his eyes fell on a little figure in brown cotton gown and shady straw hat standing upon the platform.

"Confound it all," muttered the youngest son of Hubert Le Mesurier—to whose memory, peace—"here I have been practising how to make a long face, for decency's sake, and was really beginning to feel a bit low; and now the first glimpse of Hazel upsets it all, and away goes melancholy."

Resisting a desire to fling himself from the train while it was still in motion, as was his custom, Teddie, awaiting his time, descended to the platform as one whose soul is heavy within him; and Hazel, her sunny smile checked at sight of her brother's demeanour, came toward him sedately, in deference to his feelings.

"How did she take it?" were Teddie's first words, spoken in somewhat hollow accents.

"Much better than you would think," Hazel responded, seeking to reassure him. "Of course, she hopes you will get some other employment quickly; and—and, of course, Teddie dear, she is rather troubled as to what it was, you know. She is naturally afraid that something rather serious may have occurred."

Hazel linked her arm comfortingly within her brother's, the while she apprised him of these circumstances. She did not attempt to persuade or coax his confidence, knowing that in his own good time he would tell her all.

Teddie groaned.

"You see," the girl continued, pressing the angular elbow to her side, and looking up into the moody countenance, "she can't help thinking it rather—rather sudden: the dismissal, I mean. That is only natural, isn't it, Teddie?" Hazel asked apologetically.

"Your bag, sir," said Mitchell, the younger of the two porters that the station boasted. "Carry it up for you, sir?" the man inquired respectfully. The Le Mesuriers were held in great esteem by Mitchell and his colleagues.

"Thanks, Bob, no," the boy returned, "it is not heavy"; and taking the lean, attenuated, and excessively shabby portmanteau containing Teddie's night apparel and toilet requisites from the man's hand, the brother and sister walked from the station and out upon the sunlit road.

"You must not take it too much to heart, old fellow," Hazel said presently. "How do you feel?"

"Rather cut up and a bit blue, you know," Teddie responded with hesitancy. "You see, it was rather sudden, and—and came upon a fellow with rather a shock."

"Yes," Hazel agreed sympathetically; "it was sudden."

"So, of course, I feel it rather," Teddie continued pathetically, though seemingly soothed. "And, anyway, I gave the brute a fine black eye," he broke out gleefully, in startling exultation.

"Not—not Carrots?" gasped Hazel.

"The worst of it is," Teddie continued, gloom descending once more, "the worst of it is that I am not at all sure that Hugh may not turn up one day this week—in this same way, you know. He was given a month's notice more than three weeks ago, but has said nothing about it, hoping to get something else all this time."

"Does—does he wish to keep what he has done private?" Hazel asked with delicate hesitancy, "or may you tell me?"

"He has not done anything," her brother replied; "that is just it: he won't work, you know. I don't blame the old boy, I have always known it to be simply impossible for Hugh to work; if he gets a pen or pencil in his fingers, he is bound to draw. Have you not noticed it in him? His blotting-paper at the office is a sight," Teddie continued, "and, which may have hastened matters, his boss found a likeness of himself—not a flattering one—among Hugh's papers."

"How dreadful!" said Hazel in consternation.

"Pretty bad, isn't it?" Teddie agreed.

"And oh, Teddie," the girl went on, "my pocket-money gave out to-day. You know how I like to give mother some little delicacy. I don't know whether you could lend me any. Sixpence would do for to-day."

Teddie felt in all his pockets and produced three halfpence. "I am awfully sorry," he said ruefully; "and to think I spent one and fourpence on a steak to-day."

"You must have been hungry," his sister exclaimed, amazed.

"Oh, not to eat," laughed Teddie. "It was for Carrots' eye."

Hazel looked her astonishment.

"You see," her brother explained, "it was after the row. Hamilton had gone out to lunch, and I was going to mine, when I noticed that Carrots, who was sitting at his desk, was holding his face in his hands and groaning."

"Yes," said Hazel pitifully, "and then?"

"Well," Teddie continued, "the eye certainly looked pretty bad—seemed to be a worse one than I really intended to give him, you know, and it put me in mind of beef steak somehow. So I went to the nearest butcher and bought one."

"But, Teddie," said Hazel, much interested, "surely a much smaller piece would have done?"

"It never struck me," Teddie declared. "I was never in a butcher's shop before. I suppose I thought they would not halve it. The master of the shop said: 'What can I do for you, sir?' I said: 'I want a steak.' 'The best?' he said. 'Yes,' I said; 'the juiciest you have got: it is for—' I was just going to tell him it was for a black eye, but there was a wretched little errand boy in the shop, grinning, so I said: 'It is for one person.' He slapped a piece on to the scales and wrapped it up in newspaper, and said it would be one and four—which was lucky, as I had got only one and fivepence halfpenny. I ran back to the office and put it down on the desk, in front of Carrots, and went out again."

"Did it do him any good?" Hazel asked.

"I don't know," her brother answered. "I left for good after that, you know."

"But, Teddie," she protested, "then you have had no lunch."

"Oh, that does not matter," the boy rejoined tragically, as on this reminder healthy pangs of hunger reasserted themselves. "That is quite the least part of the whole bad business—I don't suppose I could eat, you know, if I tried. It is just possible," he continued, with increased gloom and some irritation, "that the Lout had a rattling lunch with what was over: he could easily fry it on the shovel over the office gas."

"It would make the office smell rather, to cook there, wouldn't it?" suggested Hazel. "Mr. Hamilton might be angry."

"An awfully nice smell," groaned Teddie, "enough to make Hamilton want to sit in the outer office all the rest of the afternoon."

Hazel, making a shrewd guess at her brother's innermost feelings and private sufferings, endeavoured to divert his mind from beefsteak or any other subject likely to aggravate them. And again affectionately stroking the shabby coat sleeve, she proceeded to discourse on divers topics, thus whiling away the time, that must otherwise have dragged terribly for poor hungry Teddy, as the two trudged along the somewhat monotonous track of dusty road, under a sun that was only now beginning to be aware that the hot summer day was waning; that it would therefore become him to restrain his ardour, and to relax his fierce and fiery countenance to more gentle demonstrations of his warm and impulsive temperament.

On reaching the house, after safely bestowing the delinquent upon his mother's care, Hazel sped across the marble-flagged hall, down one of the numerous passages and through a baize-covered swing-door, which shut off that portion of the house devoted to servants' offices. She made her way to the kitchen, an old-fashioned stone kitchen, where sundry odours made apparent the circumstance that dinner was in preparation. The two village maids dropped curtsies, and Mrs. Doidge turned from the fire to welcome her young lady.

"Will you kindly be seated, miss?" asked the ex-housekeeper. "Mattie, leave that bit of ironing and place the easy chair nearer the window for Miss Hazel."

"No, Mrs. Doidge, thank you," Hazel interposed. "I cannot stay a moment. I only wanted some slices of bread and butter, rather thick, please, and a cup of tea, if you have boiling water. Mr. Teddie has come home, as I daresay Miles told you; but what do you think?—he has had no lunch."

The three women were quickly in a bustle, many ejaculations of concern escaping Mrs. Doidge's lips, in that Teddie, her pet and darling—next to Hazel, be it understood—should thus be famishing within these very walls. Hazel had no need to urge haste, and was presently bearing away a tray, followed by many remonstrances from Mrs. Doidge, who protested she could easily spare one of the maids on so short an errand. Teddie, whose quick ear caught the tap of Hazel's little foot against the panels, rose to give her admittance, and hungrily eyed the food that he yet deemed it only decent to turn from in seeming disgust.

"Just leave it near me," he said, in response to his sister's pleading. "I may perhaps find I can nibble a piece of bread presently."

Hazel had fully expected to find her mother and brother deep in conversation concerning the circumstance of his sudden, not to say precipitate, restoration to the bosom of his family; but the truth was that Teddie possessed very little information of which to deliver himself. It appeared that his bête noire, Carrots, had grievously insulted the young gentleman, nor him alone, but the ancient name of Le Mesurier, in grossest manner, such as no gentleman, let alone a Le Mesurier, could allow to pass and yet hope to retain his honour. Therefore had Teddie risen up in his wrath, and, with vengeful force, had smitten this enemy of his house, inflicting a black eye. The young man's employer had at that moment made his appearance. We have the sequel of the story in the reappearance of poor Teddie at Hazelhurst on the day of his departure thence.

Hazel, bent on humouring the hungry lad, after placing the food within easy reach, discreetly turned away and occupied eye and hand in the rearrangement of flowers in their several vases, adroitly holding her mother in conversation the while; but when, five minutes later, having completed her task with all possible deliberation, and having duly considered the result of her labour, with head on this side and that, the girl came forward to take her favourite seat beside her mother's chair: lo, the cup was empty, the plate bare, and Teddie was ingenuously reviewing his boots in taciturn and blue-eyed melancholy.

Despite himself, however, the boy could not long pretend to a condition so at variance with his joyful, hopeful young nature. In truth, by dinner-time, in response to the second sounding of the gong, fresh washed and dressed, his hunger appeased—for it is to be supposed that Teddie was responsible for the disappearance of the bread and butter and tea—he presented himself, to Hazel's delight, in the likeness of the more familiar Teddie, having set aside all pseudo-dejection, and, if truth be told, looking wonderfully handsome in his evening garb, which, though shabby and curiously appointed with high lights in all prominent places, was well brushed, and displayed a goodly show of spotless and snow-white cuff. So fresh and handsome did the boy look, indeed, that Hazel, quite impressed, regarded him in admiration.

"Why, Teddie," she cried, "how nice you look! And you were complaining, only last night, that your dinner jacket was not fit to wear. It is a little shiny, certainly, but——"

"You don't suppose," said Teddie seriously, amazed at her simplicity, "you don't suppose that I should be such a noodle as to wear my own evening clothes? No, no, I save my own, whenever I get the chance!"

"Oh, what a shame," Hazel expostulated. "Then whose are these?"

"Why, Hugh's," her brother informed her, with an irrepressible chuckle. "And it is all very well to cry shame, Hazel; but why do you suppose this suit looks so decent? Because, forsooth, Hugh puts it carefully away and wears mine whenever he can. And again, why has mine become so extremely shabby? Because, when he has it on—and he manages to wear it pretty often, let me tell you—he is utterly reckless as to how he treats it: he will lie upon the grass in it; and he wore it a great deal while he was making those bookshelves for you, and messing about generally in the carpenter's room of an evening."

"Mrs. Doidge has fine-drawn the hole in the knee where the chisel went through, sir," murmured Miles, as he offered his young master the vegetables, with deferential bend, "and I brushed and laid everything out upon your bed, sir, as usual."

"Thank you, Miles; yes, I saw that," Teddie rejoined. "Well, they will be all the readier. I am afraid I shall be wearing them very soon: something tells me that it won't be long before Hugh comes," he added, turning to Hazel.

Good, faithful Miles! With how much perseverance did he endeavour, in things great and small, to keep up his loved "family" to the level of their former status, deeming such condition essential to their well-being! With what toil and labour did he strive that each of his young masters should at all times appear well groomed, that they might not miss, nor show they lacked, the attentions of the two valets whose services had been entirely devoted to his five sons, by Hubert's order!

And indeed, as Miles himself was wont to confess, if it were not for the saving help of their faithful servant, long ere this would the young gentlemen have presented themselves at dinner in morning dress, to be tended by a couple of maids—Miles always lost his equanimity at the mere thought of women at table. He shuddered to contemplate the probable condition of the plate and glass, that constituted his greatest pride, under feminine control.

He would look into the drawing-room or search the hall—either of which places were gathering grounds of the family—a few minutes before the sounding of the dinner-gong, and if one luckless Le Mesurier boy chanced to be lurking in some corner, in morning garb, hoping to escape the watchful eye of the redoubted butler, Miles would immediately spy him out, and with bland severity inform the delinquent that he would ask Mrs. Doidge to "put the dinner back" a quarter of an hour, if his young master could find that sufficient time in which to make his toilet. His patient persistence at length shamed the boys into meek acquiescence, so that Miles had relaxed his stern vigilance somewhat of late, showing in its stead a pathetic trust in their own sense of right, such as they could not disregard.

The flower-garden too, in the immediate neighbourhood of the house, would be overrun with weeds—as he had once found it after a month's confinement to the house with an obstinate attack of rheumatism—entailing the extra expense of outside help for their suppression. It is true that Miss Hazel had wrestled with the noxious growths—as her little brown hands testified, for she either could not or would not keep on the queerly fashioned and enormous gloves that Mrs. Doidge assured the girl were the correct thing for gardening, and with which the good woman was careful to supply her; but what was his little mistress's feeble strength, pitted against the alarming odds of the pertinacious herbage? Miles asked pitifully, when even he, tough, work-hardened old man that he was, found the fight a fierce and oft-to-be-repeated one: for the foe, fresh and smiling in their green uniform, seemed to bear charmed lives, and to rise in formidable ranks like so many phoenixes from the weed carnage. Extermination seemed an impossibility, notwithstanding the feverish energy with which Miles went forth to combat, and the wondrous strategy that he brought to bear upon the imposing and ever-smiling green army.

CHAPTER III

Two days later, Teddie and Hazel, she seated on far-stretching, hopelessly tangled tree-roots, he prone upon his back on the dry moss, disported themselves in the leafy shade of the beloved greenwood, deep in consultation on the same momentous question that Hazel had endeavoured to solve alone: how might she earn money?

Typewriting had been discussed, but the idea was soon abandoned, Teddie informing his sister that, to be successful in that branch of industry, a peculiar kind of appearance was desirable—indeed, was essentially needful—an appearance that Hazel entirely lacked, as she herself would admit, could she see "the sort" that frequented the office adjoining Mr. Hamilton's.

"Why," the boy declared, "they would simply stare if you suddenly turned up there and asked for a job, and the boss would inquire delicately where your mother was, and would instruct his head clerk to take you back to her."

"I should not go like this," Hazel returned, deprecatingly, fingering a piece of her white spotted muslin, and eyeing her brother wistfully. "I should probably have a tailor-made tweed dress, and a man's straw hat, and thick boots, and a stand-up collar and tie. You have no idea how—how strong-minded I could look, if I had the proper dress for bringing it out. Most women owe it to their dress: I am quite sure they don't feel and stride about like that, in their dressing-gowns."

She regarded him pleadingly; the mere thought of becoming one of the City band—the doing away for ever with the dolorous Monday morning partings—above all, the obtaining of means to supply her mother with endless little luxuries, made the proposition a very tempting one to the girl.

But Teddie shook his head. "It is a peculiar stamp," he said musingly, "and, take my word for it, Hazel, it is not all in the clothes. Why, some of them dress quite æsthetically; but it is no go, they are typewriters. Not that I disapprove of them as a class," he hastened to add. "If it comes to that, some of them are quite pretty, but—well, you would not do, and that is all about it."

There was a short silence. The sun glinted in and out among the tree-branches in shimmering shafts of yellow light, the leaves quivered slightly in the still air, the birds chirped, and Hazel sighed.

"Besides," Teddie continued, feeling perhaps that he had been somewhat unsympathetically sweeping in his assertions, "there would be the expense of learning. You don't become a full-blown typewriter all at once, you know. You don't just sit down and manage it, so to speak, as you happen to be able to play the piano—without lessons."

Hazel brightened visibly so soon as this very real obstacle—means—was put before her: she was willing to give up any attempt at scaling an obstruction that would obviously harm her in the ascent. It was not that she was cowardly, or easily discouraged—far from it: never was girl pluckier or keener spirited; but she was wise in her generation, and saw that the loss entailed in the attempt to gain was greater than the gain itself; that the other side of the block, in short, was not worth the reaching.

"That is true," she admitted, relieved. "There is the tailor-made dress, too! Let us talk of other ways." She hesitated. "Now, don't laugh, Teddie," she went on, "just think seriously over what I am going to propose, and then say yes or no, after due consideration, you know. Teddie—could I be a governess?" And the girl unconsciously straightened her back, while an expression of mild severity overspread her countenance.

Teddie's surprise at this, to him astounding, idea silenced his tongue. After a few moments the slender figure drooped—Hazel never stooped, she drooped: as different a state, mental and physical, as ugliness from beauty—the pretty features relaxed.

"Of course I know," she resumed modestly, "that they would have to be very, very young children—or very backward older ones. I should prefer the backward ones: the very young are so fascinating. I don't know whether I should have the strength of mind, if they were hot and tired, and wanting to play, to insist on their finishing the spelling-lesson or sum; and I know that, while you cannot be too kind and too patient, you also cannot be too firm in having the little task completed. But," she added reflectively, chin in hand, "I should be wise and see to it that the task was a very short and easy one, especially if the child was particularly longing to go out, or was not quite well."

The girl had almost forgotten her brother's presence, and had entered into a little world of her own. She pictured to herself a pleasant, airy schoolroom with three or four happy, rosy children seated at the table, of which she herself was the head, strewn with the usual schoolroom paraphernalia: rulers, slates, dingy spelling-books of dog's-eared, awe-inspiring columns of words, slate pencils whose points and bluntness alike set your teeth on edge when you looked at them; copy-books with pot-hooks and hangers to copy in pencil—for Hazel would permit no inkpots nor ink-bespattering pens to enter her domain, to sully the purity of clean pinafores and childish fingers. Yes, she would be careful that the room should be airy, for she knew that much of rosy-cheeked happiness must depend upon that; the lessons short and interesting: for how should a child, mewed up in a close atmosphere, set to learn a tedious task, which no older mind had first rendered pleasant and understandable by a little intelligent smoothing and explaining, be aught but fidgety, cross, and unhappy? A child's mind should be lightly taxed, Hazel decided. She also decided that, however unorthodox it might be, she would always have freshly cut flowers upon her schoolroom table. Lessons were to be connected with pretty things, as well as with smeary slate and dingy spelling-book. Besides, how useful they would be in furnishing themes on which to discourse to her eager-eared young charges!

These ideas floated through the girl's vivid imagination within the space of a few moments only. Presently she roused herself, and shook herself free of the reverie into which she had fallen.

"I suppose it ought to be the backward ones," she said with a sigh.

"To think of Miss Le Mesurier becoming a governess," Teddie observed ruminatingly. "It is ridiculous, Hazel. Why, you would be romping with them round the table? And why are they to be so very young or, if older, dolts? Do you mean you cannot teach?"

"I don't quite know," Hazel returned, hesitating and pausing. "My—my education has been—er—has been rather choppy, hasn't it?" she asked a little timidly, fearful of wounding her brother's feelings, for the five boys had had practically the charge of their little sister's education. Cecil, until he had obtained his present post in the Indian Civil Service, had given her a daily lesson in some or other branch of knowledge, at irregular times, certainly—an occasional hour before breakfast, or half an hour before bedtime. But the girl was an apt pupil. She marked, learned, and inwardly digested—her clever little brain seemed to be well nourished: for the food on which it was fed, albeit scanty, was of goodly quality, and the very ample time allowed her for the assimilation of each respective lesson was perhaps the secret, in part, of her strongly marked digestive power.

Then Guy had taken her in hand, but soon confessed himself no teacher—that Hazel's odd questions puzzled him. Soon afterwards he left home to play his modest part in the government of his country. The girl was then passed over to Gerald—good, steady, faithful, plodding Gerald. In him she found her master: he an intelligent, interesting pupil. Together they would while away the long morning hours in profound study, in summer taking their books to the woods; in winter the bearskin before the hall hearth would often be the scene of their labour.

Necessity, however, caused long months of enforced holiday, when the girl would have been impatient of days, and of late Saturday evening had become the only time possible for Gerald to devote to two or three hours of tutorage; while on Sunday, between church hours, the young man would read aloud and make instructive comments to a little auditor, all ears and eyes, upon books, the like of which caused the hair of Hugh and Teddie to rise upon their heads in amaze, in that their brother and sister should find pleasure in such "deadly dry stuff," to couch the expression in their own tongue. And Monday morning would see the persevering tutor, at a very early hour, correcting writings of his pupil's authorship, and further arranging a programme for the ensuing days of his absence.

"I don't fancy I am well grounded," the girl went on, "and I should suppose that to be very important to teachers." She paused.

"I must say," Teddie remarked remonstrantly, "that you are not very complimentary to Gerald—or to me, if it comes to that. I have given you a turn at arithmetic, myself, and I have found you smart enough."

"Yes, oh yes, thank you, old fellow," Hazel returned hastily, apologetically. "He and—and you"—it appeared a little difficult to the girl to make the addition—"have the talent of teaching. Now, even supposing my learning to be sufficient, have I?"

"I don't see that it is the question," returned her brother, much mollified, "for none of us would let you become a governess: it would be too absurd—you are only a child yourself."

At this Hazel waxed indignant. "I am young," she admitted with naïve frankness, "but I am tall and fond of children. Mother was saying lately that my next new dress must be made quite long. See," she cried, springing up and walking swiftly to and fro in straight-limbed, supple grace, "they are all but long already. And of course," the girl continued, resuming her seat, "I should do up my hair and wear 'ladies',' instead of 'girls'' hats. As I said before, you have no idea how much is owed to clothes."

There was a short silence. Teddie, upon his back, groaned slightly.

"Now listen, Teddie," Hazel presently continued, "I have one more plan to lay before you and, really, out of three, it is only reasonable to expect you to think seriously of one, and finally to agree to try it and help me to persuade mother. In this last plan, indeed, we need not consult her—she need know nothing about it, but just live happily and enjoy the results of it."

The girl paused and looked about her, half startled, on encountering the inquisitive glance of the bright eyes of her favourite squirrel who, afraid to approach nearer—his mistress, the wood-nymph, seemingly entertaining company—appeared to be listening with all his might for the proposition about to be unfolded by her.

"Teddie," Hazel said, bending over him and speaking low, "what do you say to us—to you and me—keeping a lodger at Hazelhurst?"

In the pause that ensued Teddie rolled over upon his face, but never a word spoke he. Hazel regarded him a little anxiously, uncertain as to his state of mind. At length he broke the silence.

"We should have to feed it," he remarked, in hollow accents.

"I thought of that," Hazel returned eagerly, delighted that the proposal met with no more definite negative, "but suppose we were lucky—suppose we found a very delicate one, who wanted heaps of fresh air—we could give it the whole of the west wing, for instance—but one that could eat hardly anything? But no, that would not do," she continued, after pausing to reflect, "it would be more expense in the end, than less, to have a delicate lodger, I mean. You see, one would have to provide chicken and jelly, even if it would not eat, just to try to tempt it. No, we hid better look out for a moderately healthy one, but one who was used to plain food, you know: the sort that likes bread and cheese for lunch, better than anything else, and is a firm teetotaller. Who is that coming, I wonder?" she broke off suddenly.

The two raised themselves to listen, in breathless silence.

"Perhaps it is some one looking for lodgings," Teddie whispered mischievously. "Now remember, Hazel, twenty guineas a week for the west wing, garrets five shillings each, and the basement seven-and-six."

"It is Hugh," the girl exclaimed, springing to her feet and running to meet the fourth Le Mesurier boy, who, hot, dusty, and tired, yet returned his sister's greeting affectionately, if somewhat shame-facedly, as he became aware of the presence of his brother.

Teddie, at Hazel's exclamation, had sunk back into his former position and now lay, cool and comfortable, complacently regarding the new-comer with twinkling eyes.

"Hallo!" he said brightly. "So you have turned up, have you? I hope you will be comfortable. I have spent a very pleasant couple of days here myself. I ran down, without lunch, on Monday, and Mrs. Doidge has been feeding me up ever since." And Teddie gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction.

"Slack beast," murmured Hugh disgustedly. Yielding to the silent entreaty of Hazel's little hand and seating himself upon some moss, he threw off his hat and proceeded to mop his damp face.

"What is that?" Teddie asked innocently. "But, I say, you do look hot, old fellow. Walked up, I suppose?"

"Ugh," grunted Hugh.

"Doubtless in some perturbation of mind," Teddie continued sympathetically. "Very heating, this weather. And your bag, too—had books in it, perhaps?"

A slightly sardonic smile overspread Hugh's countenance.

"Talking of books, there was one of yours that I packed with mine," he announced in a friendly way, "and I left the bag at the station, thinking you might like to fetch it."

Teddie's blue eyes of a sudden blazed with wrath. "Do you mean to say," he asked, an ominous quietude marking his manner, "do you mean to say that you left a heavy bag of books at the station for me to fetch, your only excuse being that the bag contains a wretched thirty-page paper-covered pamphlet on Dentistry that chanced to be left in my name at our lodgings?"

"Partly that," returned Hugh, with the same air of engaging frankness. "I thought you would be pleased to see it again, and I knew it would grieve you to have me toiling up with anything belonging to you. Also partly because I thought the exercise would do you good: you have been out at grass long enough. I am glad I was so fully justified in my ideas," he added, "for on your own admitting you are eating your head off, and doing nothing all day."

"I hope you have a second supply of hair-brushes and—er—other things pertaining to the toilet," Teddie observed politely, his anger evaporated, a similar smile lighting his boyish features, "because I don't suppose you will feel inclined to make a second trip to the station to-day, and I don't happen to be going that way this afternoon. By the way, I shall have to wear my own dress clothes to-night," he added, with the air of one who is struck with an idea that necessitates reflection.

It was now Hugh's turn to wax indignant, but the sight of Hazel returning at this auspicious moment, bearing in her hand a large glass of lemon-squash, which she tendered to the hot and dusty lad, extinguished instantly the dire wrath that was kindling within his breast, making him feel very amiable toward his thoughtful little sister in particular, and to a world that included Teddie, in general.

"Ah," he exclaimed, pausing in the draught in order to take a deep breath, "there is nothing like lemon-squash in hot weather," and he turned a softened pair of blue eyes upon his brother, with a look of gathering trust that seemed only to ask sympathy.

Teddie vainly tried to look indifferent as he regarded the favoured Hugh a trifle wistfully; but nature is weak.

"It is a curious thing, Hazel," he remarked insinuatingly, "how awfully thirsty one gets this weather, even doing nothing."

"Oh, Teddie, I am so sorry," the girl made answer, "but Mrs. Doidge has no more spare lemons. Perhaps Hugh——" she broke off: it was too late. The glass was drained to the last drop, and Hugh, with a sigh of contentment, arranged his long limbs upon the mossy carpet for half an hour's repose before luncheon.

A couple of hours later Teddie, tired of inaction, being besides of an extremely good-hearted disposition, having melted sufficiently toward his brother, took his way to the station for the purpose of carrying home that brother's personal effects; but, only human, he could not resist the desire to open the bag and subtract therefrom the luckless pamphlet, which he proceeded to tear into shreds and scatter along the hedgerow.

CHAPTER IV

About a week after the circumstances of mixed joy and embarrassment recorded in the last chapter, there came strolling through the Le Mesuriers' wood one Paul Charteris, tall, lithe, and handsome being in the thirty-first year of his age. The master of Earnscleugh was on his way to Hazelhurst with the intention of paying his respects to its mistress, whom he had not seen for some six or seven years, having for that t space of time been an attach in the British Embassy at St. Petersburg. Eight years since, on the death of his father, Vivian, his elder brother, had inherited Earnscleugh and all pertaining to it, including the great town house. Vivian was devoted to his brother, and begged that they two should continue to share the old home as heretofore. But Paul's was a restless spirit: his college career ended, he must be up and doing. The interest of influential friends soon obtained for the young man the coveted post in Russia, and Vivian, with regret, was perforce obliged to yield where he had no authority to interfere. Therefore, for six long years was Paul Charteris no more seen among his people. Yet, while the elder brother yearned for the companionship he had always known, he could not but admit that it was better so, that action was necessary to Paul. For himself it was different He was essentially a student by nature, and wished only for a retired life. A slight limp in his gait fostered and favoured this recluse propensity, and the solitary years before his death were lived almost exclusively in the library at Earnscleugh, devoted to study, at such times as his multifarious duties with steward or lawyer—faithfully and patiently performed by the young master—left him free to follow his own devices.

Then came the death of Vivian at the early age of three-and-thirty, and Paul was called to take upon his own shoulders the responsibility of the vast estates of Earnscleugh.

He did not respond at once. Indeed, it would have been difficult for him to throw up his position at short notice. Neither had the young man any great inclination to take possession of his own, for the inheritance was rendered hateful to him, that had come to him only with the loss of his brother. He dreaded the sight of the empty place, the lonely library, the disused smoking-room, with its many familiar objects: skins of animals, boyish attempts at photography that the two brothers had always kept upon the walls and mantelshelf, as relics of their happy childhood. He shuddered as he thought upon such desolation.

So that a year had elapsed since the death of Vivian, and Paul had arrived only a few days since, his trouble somewhat softened by the healing of time. Nevertheless, it was a sorrowful ordeal. He yearned inexpressibly for the sight of his brother's form, seated in the old place at the study table, as he had so often pictured to himself; for the gladness that was wont to light Vivian's features at the appearance of himself, after even a temporary separation; for the tones of his voice. However, the first dreaded days were rendered considerably less painful by the almost continuous presence of Mr. Lewis, the family solicitor, or Crawford, the steward.

Yet, the first press of affairs over, Paul found more leisure in which to indulge his sorrow, and very sorely it beset him: its tyranny at length forcing him to rouse himself and endeavour to throw off the oppression. He presently bethought him of the friends and acquaintances of years gone by, and determined upon a course of visits, that should at once renew kindly recollections and while away the tedium of hours not enlightened by work. The Le Mesuriers were naturally uppermost in his mind, for the Hazelhurst estates joined those of Earnscleugh. They were nice enough boys, he was glad to remind himself—they would be strapping young fellows by now—and for their mother he entertained affectionate memories, for she had been a good friend and counsellor to the two motherless sons of Philip Charteris. Vivian, indeed, could remember her first coming to Hazelhurst, a bright, beautiful young creature, and the boy of six had formed quite a romantic attachment. Then there was that little brown witch of a girl, Hazel. Hazel must be sixteen or seventeen, Paul reflected, and he smiled at the recollection of their last interview, seven years since.

He had taken leave of Mrs. Le Mesurier and of such Le Mesurier boys as were present, and was departing through the wood, without accomplishing a farewell to his little friend Hazel, who was nowhere to be found. Passing beneath an oak, he heard above him a suppressed exclamation, then the rending of "gathers," and the child stood beside him, holding her torn frock together with one hand and courteously tending him the other.

"You are going away, aren't you?" she had asked him gravely. "You have been to say good-bye to mother and the boys?" and she turned to accompany him to the boundary fence.

"Yes," Paul replied, "and I was afraid I should have to go without seeing you."

"It would not have mattered," she answered, "you saw me on Tuesday, only three days ago. What will it matter, when you are going away for years, whether you saw me on Tuesday or Friday?"

"But I did not say good-bye on Tuesday," Paul returned, much amused. "That matters; don't you think so?"

"No," Hazel said quaintly. "Going away means good-bye. There is no need to say it, except in your heart."

"Still I like to say it to you and in my heart as well," Paul persisted. "To-morrow, when I shall be already in Paris, I shall be saying, 'Good-bye, little Hazel, good-bye; don't forget me.' And then I shall like to recall how you looked and what you said in answer."

At this juncture they had reached the fence dividing the two estates, and Paul turned to face his little companion.

"I am going away for years," he said, a trifle wistfully. "Will you give a fellow a kiss, Hazel?"

"No," Hazel returned decisively. "I am sorry, but I am too old. You may take both my hands, if you like," she added graciously.

Paul gratefully possessed himself of the proffered hands, and looked long into the upturned childish eyes.

"I wonder whether you will be as pretty when I come back as you are now," was his boyish comment.

"I don't know," Hazel returned indifferently. "I hope I shan't be any browner," she added; "the boys do tease me so."

"And shall you be saying 'good-bye, Paul,' in your heart to-morrow?" he asked eagerly.

"Of course," she said earnestly, somewhat surprised at the question. "All the time till you are home again."

"Let me hear you say it now," he entreated.

"Good-bye, Paul," she said obediently, and made to withdraw her hands.

"And you are quite sure about the—about the kiss?" he asked diffidently.

Hazel regarded him in mild reproach.

"I am sorry," he said hastily. "I did not mean to ask again. Good-bye, Hazel; don't forget me."

He vaulted over the fence and was gone.

Following the same twisting path that he had passed over then, with his child companion, the young man was presently aware that his dog, which had trotted on ahead, was leaping backwards and forwards before a certain tree, breaking into short, excited barks. Thinking it likely that Towzer was scaring some pet or other of Hazel's, Paul called sharply to his four-footed friend, but was not heeded by that usually most obedient of dogs. Becoming angry, he quickened his pace, and, raising his stick, was about to punish Towzer, when, to his astonishment, its point was seized from above and held firmly—after one or two ineffectual efforts to wrest it from his hand—while a girlish voice said, in laughing tones:

"No, you don't."

Paul peered up, in among the clustering foliage, and presently descried the recumbent form of a girl, lying at full length along one of the great boughs—her dress, of the exact shade of the bark, rendering her discovery difficult. The girl released her hold of the stick and sat up, one slender foot and ankle becoming visible beneath the canopy of leaves above the young man's head, and with both hands she parted the green screen before her face and peeped down at him. It was a lovely face that Paul beheld—bewitching, indescribable in its charm, framed in soft brown hair.

"Hazel—Miss Le Mesurier," he cried, "have you lived in that tree ever since I went away?" For he now recognised the giant oak. "I always said you were a little Dryad. Won't you deign to come down and be mortal for a while?"

"Certainly," returned Miss Le Mesurier, and hesitated. "If you will be so good as to walk on," she added, rather severely, "I will join you in a few moments."

Paul did as he was bidden. A rustling among the branches ensued, then a light jump to the ground; and as he turned eagerly to greet her, Paul was almost expectant of seeing one little hand occupied in the holding together of a rent skirt, so vivid were old associations with him just then. She came swiftly to his side, the soft cloud of hair floating around her. In the brown eyes shone a glad friendliness—the same grave, direct regard he remembered so well: a child-like, inquiring, essentially intelligent gravity, often to be remarked in clever, highly sensitive faces—and Hazel's was a very clever and acutely sensitive little face, in the truest sense for women, womanly. But, though childlike and open as ever, the expressive countenance was more grand, more noble—an earnest that the beautiful little nature of the child Hazel had grown up in the way of its starting, without deviation.

She held out a hand to Paul, very slightly larger than the one that had bidden him farewell; and if it was not browner, it was quite as brown, but such a pretty, soft, warm tinge in the clear, transparent skin as made all whiter skin appear harsh in contrast, to Paul's thinking. It courteously shook his, and withdrew.

"How long have you been home?" she asked, when the wise, childlike eyes were satisfied; and, truly, Paul was a goodly sight.

"Six days," Paul returned. "I arrived here on Monday. But there was work to see to; and, besides, I did not feel like visiting any one, just at first."

"Of course," the girl responded sympathetically. "The boys will be home to-day," she added. "Three of them. So to-morrow—to-night even—you will have something cheering."

"I feel cheered already," Paul returned, cheerfully enough, as they turned to walk on together in the direction of the house. "How are they? How is your mother?" he inquired.

"Mother is fairly well," Hazel replied. "The boys are always well."

"And doing well?" Paul asked. "Affairs are prospering, I hope?"—the fortunes of the Le Mesuriers were ever an open secret.

"No," Hazel admitted, frankly and without reserve, "things are rather bad, and we are dreadfully poor just now—especially myself. You would hardly believe it," she went on confidentially, "but if it had not been for one and sixpence that Hugh gave me last Wednesday—already it has come down to eightpence—I should not possess a halfpenny. See," and the girl held out a limp little silken purse.

Paul took it from her. "What a quaint little thing! May I look inside?" he asked.

"Of course," Hazel said. "But I have told you exactly what is in it: eightpence."

And sure enough, two threepenny pieces and four halfpennies rolled out upon Paul's open palm.

"It is partly owing to the fact of Hugh and Teddie being out of work," Hazel went on, when the purse had been restored to her, and safely bestowed in her pocket. "They are in town to-day looking for something. But I am very much afraid they won't find anything. You know," she added, unconsciously moving a little nearer to him as they walked, "the main difficulty is, I believe, that they don't look 'clerky,' and their name is not a 'clerky' one, is it? These trifles make a difference, don't you think?" And she looked up at him with considering, brown eyes.

"I am sure they must," Paul assented.

"It only struck me lately," Hazel, following her own train of thought, presently resumed, "quite lately, how exactly like the portrait of Hugo Le Mesurier Teddie is. Of course Hugo has long hair and a lace collar—he was a Cavalier in the days of Cromwell, you know—but if he changed his clothes and cut his hair, the face alone would be enough to make people say they did not require a clerk"—and she sighed.

"I can well believe it," Paul agreed, sympathetically.

"I have been consulting the boys as to how I might earn a little money, if it were only five shillings a week," the girl continued. "They say I don't look like a typewriter. What do you think?"

"Great Heavens, no!" Paul ejaculated vehemently, horrified at the bare suggestion.

"That is how they feel," Hazel returned resignedly. "Only, they are a little calmer about it: they have seen so many, you know, poor things," she added, ingenuously. "Next," she began again, after a slight pause, "we considered letting lodgings, without mother's knowledge. But Teddie says a 'cute lodger would take me in horribly. He says I am no more cut out for a landlady than for a typewriter. Do you agree with that?"

"Most emphatically," Paul replied, unable to restrain a smile, which, however, escaped the girl's notice.

"You do?" she said, a trifle wistfully, as though half disappointed. "I hoped that you might, on thinking it over, consider it not such a bad plan as it at first appeared to you. I had thought of an invalid lady-lodger, who would require plenty of fresh air, but very little food. Though on second thoughts it occurred to me that we should have to persuade her with all sorts of dainties. So that would not do. But a gentleman, now, a gentleman, however unscrupulous in most matters, would not take a lady in, would he?" And the girl looked for his assurance.

"He would be an infernal cad if he did," Paul returned fiercely, tugging at his moustache.

"Yes," Hazel agreed. "I should hardly think that quite such cads existed, should you? Such very infernal ones, I mean. For even the greatest gentleman cad must have the sleeping instincts of a gentleman."

Paul's face was inscrutable.

"Now a bounder is different," was Hazel's startling announcement. "A bounder has never been a gentleman. He was born bounding, as you might say. I would rather deal with a cad myself: a bounder is so hopeless."

There was a short silence, devoted by both to reviewing the situation.

"But, Haz—Miss Le Mesurier," Paul amended, "you—you surely are not seriously thinking of—of this? Especially a gentleman. It—it—well, it would not be very usual, you know, especially if your mother is to be kept in ignorance."

"You mean, it is not the thing?" Hazel asked, simply, coming to his aid. "Oh, but we Le Mesuriers never trouble much about conventionalities," she explained airily. "Teddie says that ladies or gentlemen are always safe in following their inclinations—provided, of course, that those inclinations are not bad. Now, I don't think you could call my inclinations bad," she went on, meditatively, giving to the weighty question its due consideration. "They do rather lead me to take in a gentleman lodger, but he need not necessarily be a cad, you must remember. He might be very nice, and we might get quite fond of him."

"Certainly," poor Paul agreed, rather helplessly. It was evident that Hazel had interpreted his words to mean, he was under the impression that she, and the Le Mesuriers generally, delighted in cads and the like doubtful company.

At this juncture they reached the flower-garden, which, thanks be to Miles, looked pleasant enough. The girl led her companion swiftly through its winding paths and up the broad flight of steps. The marble-paved hall, with its shaded open windows, was deliciously cool and refreshing after the heat and glare without. In one of the wide recesses Miles was busied about the tea-table, collecting chairs from different quarters of the sparsely furnished hall. He turned as the two approached.

"You remember Miles?" Hazel asked of Paul. "Miles, Mr. Charteris has come home."

The old man bowed deferentially and made to withdraw, but Paul went forward and took the hand of the faithful old servant.

"Remember Miles? I should think I did, and the many things he has forgiven me when I was a boy," he said warmly.

A gleam of pleasure lighted the butler's furrowed countenance.

"I have had a deal of experience of boys," he said, somewhat sententiously, "having five young masters of my own, and I know what is natural to them, and only right, and what is wrong."

"And I was only natural, was I?" Paul laughingly asked.

"Yes, sir," Miles answered stolidly.

Hazel, who had gone in quest of her mother, soon returned with Helen.

"I am very glad to see you, Paul," Mrs. Le Mesurier said simply, regarding him with something of her daughter's direct gaze. "You are 'Paul' still, I hope?"

"If you will—if you please," he returned earnestly, and it suddenly occurred to the young man that Hazel had not named him at all.

He remarked little change in Mrs. Le Mesurier, save that she appeared to him more frail, perhaps, and the blue eyes seemed almost grey, as though the tears of her great grief had faded them.

"We have much to tell you of Vivian," she observed, as they seated themselves and Hazel made tea. "You know what a student he was, but he always found time to come to us, and always welcomed my children to his house. Indeed, they had the run of it at all times," she added. "I often feared it must inconvenience him."

"It was his greatest happiness," Paul said simply. "He frequently mentioned the boys and—and your daughter in his letters to me, and how their presence enlivened the old home."

"Poor Vivian!" Helen murmured. "He missed you sadly, Paul; but he always confessed that things were best as they were; that he would not have you home to pine in idleness."

She related many anecdotes of his brother that she knew would cheer Paul, and they fell to talking over old reminiscences, presently coming back to the topics of to-day, and the existing state of affairs; and Paul was soon laying before Helen a plan of his own sudden devising.

"Why should not Hugh come to me for a while as my secretary?" he asked. "If he does not care for the work, after giving it a trial, he can continue his search in the City."

"I don't want to seem conceited," Hazel broke in upon the conversation. She was seated near her mother on a low stool, chin in hand, deeply interested in all that passed. "I don't want to seem conceited," she said modestly, "but I can't help thinking that you had better have me. One often hears of lady secretaries," she went on, in expostulation at the smile upon her mother's face, a smile that Paul's countenance reflected; "it would be delightful, and you would not mind how I dressed, would you?" she added, turning eagerly to Paul. "You would let me have my hair down, and let me wear what I liked, provided I came punctually at the hours you named, and did the work properly."

Paul looked upon the ground. It was difficult to keep the muscles about his mouth under control. Helen was about to speak when Hazel resumed: for it appeared to her that Paul was considering the matter.