"THORLEY; go and tell Miss Margaretta to make less noise. How can I get my afternoon nap with that girl screeching and screaming loud enough to be heard beyond the park? I suppose she thinks I cannot be disturbed by her noise when she is out of doors, though I have told her twenty times already that she has a voice like a railway-whistle, and that it travels as far as one. It seems to me I cannot get out of reach of it. Thorley, why don't you go? What are you waiting for?"

The last questions were uttered in such a shrill tone, and with such evident irritation, that the pale face of the listener flushed, and she answered in a frightened voice—

"I thought your ladyship was speaking to me, and I waited for you to finish."

"I was doing nothing of the kind. I gave you an order which might have been attended to by this time. Then I went on thinking aloud, and you stood staring there, and listening in place of going about your business. Go now. Wait! I cannot hear the girl's voice. She has stopped, but she will begin again, so go all the same."

The person addressed as "Thorley" did not wait for the speaker to change her mind again, but hastened to do her mistress's bidding.

"Poor young thing!" she murmured, as she went in search of the offender. "It is well she can sing. Only one that has not been long at Northbrook Hall would be likely to lift up a cheerful voice in my mistress's hearing. I believe she would silence the very birds if she could, but she cannot do that, thank God." And the woman listened with gladness to a flood of melody that was being poured from scores of bird-throats, and rejoiced again that a message from her mistress could not stop it.

Thorley was old Lady Longridge's personal attendant, and had been such for twenty-five years. She was a staid spinster of fifty or thereabouts. Not that she ever told her age, or that any member of the household would have ventured to ask it; but there were older retainers at the Hall than herself, who could put two and two together.

There was old Jakes, for instance, who had spent sixty out of his seventy years of life in and about the gardens. He was morally certain that Susan Thorley would never see fifty again.

"Why, it's five-and-twenty years last May since Susan were promoted to be maid to our old lady, and she was no chicken in those days. I should have said she was nigh upon, if not all out thirty, though I do not suppose she would have owned to it, any more than she would say straight out, 'I am fifty-five to-day.' You don't catch these staid women folks telling their age." And the old man wagged his grey pate knowingly.

Thorley was accustomed to say of herself, "I have aged dreadfully since I came here, and I look older than I am. Five-and-twenty years in the service of Lady Longridge would equal forty, for wear and tear, under a reasonable mistress."

If someone suggested that Thorley was not compelled to endure the aggravations of the tyrannical old lady, she would reply, "If I thought only of myself, or studied my own comfort, I should have turned my back on the Hall many a year ago. But look at her age. She is turned eighty-one, and her mind is as clear as ever. I may have had a deal to put up with, and seen my hair turn grey before its time through her worrying, but I feel proud of my mistress, who is a wonderful old lady. Conscience reproaches me whenever I think of leaving her, and seems to say, 'What will you be at eighty-one? You will want someone to put up with your tempers then.' So I bear as well as I can, and if I have an uneasy time of it, conscience tells me I am right."

Some of Thorley's acquaintances credited her with at least one other motive for remaining at Northbrook. Lady Longridge was reputed wealthy, though she professed to be poor and unable to spare money for much-needed repairs and renewals within and around her home. She was always quarrelling with her relatives, and altering her will, or adding codicils to disinherit one and reinstate another.

At one time she would declare that none of her own kindred should ever possess a penny that she could bequeath to an outsider; at another she would quote the old proverb about blood being thicker than water, and rail against those who left their own families out in the cold when disposing of their wealth.

That quarter of a century of service had not been without its disturbing elements. Lady Longridge's temper often got the better of her, and Thorley usually had to bear the brunt of these outbreaks.

The woman was wonderfully patient, but this fact often had a different effect on her mistress from what might have been expected. It only made her more provoking, and on several occasions Thorley had received notice to quit. At first these breaches between mistress and maid had been patched up by mutual concessions, but by degrees Thorley became less placable. Then the old lady found that all advances for a renewal of the former relations must come from herself.

Thorley performed all her duties during the month she was under notice with the greatest exactitude, but she only spoke when spoken to and said no needless word, but packed her boxes and made ready to go to another situation. With such a character for long service, fidelity, patience, and trustworthiness, there were plenty of doors ready to open for Thorley's admission, plenty of places where her duties would be of a pleasanter character, and where, as she indignantly put it, "One might expect to have peace, a kind word sometimes, and get a bit of credit for trying with all one's heart to do right."

So Lady Longridge became convinced that Thorley could do better than stay at Northbrook, but that she would herself find it very difficult to replace Thorley.

The squabble always ended in the same way. The old lady would offer her hand to her departing maid and wish her well in a new place. Then she would break down and say that she was a miserable old woman for whom nobody cared, and that she was being left to die in her loneliness and helplessness by the one creature in whom she could trust.

The maid's tears would then accompany the mistress's; Thorley's boxes would be unpacked, and Lady Longridge promptly paid any expenses that might have been incurred in arranging for the new situation.

It was noticed that after each of these quarrels, Thorley had a day out accorded her without a murmur, and that as invariably she paid a visit to the savings bank. She would have wages to deposit there, no doubt, but it was whispered that Thorley found these little scenes very profitable, each reconciliation being sealed with a present. At any rate, she stayed at the Hall and bore a great deal of ill-temper and many hard words from Lady Longridge with more patience than any servant not inured thereto by many years of experience could have been expected to manifest.

The old lady had been more than usually provoking on that fair spring day, when the birds and her granddaughter, Margaretta, were carolling in company, and Thorley was on her way to silence the girl.

The errand was very distasteful to Thorley. If there was a creature on earth that the woman loved with a true, unselfish affection, it was Margaretta, who had spent the last few months of her life in that dull house, once the home of her dead father. Now it was the home of the girl herself, or the best substitute for one that she could claim.

Not that it was the first time Margaretta Longridge had been an inmate of Northbrook Hall. She had lived there off and on from the time of her birth until she was twelve years old, and now after an absence of nearly three, it was settled that she should remain permanently with her grandmother.

This was perhaps the best arrangement that could be made under the circumstances. But there were plenty of people who said that to condemn the fair young girl of fifteen to live in that gloomy, tumble-down house, and under the guardianship of that terrible old lady, was only a shade better than burying her alive.

The circumstances were these. Lady Longridge had been left a widow at twenty-eight, with one son and three daughters. By her husband's will, she was appointed their sole guardian, and she ruled them with enough of firmness and a scant expenditure of tenderness until each was emancipated by attaining the age of twenty-one, and receiving a handsome sum from the estate.

The daughters, being well dowered, soon married, and without exception resided far-away from Northbrook, which they seldom visited, and then only for a few days at a time.

Philip, the one son, seemed likely to remain a bachelor. His home was nominally with his mother, but he was fond of travelling, and ever on the look-out for new countries to explore, consequently he never stayed long at the Hall. The brevity of his visits rather than the fact of his being her only son, probably conduced to the good understanding between him and his mother. She had really no time to begin fault-finding before the packing process was in full operation, and Philip was preparing for a new journey. Even Lady Longridge did not like to quarrel with her son when he was about to leave her for an indefinite period.

She rejoiced in his bachelor estate, for, so long as Sir Philip remained unmarried, her rule at Northbrook would be undisturbed.

As to her daughters, she would say, when someone suggested that it was a pity they were not nearer, "Nearer! They are better where they are. If we met oftener we should quarrel. As it is, we have a week of each other's society now and then, and we can be happy and love one another for that time. But we never get beyond the week. We know the length of our affections' tether, and we keep within bounds."

"But mother and daughters, Lady Longridge!" the old clergyman would say, with uplifted hands and eyes.

"What of that? We get enough of each other in a week, and we part friends. If we had a fortnight we should not part at all, or at any rate we should go through no formal farewells. We should have ceased to speak to each other six days earlier, the previous one having been spent in mutual recrimination. We know our little failings, and we strive to keep out of the way of temptation."

"At your age, I should have thought the young ladies would bear anything from you without retorting, and that they would be unhappy if they did not see you often."

"No fear of that," was the earnest response. "They will not lose an hour's rest owing to anxiety on my account. And to be frank with you, I think it is very good of them to come at all. The journey costs something, and takes time. They count the hours whilst they are here, and long for the last to come. They know they have nothing to gain, for, lest they should forget, I remind them every time that they have had their fortunes; also, that I have nothing to leave, and if I had, they would not get a penny of it. Frankness promotes a good understanding. I take care to prevent false hopes."

The rector, Dr. Darley, was going to reply, but one of Lady Longridge's peculiarities was a liking for saying her own say at great length, and then calmly ending an interview.

"I will say good-bye now," she added, extending two fingers, though her visitor had shown no intention of rising to leave. "When I write to my daughters, I will not fail to mention that you alluded to them as 'young ladies.' I like to please people when I can, and it costs nothing to do it."

Lady Longridge was quite the most impracticable of the kind old rector's parishioners. He knew her too well to suppose that she would listen to him, so he quietly took his leave.

Sir Philip was the youngest of the family, but at length he brought home the wife whose possible coming had been the one thing his mother feared. He was thirty-nine when this happened, and he had been absent a full year, when he returned accompanied by a beautiful girl less than half his age—in fact, barely eighteen.

"Mother," he said, "this is my wife. Make her welcome for my sake, to begin with. You will do so for her own when you know her better."

The expression of his mother's face as he made this announcement was something never to be forgotten. She had risen at her son's approach and stood erect, her head on a level with Sir Philip's, for she was very tall, and at sixty-five had not lost a hair's-breadth of her height. At the slight fair girl whom he was putting forward with his left arm, whilst he extended his right to greet his mother, Lady Longridge did not deign to glance. She looked past her and straight into the face of her son, whilst she locked her mittened hands one within the other, without appearing to see the one he extended.

"It is a pity that when you decided to bring a wife to Northbrook, you forgot the fact of your mother's existence. Had you written, I should have arranged for her and your fitting reception. We would have had a rustic fête, a gathering of tenants, the carriage unhorsed, and a team of enthusiastic cottagers to draw you and your bride home in triumph; perhaps even a triumphal arch at the entrance of the park. Why, Philip! The forgetting your mother has made your homecoming of no more account than that of old Jakes' son, who was married the other day."

Sir Philip moved uneasily, and his eyes fell before the half-angry, half-sarcastic look of his mother, whilst his wife shrank back within the encircling arm that had gently urged her towards Lady Longridge.

"We desired none of these things," he said. "Florence has known a great sorrow, too recently to allow of her entering into the spirit of such festivities as you speak of. The one thing we both wish for is a welcome from yourself. To some extent we can command it from all beside."

It was proverbial of Lady Longridge that she would indulge her temper at any cost of discomfort to others, but that self-interest would induce her to subdue all outward sign of anger. She would not forget her grievance, but she would bide her time. Her son's last words brought certain unpalatable facts to mind and effected a change in her manner. He was master of Northbrook Hall, and, if he willed it, she must give up the place of mistress to his wife. Quick as lightning the thought flashed through her mind, "Philip has never cared to live here. Is it likely that marriage will entirely change his habits, and that he who has been wandering the world over for more than half his life will settle down to the dull life of a country gentleman? I may remain mistress of the Hall to the end of the chapter."

Aloud, Lady Longridge said, but in softened tones, "I think, Philip, you must admit that I have cause for displeasure. That your mother should know nothing of your marriage until you brought your wife under the roof to which she herself came, a bride in all honour, five-and-forty years ago, shows scant courtesy in an only son. But you are master here, and we must try to make up for the want of a more formal welcome as best we may."

She extended her hand, which her son took, and once again he would have urged his wife forward. The latter, however, gave one terrified glance at Lady Longridge's face, then turned away, and clinging to her husband cried out, "Take me away, Philip. I care not where we go, but do not let us stay here. I thought I should find a mother in yours."

It was vain to attempt to bring the two together. The lovely, fair young wife, a bride of less than a month, was dressed in mourning, which betokened recent bereavement.

It was evident that she was ill-fitted to bear the trial of such a meeting, when she had hoped for a genuine homecoming, and to find a mother in Lady Longridge. But the sight of that tall figure, with its clasped hands, the look of dislike shot from the keen black eyes, together with the mocking words, so startled the girl, that she was terrified into the display of feeling already described, and which added greatly to the uneasiness of her husband.

There was nothing left for him but to lead his weeping wife to the room always kept in readiness for his reception, and to comfort her as best he might, until, wearied with her long journey and all she had gone through, she slept like a tired child.

There were servants enough to minister to the bodily wants of the pair, and, amongst others, Susan Thorley, my lady's own maid, and at that time sixteen years younger than she is represented at the beginning of this chapter, was sent to offer her aid, and "Mind you find out everything you can about the girl," said her mistress, as she sent her on the former errand.

[CHAPTER II.]

LADY LONGRIDGE MEETS HER MATCH.

SUSAN THORLEY had no chance of fulfilling the behest of her lady. Her offered services were declined with thanks, and speech she had none with Sir Philip's bride. He liked Thorley, but guessed his mother's principal object in sending her, so answered—

"I will look after my wife for to-night. She has not been accustomed to the attendance of a maid, so will miss nothing. All she needs is rest and sleep, and these she is more likely to get by not seeing any more fresh faces."

"The sight of one new face has been enough for her, poor dear young creature," thought the maid, but she did not say it. She only replied, "I hope you will call me, sir, if I can be of any use."

"I would rather call you than any one, if help were needed," said Sir Philip; and Thorley, not a little gratified, dropped a respectful curtsey and withdrew.

"Humph! So that is all you have to tell me?" said Lady Longridge, when her maid reappeared. "Well, that is something. Not used to the attendance of a maid! Just as I thought. Philip has married a nobody for the sake of a pretty face. And to be so foolish at thirty-nine. Older and madder—older and madder. You can go, Thorley."

Later still, when his young wife was sleeping calmly, Sir Philip joined his mother in a little sitting-room, which she preferred to any of the larger apartments used on state occasions. The two were silent for some minutes; then Sir Philip raised his head, and said—

"I hope you will forgive my apparent want of respect, mother. It was not intentional, but this whole affair has been so sudden—brought about, indeed, by such unforeseen circumstances—that I could hardly help myself."

"If you had been a hot-headed lad of twenty, I could have understood your conduct. At your age it is incomprehensible—inexcusable, I was going to say. Put yourself in my place, if you can, and imagine what I felt on hearing you say, 'This is my wife.' I, your mother, to whom you had not deigned to send a word of warning."

"You had been so used to my coming home just when the humour seized me—to my comet-like fashion of appearing and disappearing—that I did not expect you would be so annoyed at my arriving unannounced."

"Nor am I. It is to your wife's arrival—if this girl be indeed your wife."

Sir Philip started from his seat in anger. "This taunt is too much even from you!" he exclaimed. "How dare you?"

"I dare anything. If the words sound harsh, you have brought them on yourself by your rash act and forgetfulness of the respect you owed me. What will the world say about Sir Philip Longridge's marriage? Have you announced it in the papers, or is the world to hear of it through gossiping servants?"

"I have made no announcement of my marriage to outsiders. You are the first in England to hear of it. I crossed the Channel to-day, and hurried to Northbrook with all possible speed. At least, mother, give me credit for having lost no time in coming to you. If I had known what I now do, I should have hesitated before bringing my wife home!"

Sir Philip laid a bitter stress on the last word.

There was not much sign of feeling in the reply: "Now you are here you had better tell me all about it."

But he complied with the half request conveyed in the words, and told the story of his marriage as briefly as possible.

The father of Florence Winstanley, an enthusiastic traveller like himself, had met with an accident during a mountain excursion. Sir Philip found him at a village inn of the poorest description, and in an out-of-the-world spot, just recovering his senses after many days spent in delirious ravings or silent unconsciousness. He had watched over him for weeks, and as soon as the sufferer was fit to be moved, had travelled with him by easy stages to Geneva, where he had left his daughter, and only child.

The homecoming was a terrible shock to the girl. Her father and she were all in all to each other, and in addition to the trial of seeing him so sadly changed, she soon had the greater one of knowing that he had only returned to die at home. It was during the last month of Mr. Winstanley's life that the man of mature years and the girl of eighteen were drawn together; and Florence became engaged to him who had first earned her gratitude by his devotion to her father. They would not have married so soon, but for Mr. Winstanley's wish to place his darling under the care of a loving husband before he was called to leave the world. There was no doubt about the affection of the two for each other, so they were married, and the bride of a week stood by her father's grave, leaning on the arm of the bridegroom, Sir Philip Longridge.

The pair lingered no longer than was necessary. There were business matters to settle, and these completed, they turned their faces homeward, to meet with the reception already described at Northbrook Hall.

"You see, mother, I could hardly help myself," added Sir Philip. "We were going to be married, but the fact of Mr. Winstanley's being on his death-bed precipitated matters. There was no time to let you know beforehand, and when the thing was done, why, it seemed so much better to tell you all about it than to attempt to write. I know you will feel a little annoyed, but after all you must see that the position was peculiar, and my poor darling's sad loss and loneliness, to say nothing of her lovely face and sweet nature, ought to appeal to your motherly heart."

Lady Longridge's motherly heart! Who had ever heard an appeal to it before? She turned coldly round and said, "The story is very romantic, no doubt, but I should hardly have expected the loss, the loneliness, or the fair face to turn the head of a man close upon forty. I trust she has something more solid by way of recommendation. A well-stocked purse, or a goodly dowry in houses and land, would appeal with more power to my feelings than any of the qualifications you have named."

"Florence has a little property, but she can draw only the income from it, and that is about two hundred a year."

Lady Longridge fairly hissed out something in reply, but her son could not distinguish the words. Her face was, however, almost frightful in its anger, and there was silence for some minutes, because she would not trust herself to speak, and Sir Philip deemed it best to say nothing.

"How do you expect to keep up Northbrook?" she asked at last. "You know your position, and that the paying out of your sisters' fortunes left you but a narrow income, considering the calls upon you. As you did not increase it by economy, or by devoting yourself to the improvement of the estates, you were bound, if you did marry, to choose a wife with money. I saved and pinched and scraped out of my means. You spent all you had in your harum-scarum way, never resting under your own roof, as a decent Christian should, but wandering the world over, as if you had something on your conscience, and squandering your money on those who doubtless blessed you to your face and mocked you when your back was turned. Then—"

"Then, mother, I borrowed from you and I owe you money now; but, remember, you have had fair interest for it, regularly paid, and surely it has been worth something to reign at Northbrook for eighteen years, since I came of age."

"Only to lose my place now for that chit of a girl."

"Hush, mother! Say what you choose of me, but be silent or speak kindly of my wife. I was going to say that I do not think Florence would care to live at Northbrook, and my associations with my birthplace are none of the sweetest. Circumstances may, however, make it advisable for us to settle here. If so, there will be only room for one mistress."

Sir Philip had touched the one tender spot at last. Lady Longridge might have little room in her heart for her son, and none for his wife, but she did long to live and die mistress of Northbrook Hall.

"You must pay me the four thousand pounds you owe me, before I stir from this place," she said.

"That will be quite easy. You will remember that everything connected with the loan was done as formally as though I were borrowing from a stranger, and I am entitled to three months' notice, but if you want the four thousand you can have it. I had a letter from Mr. Melville quite lately, in which he asked if I knew of anyone who wished to borrow a few thousands, for he is at his wits' end how to invest some trust-money."

Foiled once more, Lady Longridge was puzzled what to say. She decided to "sleep upon it," and, rising from her seat, remarked, "You will be tired with your journey, and I am overdone with the shock I have sustained. It would have been better to leave business matters until to-morrow, so I will say good-night. You are master, and can give your orders, you know."

She held out her hand—they were not demonstrative this mother and son; he took it in his own for an instant, and having opened the door for her, she passed out of the room and up the stairs without another word.

When morning came, Lady Longridge had thought the matter out and decided on her course of action. She would certainly come off the worse in an open quarrel with her son. Her reign at the Hall would be over. And she would either have to betake herself to a smaller residence which was hers for life, or find a home elsewhere. The house in question was well let and she had lived at the Hall rent free hitherto. Thus she was touched in two tender spots—her liking for Northbrook and her love of money.

For her own sake she resolved to conciliate that "chit of a girl whom Philip had married." Thus she spoke of the new Lady Longridge to Thorley.

But for once the elder lady found her match. The young wife, who was pliable as wax in the hands of one she loved, had a will as strong as that of her husband's mother, when roused by circumstances to exert it.

The old lady might think she had only to hold out a finger and the young one would run to seize it, but she found herself mistaken. Florence was as little likely to bend by a hair's-breadth as was one of the marble statues in the hall.

"My mother will be in a different humour this morning," said Sir Philip to his wife, when the morning came. "I dare say she will make herself very agreeable to you for the future."

"What she may do matters little to me, Philip. I am not likely to see her. You will please order someone to bring my breakfast here—not your mother's maid, who seems a kindly person, but of necessity a sort of domestic spy."

"But surely, Florence, you will meet my mother again. After all, she had cause to be aggrieved, and she is a lonely woman, getting on in life."

"I should have thought that one who had known bereavement and loneliness would have opened her heart to another in like circumstances. Philip, I shall never forget your mother's look of anger and hate as you spoke of your wife. It was directed at you, but it seemed to turn me to stone. She is a fearful woman, Philip, and for a world's wealth I would not live under the same roof with her."

Hitherto Sir Philip had only seen the tender, loving side of his wife's character. He had noted her devotion to her suffering parent, her utter forgetfulness of self, her unwearying patience. He had seen her caring for the troubled, poverty-stricken people in her neighbourhood, and finding time to give to others the help, sympathy, and kind words of which she too stood so much in need. He knew that she had given to himself no half-hearted affection, and yet her love went hand in hand with the most exquisite modesty of manner and speech. Now he saw the other side, and realized that his wife's will would match that of his mother, and, between the two, his position would be far from agreeable.

"Are you not rather hasty in coming to such a decision?" he asked. "You have seen so little of my mother."

"Very little in one sense, too much in another. I would not have a second experience like last night's for the world."

"Well, dearest, I will breakfast with my mother, and you shall have your meal here. Afterwards we will talk matters over," was Sir Philip's reply.

Lady Longridge had decided to meet both her son and his wife not with two fingers, but with both arms extended. She found only her son, who did not respond to her advances. After a formal greeting, he relapsed into silence and the newspaper.

"How is Florence this morning? Rested, I hope, poor child! She seemed almost hysterical last night, and no wonder. She was wearied and overwrought."

"Thank you, she is better, but will breakfast in her room," replied Sir Philip. "Do not trouble yourself, mother; I have already ordered something to be sent up," for her hand was on the bell to summon a servant.

"Thorley shall go to your wife immediately, Philip. She is a good creature, as you know."

"It is very kind of you, but Florence will not deprive you of Thorley's services, even for a short time. She prefers to be waited on by one of the girls, thank you all the same."

And again Sir Philip devoted himself to the paper.

There was mischief brewing. Lady Longridge noted the stress on those two words, and felt more uncomfortable than she would have liked to confess. After an interval of silence she said—

"I know you like to linger over your last cup and the paper, so, if you will excuse me, I will go up and see Florence."

She was not long absent. When she presented herself at the bedroom door, she found it locked, and in answer to her knock and request to be admitted, the voice of her daughter-in-law replied—

"I cannot see any one at present."

There was something in the tone which prevented Lady Longridge from making a second application for admission, and she returned to her son.

"Your wife will not admit me, Philip," she said.

"It is not always convenient to receive visitors when one is dressing," was the calm reply.

"She might have been civil."

"I have always found her more, and better, than merely civil, but she may be adapting her manners to those prevailing at Northbrook."

And again he turned to the "Times."

Never before had Lady Longridge been puzzled what to do next. After a short silence she said, in an ironical tone—

"Perhaps your wife will like to see Millward, and give her own orders, since I must yield place to the new mistress of Northbrook."

"Perhaps so; though I doubt if Florence had realized the fact. Millward may as well see her."

And, ignoring the irony in his mother's manner, Sir Philip rang for the housekeeper, and told her she had better wait upon Lady Longridge for orders.

The woman turned to her from whom she had been accustomed to receive them; but Sir Philip said—

"I mean my wife. My mother herself suggested that this would be the better plan. Your young mistress has not left her room yet, but she may see you."

She did, for she was ready dressed, and after a while Millward descended the stairs with two impressions on her mind. One was that the new Lady Longridge had her wits about her, and, though she was so young, would prove a match for the old one. The second that there would be some pleasure in serving a beautiful creature like that, who knew how to unite youth and beauty with dignity, and both with a gracious manner that made it delightful to receive orders from her.

A tyrannical mistress, who cares nothing for the feelings of her subordinates, may nevertheless be well served by them. Self-interest and fear may obtain this much, but such services will only be rendered until a better opportunity presents itself. So, though Millward had been twenty years at Northbrook, she went down-stairs glad at heart with the thought that her "old lady" would meet her match in Sir Philip's young wife.

[CHAPTER III.]

"MEN MAY COME AND MEN MAY GO,"

BUT I STAY ON FOR EVER.

WHEN Lady Longridge found that her daughter-in-law had promptly accepted the position, and that Millward went straight to her own domain instead of returning to her for the orders which she had felt quite certain she would have to give as usual, she was extremely angry. What added fuel to the fire was that she had brought about this state of things by her own act. But she never dreamed that her words would be taken in earnest. She only suggested that Florence should give the orders, as a means of humiliating the young wife, who could have had no experience of housekeeping in a place like Northbrook Hall.

She appealed to Sir Philip, who merely reminded her that Millward had gone to his with by her express wish.

"It was your doing, not mine," he said.

"I was not in earnest," she replied. "Was it likely that I should expect that mere girl to take command here at a moment's notice?"

"Then it was a pity you said it, mother. I took it for granted that since you made the suggestion it must be the right thing to do, though I am sure Florence would have been in no hurry to assert herself. The change must have come, of course, and perhaps it is as well that it should be effected without any needless fuss, especially as you were the first to propose it."

Yes, those incautious words, spoken ironically, but taken in earnest, had done mischief which could never be repaired. She was deposed without even a struggle, and yet had she not always resolved that should Philip marry, she would show a brave fight before yielding the chief place at Northbrook to a daughter-in-law?

It would take too long to tell how the two ladies were brought together, outwardly as friends, but really as far asunder as the poles. The young wife was the nominal head and mistress, but old Lady Longridge remained at the Hall, in spite of all efforts to dislodge her.

She talked of going, but objected to more than one removal, and said that she would reside at her own house when the present tenant's lease was out; it would be only a matter of six months. Surely Philip and Florence would not grudge her a shelter for so long. It would be trial enough to leave a place which had been her home for five-and-forty years, but a little delay would soften it to her. So this was agreed to.

Lady Longridge knew how to utilise the advantage, and laughed triumphantly to herself, as she set to work to regain lost ground.

"I made one mistake," she thought. "I will not repeat it. Philip's wife has not got rid of the mother-in-law. I know him yet better than she does. Phil is infatuated with her at present, but one gets accustomed to the fairest face, and after a while the old roving temperament will reassert itself. He has never stayed long in a place since he became his own master, and he never will."

The astute old woman judged rightly. The restless fit came on again before the end of three months. The young wife would not be left behind; the time for the mother's removal had not arrived, so the pair departed on their travels and left Lady Longridge, senior, at the Hall, but with the understanding that she would vacate it as arranged.

"When we return we shall have our house to ourselves," said Sir Philip to his wife. He felt that whilst she and his mother preserved an appearance of friendliness, and the elder lady carefully abstained from interfering in household matters, there was no real goodwill between them.

"I doubt it, Philip. Your mother will not move from Northbrook if she can help it."

"But she agreed to go at the six months' end, and considered it a favour to be allowed to stay so long."

"You will see when the time is up. I only hope you may be right."

It was a month past the six when the pair came back, and they found Lady Longridge, senior, still at the Hall. "Too ill to be moved," she said.

At any rate she had kept her room for several weeks, and still professed her inability to leave it.

"Have the Wilmotts left Graylands?" asked her son.

"No, Philip. They are staying on as yearly tenants. I shall not have a house to myself when I leave here. My health is quite broken. The thought of turning my back on Northbrook has been quite too much for me, and I shall not again trouble myself with housekeeping cares. Rooms will suffice for me and Thorley, and be much better suited to my income. I can move about, ringing the changes on Brighton, St. Leonards, or Scarborough in summer, and Torquay or Bournemouth in winter. It will matter little to me; only I shall see fresh faces, and be the same lonely old woman everywhere, away from Northbrook. You will take me in for a week or two now and then, if Florence is agreeable? Or I can stay at one of the farms."

Sir Philip said something about his mother finding it pleasant to visit her daughters also.

"Never," she replied. "They went their way, and I shall go mine. How much have I seen of them in more than twenty years? I have only my son." And Lady Longridge wiped her eyes, but the light was dim, and tears were strange to them, so perhaps there was no real moisture there. At any rate, Sir Philip could discern none.

Many a date was fixed for the old lady's departure, but something always prevented it.

Sixteen years had come and gone between the homecoming of Sir Philip Longridge with his bride and the fair spring morning when Thorley was sent to silence the too-tuneful Margaretta. But during the whole time Lady Longridge had not spent a night under any roof but that of Northbrook Hall. And now she reigned supreme there, for her son was dead, his widow married a second time, and Margaretta lived with her grandmother. There was no grandson, so the baronet of to-day was a far-away cousin, who had a finer place elsewhere, and Lady Longridge occupied her old home, for which she paid a rent which was little more than nominal, but which she made a cause for infinite grumbling.

Of personal property Sir Philip had not much to leave. The two hundred a year belonging to his wife was not doubled by what he could bequeath, but what there was became hers absolutely. He never believed she would marry again, but in case of her so doing, he willed that his mother was to have the guardianship of Margaretta, and he trusted to her to make a suitable provision for his child, knowing that she was well able to do so.

Margaretta was twelve years old when her father died, and Northbrook was no longer even a temporary refuge for the widow and her child.

Sir Philip had never cared to stay long at the Hall, and where he went his wife accompanied him, but the child was usually there under suitable guardianship, her nurse first, then a capable governess being answerable to her parents for their charge's well-doing.

Old Lady Longridge and her daughter-in-law had not become better friends, and the former was altogether more impracticable at seventy-eight than she had been at sixty-five. One roof could not shelter the two, and the young widow was as eager to leave Northbrook as the older was to get rid of her.

Florence Longridge was a proud woman, and it was a trial for her to give up the surroundings she had been used to as Sir Philip's wife, and to live on a narrow income, with a daughter to educate in a manner befitting her birth. She would have died sooner than ask help from her mother-in-law, even had she expected to receive it for the asking. At thirty-four she was almost more beautiful than in her girlish days, and no less attractive for her intellectual gifts.

After two years' widowhood she accidentally met an old friend of her husband, one for whom Sir Philip ever expressed the greatest esteem. He was a man of forty, with wealth, position, and an honoured name. When he asked her to be his wife she hesitated, only on her child's account.

"If I marry, I must part with Margaretta," she said. "I am her guardian only whilst I am a widow."

"Only for a few years, and though she may go to her grandmother, I will help you still to guard and care for her until she is of age, though, considering all things, she may return to you before then."

The marriage took place; Lady Longridge claimed her ward, and having got possession of Margaretta, succeeded in keeping her out of her mother's presence, except for a short time at the end of every six months, when she was obliged to permit a meeting by the terms of her son's will. Probably if Sir Philip could have foreseen events, he would have rather rejoiced to leave his child in such worthy hands as those of his friend Hugh Norland, in his position of stepfather to Margaretta. But the thought of his wife's second marriage was one he could not endure, so he had ordered matters otherwise, and the girl was with her grim old kinswoman.

"Thorley," said Lady Longridge, after Margaretta's arrival, "we have caged our bird once more, and we shall keep her safely, never fear. The thought of having the charge of her for—let me see—six years to come, will help to keep me alive. I dare say her mother will count my years and say, 'She will not last till Margaretta is of age.' But plenty of people live to eighty-seven, and why not I. I come of a long-lived race; at least the females live long. I am only angry at one thing. Mrs. Hugh Norland has far too much money now. I hate to think of her being rich—far richer than she ever was as Philip's wife. And she will not give a penny towards Margaretta's maintenance, shame on her!"

It was true that Mrs. Norland declined to relieve Lady Longridge's purse, unless she were permitted to have a say in her daughter's education and in spending the money. This granted, she would have given any reasonable amount. But much as the old lady loved to save, she liked still better to punish the daughter-in-law who had once made her fill a secondary position, and she availed herself to the utmost of her powers as the legally appointed guardian of Margaretta.

The girl had a sorry time at Northbrook. She had no companions of her own age, and indeed, visitors of any age were few and far between at the Hall. The rector, a new one in Dr. Darley's place, came, as in duty bound, and always felt, as the door closed behind him, that the most disagreeable of his pastoral calls was over for the time being.

Now and then a carriage would pass along the neglected drive, and ladies would alight from it and spend a short time with Lady Longridge, who, however, never returned such visits.

"I am too old for gadding about, so each call you are good enough to pay will only add to my debts," she would say. "However, it is some comfort to know that nobody cares to see an old lady like me. It is not likely. I hear nothing, so I have nothing to tell, and I miss one-half of what people say through not hearing. Then I repeat the tale wrongly to the next comer, and get into trouble; so you see it would have been better not to hear or speak."

An inquiry after Margaretta usually made the old lady eloquent.

"My granddaughter! I never know where she is, except at meal-times, for she is here, there, and everywhere between-whiles. I hear her often enough—too often, for she is always making a noise which she calls singing. It is a dreadful trial for an old woman like me to be burdened with the charge of a girl. But Philip would not leave her to the tender mercies of a stepfather, and that devoted wife of his would not keep single for the sake of her 'darling child.' Oh no."

It was always the same. No kind word fur any one, no messenger sent to bring the lonely girl into the presence of a visitor who might have been inclined to make her life a little brighter.

Yet Margaretta was not wholly friendless. She had, after a time, three persons on whose affection she could rely, and all within her reach at Northbrook.

First of these was Thorley, who had known her from her birth, and who, in spite of all her mistress could do to the contrary, had never missed an opportunity of showing her devoted love for the girl. When Margaretta was a baby, Thorley used to steal away to the nursery and satisfy the hunger of a loving woman's heart by spending her few spare moments with the child. She was full of devices for her amusement, having been herself "the eldest of nine and used to nursing," and was in consequence the little one's first favourite.

So when Margaretta came back to Northbrook after the interval between her father's death and her mother's second marriage, Thorley's was the only familiar face she saw there beside her grandmother's.

Lady Longridge's first act on finding herself sole mistress of the Hall had been to make "a clean sweep" of all the servants, Thorley excepted.

"Not one who ever received orders from Florence shall stay in my service," she said, and carried out her resolution.

This change rendered it easy for her to reduce her establishment. "Half the servants ought to be enough to wait on one old woman," she said next, and then she decided to spare her purse further by giving less wages for less trained domestics. No wonder that, inside and out, the appearance of Northbrook had changed for the worse since its old mistress resumed her absolute rule there.

"Things will last my time. Let those who follow renew. There are gewgaws enough that Florence put in and that are not worth house-room, only that as my landlord took them at a valuation, and I have nothing to fill their places if they were removed, they may as well stay where they are."

The gewgaws were all the dainty screens, needlework, elegant lamp-shades and artistic trifles with which Sir. Philip's wife had beautified the barrenness of the rooms. All the more substantial articles were old-fashioned, the last possessor having had no spare money to spend on refurnishing the Hall.

Margaretta's second and only young friend was a little village seamstress named Ellen Corry, by whose deft fingers the garments of the growing girl were remodelled let out and lengthened, as occasion required.

It was fortunate for Margaretta that she brought with her a good stock of clothes, and that the materials were admirably chosen both as to colours and quality—soft, beautiful, girlish, and not likely to become conspicuous, owing to the changes of fashion. Each garment had been carefully planned so as to permit of enlargement, and a length of new material was folded with it for future renovation.

Lady Longridge grunted indignantly as she caused Thorley to pass Margaretta's wardrobe in review before her. It was in one sense satisfactory to find that no expenditure of money would be needed for a long time.

"I should have bought nothing new in any case," snapped out the old lady. "There are coloured gowns enough of mine laid away that would have done for the girl, and they will come in when these are worn out. Take all this frippery away," and she waved off Thorley and the garments with an impatient gesture.

The maid retired, murmuring a thanksgiving that her darling Miss Margaretta would be preserved from the ancient horrors laid up by her mistress, professedly for future wear, but never likely to be needed.

"A lady's maid," muttered Thorley, "is supposed to get good pickings out of her mistress's clothes, but I never had any that were worth selling, much less wearing. However, it is some comfort to think that, while she goes on hoarding her rubbish, I never feel to covet any of and one may be thankful not to be tempted. As to Miss Margaretta, Nelly Corry will keep her right for a couple of years, let her grow as fast as she likes."

Nelly Corry's aid was soon needed, and in her joy at the sight of a young face, Margaretta, albeit an unskilful seamstress, determined to help her in her work.

"I can unpick the seams, if I cannot put them together," she said, and this she did with her grandmother's approval, qualified, however, by the remark that it would be a change to see her occupied in anything but mischief. Nelly was a good, pure-minded little creature, the staff of her widowed mother, and the child of careful training and many prayers. No fear that from her Margaretta would receive harm, or that the dingy nursery, now used as a workroom, would be the scene of gossip or idle tattle. The baronet's child and the seamstress a few years older were just a couple of innocent-minded girls, very happy only to be together, because they were young, and each had no friend of like age under the roof she called home.

Nelly's home was a real one, and the girl was eloquent always about her mother's goodness and the wealth of loving care she bestowed on the only child left her there. The rest were married and gone out into the world. Only the one ewe lamb was left.

How different with Margaretta! She could only say that she wished she could ever please her grandmother, who did not, and she thought never would, love her. That she longed for the mother from whom she was parted, and was sure that if only she could be with her and Mr. Norland, he would love her too. For she had known him when she was a little thing, and he was—oh, so nice always!

"I want the days to go twice as fast, and they pass so slowly here. I used to think lessons a nuisance, and wish I had only half as many. Now I should be glad to be properly taught again. My old governess would not live with grandmother if she might, and grandmother would not have her or pay her. She thinks anything spent on me is thrown away, and says I know more than I ought already. She hates music. Mamma's piano is gone, and the old one here is horrible, no two notes in tune. It must be a hundred years old, I should think. And grandmother is glad it is so bad, for she says if it were a good instrument, I should be at it always, as mamma used to be at hers, and there would be no peace. It is just the same if I sing. I went out of doors to-day, and thought she could not hear me, but she did, and sent Thorley to say I was to stop that screaming, for it was worse than a railway-whistle."

"Did Miss Thorley say that?" asked Nelly, who had a profound veneration for Lady Longridge's maid, and thought it impossible for her to say a harsh word.

"No. She came to me with such a heartbroken look, for she loves to hear me sing, and says my voice is the only pleasant thing she hears. I had just put myself in a comfortable place, leaning against a tree, and she stole up to me looking miserable when I was in the midst of a fresh song. 'Don't tell me the message,' I said, 'I will tell you. Grandmother has sent you to bid me stop screeching. I am right, am I not?'"

"'Yes, my darling. That is just what my lady did say. It seems as if you cannot get out of hearing, so as to sing in peace, and yet she is always complaining of being deaf, and turning what people say into nonsense. She hears well enough. She only pretends to misunderstand them, so that she may catch things that were never meant for her ears at all.'"

"Then I wished I were a bird, and that I could fly out of hearing. I sometimes think I shall run away, Nelly, for life here is so dreadful. And to have to live it for six long years, or five and a half, for I have been here a few months already! Thorley was quite shocked, and said, 'Oh, dear Miss Margaretta, you make me tremble, and I am just as nervous as I can be to begin with, through your grandma scolding.'"

"'If you don't call me "Meg," I will start off this minute,' I said. 'I can run so fast that I should be out of reach before you could begin to follow.'"

"Then Thorley gasped out, 'Oh, Meg, do not,' and I laughed until I forgot my grandmother's cross message. You see I make Thorley call me 'Meg,' because it was my poor father's pet name for me, and mamma got into the way of using it too. No one but those who loved me ever used it, so I ask Thorley to say it, because I want to feel loved yet, and she does care for me."

"She does indeed. And, dear Miss Longridge, so do I. There isn't a thing you could ask me to do that I would not do for you."

"Then call me 'Meg' this minute, you dear little nice thing," said Margaretta, and then she flung her arm round the little seamstress's neck and kissed her with such energy that Nelly was half frightened at the suddenness of the embrace.

"Kiss me back again. Kiss me, Nelly," cried Margaretta. "Don't you see I am hungering for love and kindness? Thorley is an old dear, but I want a young one. I will have you for a friend. I like you, and grandmother gives me no choice."

So on that day a compact was entered into, and Nelly returned Margaretta's somewhat tempestuous affection with an almost worshipping devotion, calling her "Meg" in a whisper, as Thorley did when no one was within hearing, and resolving that if ever she in her humble way could help the lonely young lady, she would do it with all her might.

One thing she succeeded in making Margaretta promise when, from time to time, she threatened to run away, and that was that she would go straight to Nelly's home, and no further, to begin with.

To this Margaretta agreed, and both Nelly and Thorley, whom she informed of the arrangement, were content.

It was through the little seamstress that Meg gained her third friend, and the one who was likely to be of the most service to her.

[CHAPTER IV.]

THE MOUSE HELPS THE LIONESS,

AND MARGARETTA GAINS A THIRD FRIEND.

NELLY CORRY'S active fingers were never idle, and her cleverness, good taste, and modest manners were the means of introducing her to the best houses in the neighbourhood, as well as to Northbrook Hall. One of her customers, a childless widow, resided in a pretty cottage about half a mile from it.

This lady, Mrs. Moffat, was much interested in the little seamstress, who was so good a daughter and so industrious, and very often made the girl bring her work into her own sitting-room. There the actual stitching was done, the cutting and snipping being effected in the little workroom proper. Mrs. Moffat would encourage Nelly's artless talk, which had in it no suggestion of gossip or scandal. It was usually about the mother, or the married brothers and sisters, in whom Mrs. Moffat took a kindly interest. It charmed her to note how Nelly's innocent face brightened as she spoke of her many blessings, and persistently brought the bright side to the front during these conversations.

"And yet," thought the lady, "what a life of continuous toil this little creature leads, without ever uttering a complaining word! She regards work, plenty of work, as a rich blessing, and takes it up joyfully, seeing in it, daily bread and comforts for mother."

One day as Nelly sat sewing at Mrs. Moffat's, she was unusually silent. Not for want of something to talk about, for her mind was full of a plan for Margaretta's benefit, but she knew not how to begin.

Mrs. Moffat set her tongue at liberty by asking, "Is there anything amiss, Nelly? You are silent this morning."

"Nothing, thank you, ma'am. I was thinking so much about poor Miss Longridge, and it came into my mind that with mother to love me, I was so much better off in our little place than she is at Northbrook Hall."

"She has a mother, Nelly, and her grandmamma."

"A mother in one way, but she is so far-away, and Miss Longridge has been here seven months and only seen her once—four weeks ago. Poor young lady! She is dreadfully lonely, for the old lady is—well, you know, ma'am, when people get quite old, they cannot help being—" Here Nelly stopped for a word. She did not like to say cross or ill-tempered. So she blushed, and bending her head over her work, stitched away diligently.

Mrs. Moffat knew enough of Lady Longridge to fill up the blank, so she did not ask Nelly's meaning. But she drew from her the story of Margaretta's daily life, her yearning for instruction, her friendlessness, the solitary wanderings in the grounds, and efforts to get out of the hearing of the relentless old relative, who compared her sweet rich voice to the screams of a railway-whistle.

"But surely Lady Longridge has someone to teach her granddaughter," said Mrs. Moffat.

"No, ma'am. Miss Margaretta has no lessons of any kind, and she cannot practise, for the only old piano is just dreadful. It is never tuned, and if it were it would not keep in tune. The young lady's mamma would have left her beautiful piano for her daughter; but Lady Longridge would not have it there, or a scrap that belonged to her. You see, ma'am, she has fancies, being old, and she seems to think she is poor and cannot afford to spend any money on her granddaughter."

Mrs. Moffat remained silent for a little while, turning over in her own mind a plan suggested by Nelly's confidences. She was a highly accomplished woman, a born musician, who delighted to encourage musical talent in others, and at once the thought occurred to her—

"Here am I, a lonely woman, with such talents as I possess running to waste for want of an opportunity to exercise them. And just within reach is a sweet young creature, wanting exactly what I am able to give. How can we be brought together?"

Soon afterwards Nelly Corry knew that her innocent stratagem had been successful, for Mrs. Moffat said—

"How I wish I could be of use to this dear lonely girl! I am sure I can trust you, Nelly. Tell me, now, what I can do for her. It would be quite a delight to me to give her an opportunity of using my piano, and I might perhaps direct her musical studies a little. Do you think Lady Longridge would let her come here?"

"Indeed, ma'am, I do not know. Thorley, that is her ladyship's maid, could tell more than anybody else. Lady Longridge never comes near the workroom, which is the old nursery at Northbrook, though she knows when I am there, for she sometimes grumbles at having to pay me for altering Miss Margaretta's frocks."

"How could I see Thorley? I know her by sight already, for I call on Lady Longridge now and then."

"She gets out very little, for it seems as if her mistress could hardly bear her to be out of hearing, but I am sure she will contrive to come to you if you will see her."

It was arranged that Nelly should take a message to Thorley on the following day, and certain hours were named at which she would find Mrs. Moffat at home for a week to come. Two days later, Thorley called at Clough Cottage, and had a long talk with its mistress. At its close, she said—

"If, madam, you could persuade my lady to fall in with your plan, it would be the saving of Miss Margaretta; but please do not let her think that it will be a favour to you. And if you would be so kind as to make her pay for it."

There was something quite whimsical in the look on Thorley's face as she said this, for she was in mortal dread of giving offence. Mrs. Moffat was a lady of means, who visited the county families, being as well-bred as any of them, and to suggest her receiving payment was something dreadful.

The maid began to try and explain her meaning, but Mrs. Moffat interrupted her with a smile, and said, "I think I know enough of Lady Longridge to comprehend the difficulty. We have to make great allowances for the peculiarities of aged people, and at four-score they are privileged."

"Lady Longridge is turned eighty-one, and just a wonder for her age," said Thorley enthusiastically, and with a look of infinite relief. "I have served her five-and-twenty years."

"She is fortunate in retaining such faithful service. Well, Thorley, I think I understand your meaning. You believe that if Lady Longridge supposed that I particularly wished to assist her granddaughter in her studies, and that the dear girl's presence would give pleasure to a solitary woman, she would say 'No.' And yet she does want a teacher for her granddaughter."

"I could not quite say that much. Miss Margaretta has been at her grandma to let her have lessons, and the rector has ventured to tell my lady that her granddaughter's time is being wasted, and that she is being let run wild as no working man's child would be. He told her what people were saying, and how it was the talk of the countryside that her son's only child was being frightfully neglected. I don't know how he dared, but, though he is so quiet mostly, he speaks out in a matter of right or wrong. So my lady has been asking about a governess, but she does not like to pay for a good one; besides, she does not wish one altogether at the Hall; and who that knew how dull it is, would like to come? It takes years to get used to the life there, and it is hard for the young.'

"Tell me exactly what course would be best, and speak out. Do not fear my being displeased."

"Then, madam, I think if you could call at Northbrook, very soon, just whilst my lady is worrited about getting someone to teach Miss Margaretta, she might perhaps ask your advice. You need not tell her straight out what is in your mind, but if only you could get to know what ladies have asked who have written about coming, you might see your way by making a great favour of it. As to the money part, you would know better than I should. Only my lady values most what she has to pay for."

Mrs. Moffat was shrewd enough to realise the position at once. She paid the proposed visit, as it happened, in the nick of time; found Lady Longridge irritated and perplexed, the former at the unconscionable salaries asked by governesses, when only a few years ago twenty pounds a year would have been considered ample.

"Not that my son and his wife thought so. They gave a hundred and board to the one who used to teach Margaretta, as though money were picked up in the streets! There is only one of these," and she laid her hand on a pile of letters, "that asks less, and she cannot write plainly, and has misspelt two words."

"She is perhaps one of the old twenty-pound-a-year class, belonging to the days when persons who could earn a living in no other way went out as governesses amongst people who knew not whether they were fit to teach or otherwise. But you, Lady Longridge, are better able to judge. Besides, teaching is now a distinct profession, and a highly honourable one, in which the incapables of old times would stand no chance to-day."

"Yes," said Lady Longridge, ignoring all but the compliment, "I can spell yet, though I am over eighty. Can you tell me of anyone hereabout who would teach Margaretta, just to make out a little income? I would give fifty pounds a year for three or even two hours' lessons a day, morning or afternoon, as might suit her best. I am wearied out of my life with all these letters."

"Would you give sixty to a competent person?"

"Yes, even sixty, but no board. Mind, no board," added the old lady, eagerly.

"I will think about this and tell you to-morrow without fail." And Mrs. Moffat departed, leaving Lady Longridge much relieved.

"She will find somebody, Thorley, I am convinced of it. She is a clever woman, with a good head and plenty of common sense, which almost make one wish she had to teach for a living. What a governess she would make for that gipsy of a girl!"

Thorley felt herself a dreadful hypocrite as she replied that Mrs. Moffat was quite a lady, and had plenty of money. Also that she did a world of good with it; but this remark caused such a snappish rejoinder, that she wished it had been suppressed.

Lady Longridge looked eagerly for Mrs. Moffat's coming, and greeted her with the inquiry, "Have you brought good news?"

"I cannot tell whether you will think it so, but if you like, I will give your granddaughter the benefit of all I know, on the terms named yesterday."

"You! You teach, and for money!" shrieked the old lady. "You are rich; you want none. I cannot understand you."

"If you agree to my proposal, you will give fifteen pounds a quarter into the hands of Mr. Moorhouse, our new rector, towards the repairs and restoration of the church. I shall not touch a penny of it myself. But the work is badly wanted, and is dear to his heart and to mine. I do not believe in our living in ceiled houses and being surrounded with luxuries, and allowing the House of God to fall into wreck and ruin."

"You have given I don't remember how much already, for the man flung that in my face when he came begging here. He could not say that I indulged in luxuries."

"I have given, but it has been of that which cost me nothing—not even a little self-denial. Now I am anxious to work for some extra money, in order that I may give it under more satisfactory conditions. I have never yet known the happiness of earning anything."

"No more have I, if you call it happiness. But there is an old proverb which says, 'There is more made by saving than getting.' Not," added Lady Longridge, "that I have saved much, only I have had to be careful. I will think of what you have said, but could you not call it fifty?"

"For myself I would say nothing. But this is for God's cause and His house. No, Lady Longridge, you must give me a decided answer before I leave, or you will lose your chance of paying me a salary. If I take your money, mind, I mean to earn it. If you do not pay me sixty pounds per annum, someone else will double the amount, for a similar return. Will you read this letter in proof of what I say?"

Mrs. Moffat handed one as she spoke. It was from a greater personage than Lady Longridge, and the writing was familiar to her. It said—

"My dear Hilda,—If you are bent on earning money in order to try the
luxury of giving at a considerable cost to yourself, do let us have the
benefit. You would have a submissive and adoring pupil in my daughter,
who would come to you daily, and share the advantages with Lady
Longridge's granddaughter, if you choose. You have only to name your
terms."

"Margaretta shall come to you, and I will pay the sixty pounds a year to Mr. Moorhouse. I shall be helping a good work too," added the old woman, with a look of self-gratulation.

"You will enable me to do so much more, but I protest against your claiming second-hand credit," said Mrs. Moffat.

The old lady laughed. She rather liked to meet her match sometimes, and the thought of having made a good bargain, even at the cost of sixty pounds a year, put her into a good humour for the time being. She was eager for Margaretta to begin her studies, but as the morrow would be Friday, it was decided that the girl should go to Clough Cottage on the Monday morning following.

How Thorley and the little seamstress rejoiced in the success of their innocent plan needs not be told, or with what impatience Margaretta counted the hours that must intervene before she should once more touch a piano worthy the name. In the meanwhile she hunted up her books and music, to be ready for use when needed.

[CHAPTER V.]

BRIGHTER DAYS FOR MARGARETTA.

MRS. MOFFAT took no second charge. Margaretta was her only pupil, and it is just probable that the letter which moved Lady Longridge to decide so quickly was not really intended to be acted upon, though the writer was thoroughly in earnest in making the offer.

HOLIDAY STORIES

BY

RUTH LAMB

AUTHOR OF "ARTHUR GLYNN'S CHRISTMAS BOX," "HER OWN CHOICE," ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

AND 164, PICCADILLY

1892

CONTENTS

[DEAR MISS MEG]

[CHAPTER I.]

MISTRESS AND MAID.—A BRIDE'S HOMECOMING.