Marshall Emma
Salome

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CHAPTER VIII
ARRIVALS

"I SHALL be so glad to drive you home, my dear," Lady Monroe said, as Salome seated herself in the carriage. "I have the pleasure of knowing your mother; and Eva and I spent a very pleasant day at Maplestone last year, when I renewed an old acquaintance. How long have you been in Roxburgh? I wish Dr. Wilton had told me you were here."

"We only came the other day," Salome said; "indeed, mother and the children are not here yet. We expect them at five o'clock, and that is why I am so anxious to get back. We have lodgings at Elm Fields."

"You must direct us when we get nearer the place. Have you been spending the day at your uncle's?"

"Reginald and I met Kate and Digby on the down, and we went back to dinner. I have not seen Aunt Anna yet. Uncle Loftus came to see me."

Then fearing she might have left a wrong impression she added —

"Uncle Loftus is very kind to us."

"He is kind to everybody," said Eva Monroe earnestly. "He is the best doctor in the world – except for sending me to Cannes for the winter."

"He has done that for the best, Eva;" and Lady Monroe sighed. "It only shows how conscientious he is."

Salome was becoming nervous about the right turn to Elm Cottage; and her wrong glove began to worry her as she looked at Eva Monroe's slender fingers in their neatly-shaped four-button black kid gloves.

"It is up there, I think," Salome said. "Yes; I know it is." Then, as the crimson rushed into her face, she said, "Elm Cottage is at the end of this road, next to a baker's shop."

"It is a pleasant, airy situation," Lady Monroe said. "You must tell your mother I shall call upon her very soon; and perhaps she will let me take her for a drive."

"Oh! it is near St. Luke's Church, mamma – Mr. Atherton's church. Why, it is the very house the Athertons lodged in till the vicarage was ready."

"So it is. You will find the Athertons pleasant neighbours," Lady Monroe said. "They will be nice friends for you, I hope; and the church is a very nice one. I daresay Mr. Atherton will be glad of your help in the Sunday school."

The carriage drew up as she was speaking, and the footman looked down from his seat doubtfully.

"Yes; this is right," said Lady Monroe. "Good-bye, my dear. I am so glad I met you."

"A sweet, gentle girl," Lady Monroe said, as Salome, having expressed her thanks, disappeared behind the little wooden gate. "It is very sad for them all. What a change from that lovely place, Maplestone Court, where I saw poor Emily Wilton last year!"

"Yes," said Eva; "to lose their father and money and position."

"Not position, Eva. A gentlewoman can never really lose position in the eyes of right-thinking people. I feel a great interest in the Wiltons; for their mother is, I should think, but little fitted to struggle with adversity; she was never strong."

"I wish we were not going to Cannes, mother, and then we could often go and see them. Oh! I do not want to go away; my cough is quite well. It is so hard to go. Think how tired we were of the life there last year." And a cloud of discontent came over the fair face of the delicately nurtured girl, who had all that loving care could suggest to brighten her life and soften the privations which delicate health brings with it to the young.

It must strike us all, old and young, when we look round upon the lives of others, that there is a crook in every lot, and that God will have us all learn the lesson of "patience," – patience which can make the crooked places straight and the rough places smooth.

Salome found Stevens had set out tea on a little table in the dining-room. The tea-pot had a cosy over it; and a plate of thin bread and butter, cut from one of Ruth's fancy loaves, looked inviting.

"This is the mistress's time for afternoon tea," Stevens said. "She could not sit down to a table at this time, just off a journey too. I have got some buns for the children. Now, Miss Salome, do go and get yourself tidy, to look home-like. Where are the young gentlemen? Master Reginald went out with you."

"I expect they are both gone down to the station. Reg and I have been to dinner at Uncle Loftus's. Oh! here is the carriage. Here are mother and Ada!"

Salome went swiftly out to meet her mother and sister, and tried to greet them with a smile. "Mother," she exclaimed; "I am so glad you have come."

Mrs. Wilton made an effort to respond to Salome cheerfully; but Ada did not even try to smile.

"Now, then," said Dr. Wilton, "I must not stay. Reginald is walking up with the little boys and my Digby. The luggage will follow in the omnibus."

"Won't you have a cup of tea, Uncle Loftus?" said Salome. "We have it all ready."

"No, thanks, my dear, I cannot stay. I have a consultation at half-past five. Really you have made the best of this room; it looks quite pretty; and it is quiet here. I hope you will be comfortable."

While he was speaking, Mrs. Pryor appeared, with a courtesy so profound that Dr. Wilton had to hurry away to hide a smile.

"I hope I see you well, ma'am," said Mrs. Pryor; "and I hope, I am sure, you will mention anything I can do for you, and I will try in my poor way to do it. It's a world of trouble, ma'am, and you have had your share, as I have had mine; and I know how hard it must be for you, ma'am, in the evening of your days, to have a change like this – from riches to – "

"Here are the little ones," exclaimed Salome, as the sound of the children's voices was heard in the porch.

Hans and Carl were in the highest spirits. They had chattered all the way from the station, and were ready to be pleased with everything.

They brought with them a relic of the old home, in the person of a little white fluffy dog, named Puck, which came bustling in at their heels, flying up at every one in expectation of a welcome, and regardless of Salome's —

"Mother, what will Mrs. Pryor say to a dog? I thought Puck was to be given to the De Brettes."

"The children begged so hard to bring him," Mrs. Wilton said. "Puck is a dog no one can object to."

Salome looked doubtful, and said —

"I am sure Mrs. Pryor won't let him get on the chairs," as Puck seated himself on one of them. "Get down, Puck."

"I thought it was a mistake to bring Puck," Ada said; "but the children would have their own way."

"He is a very well-behaved dog in general," said Stevens, anxious to make peace and avoid discussion with Mrs. Pryor; "and if he forgets his manners, we must teach him, that is all."

"Where is the nursery?" Carl asked, "and the school-room? Are we to have tea there?"

"You shall all have tea together this evening," Stevens said; "but I will show you your room, my dears. Come upstairs."

"Where is Raymond?" Mrs. Wilton asked.

"Raymond!" exclaimed Salome. "He said he would go to the station. Did you not see him?"

"No," Reginald said. "Digby Wilton and I walked down together from the cricket match. Digby is not so bad after all."

"I think him very nice, and I like Kate. I had quite an adventure, mamma. Lady Monroe, who says she knew you years and years ago, brought me from Edinburgh Crescent in her carriage, and was so kind. Do you remember her, mother? She came to Maplestone last year."

Poor Mrs. Wilton, who had been trying to keep back her tears, found the very mention of her old home too much at this moment. A sob was the only answer; and Ada said —

"Mamma had better go and take off her things and rest a little. Show us the way, Salome." Reginald followed, and tried not to be disappointed that his mother did not notice the book-shelves and several little contrivances in her room. And Salome wished Ada would not say, "How dreadfully small the house is; and how this huge ugly bed fills up the room," – the four-post bed which was Mrs. Pryor's glory.

She had come up behind the party, and hearing her most valued possession thus slighted, took her revenge forthwith.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am; I don't wish to intrude; but I do not take dawgs. No dawgs or cats are allowed in my house. I don't take children as a rule – never; but a dawg I cannot put up with. It would wear my spirits out. I hope," looking round, "you are satisfied, ma'am!"

"Oh, it is all very clean and neat, thank you," Mrs. Wilton faltered out; "it will do very nicely, and – and I will see about Puck: if he is troublesome, he must be sent away."

Alas! the very spirit of mischief, whose name he bore, seemed to have suddenly possessed Puck. A great bustling and low growling was heard on the staircase, and Hans and Carl laughing and saying, "At it, Puck – good Puck." In another moment Puck appeared shaking something soft frantically, and tearing wildly about with it in his mouth, letting off the spirits which had been pent up on his journey from Fairchester.

"What has he got? Take it from him, children. – What is it, Salome?"

"It's a bird, I think. – Puck, put it down," said Reginald sternly, seizing Puck by his fluffy tail, and administering several hard slaps.

When at last Puck dropped his prey, Mrs. Pryor exclaimed, "My feather brush – my dear, dear mistress's feather brush! I've seen her dust her own chayny with it times. I wouldn't have taken a pound for it. Oh dear! oh dear!"

"It is not much injured, I hope," said Mrs. Wilton. "Only two feathers have been loosened."

"A nasty, mischievous little thing," said Mrs. Pryor in an injured tone, making a thrust at Puck with the short handle of the feather brush.

It was not in dog nature to take this patiently, and Puck stood at bay, barking furiously, and growling as an interlude between every fresh outburst.

Mrs. Pryor put her hands to her ears, and saying something about calling her son to protect her, she toddled away. After a storm comes a calm. Puck stood apologetically on his hind legs when his enemy was gone; and Carl, seizing him in his arms, carried him off to the little room he was to occupy with Hans, saying, "That horrid old woman should not touch him."

Like the sun shining through a cloud was the appearance of Ruth's good-natured face.

"I will manage it all," she said to Stevens. "If mother makes a great fuss, why, I'll take the little creature to live with us. I am not so particular or fidgety. Don't take any notice of what mother may say; she means well."

Alas! how many people "mean well," and how much better it would be if they made their meaning clear. Their good intentions are often like a riddle, hard to find out. If the intention is good, it is a pity that it is not better fulfilled. People who say they mean well are, I am afraid, often very disagreeable, and do not make the lives of others easier by their "good meaning."

The evening passed. Tea was over. The "little ones" were in bed. Stevens was sitting at supper with Mrs. Pryor when Raymond rang the bell.

"Where have you been, Raymond?" Salome said, going out to meet her brother. "Why did you not go to the station to meet mamma?"

"Why didn't I go? – there were plenty without me," he said crossly. "I have been with Barington; I met him in Roxburgh, and I was thankful to get out of this hole."

"Raymond, don't say that to mamma," Salome entreated.

"Well, my dear boy," Mrs. Wilton said, rising wearily from her chair as Raymond went into the room, "I was getting quite anxious about you;" and then she kissed him affectionately.

"I met an old friend – Barington," Raymond said; "and I knew Reginald would meet you. – Hallo, Ada, how are you? Barington wanted to come to-morrow to see you. He admires your photograph so much; but I could not let him see us here, so I put him off."

Ada looked up with a placid smile from her work – for Ada was never idle for a moment – and said, "Who is Barington?"

"Oh, an awfully nice fellow! – I say, mother, you won't stay here, will you? No decent people will call upon you. I can easily find you some nice lodgings Barington told me of."

"My dear boy, we must stay here for the present. It is quiet and better than living in a street. Will you have any tea, Raymond?" she asked.

"No, thanks; I have dined with Barington at the Queen's. He paid the score."

Raymond had a soft, caressing way with his mother, and she now sat with her hand in his, looking at him with loving interest.

"I can't bear you to live in a place like this," he began again, "you dear mother. I am sure there are heaps of good lodgings in the better part of Roxburgh, only our kind relatives did not wish to have us too near them."

"Nonsense, Raymond," Salome broke in.

"Well, never mind about that, dear. Uncle Loftus has, he thinks, heard of something for you in Harstone. You are to go and see Mr. Warde with him to-morrow at ten o'clock punctually."

"Uncle Loftus won't like to be kept waiting, so you must be up in good time to be at Edinburgh Crescent by ten o'clock, Digby says."

"Shut up, Reginald," said his brother; "I do not want your interference."

"What is to be done about old Birch, mother?" he asked turning again to Mrs. Wilton; "he ought to have a term's notice. I thought I could go back till Christmas."

"Oh no, Raymond; I am afraid that is impossible. My dear boy, it is such pain to me – to – to – "

Mrs. Wilton was in tears again, and Salome murmured, "How can you be so selfish, Raymond?" while Reginald, unable to control his indignation, went out of the room, shutting the door with a sharp bang.

"Oh, well, mother, I'll go to this Mr. Warde's, of course, and I daresay they will give me a good salary, and then I will get you some other lodgings the very first thing; see if I don't. I am not going to allow you to be shelved off here; and Ada! I daresay these Edinburgh Crescent people are jealous of her. There is not one of them half as good-looking."

"Oh, why did Ada smile and look pleased? Why did Raymond always get undeserved praise?" Salome thought. For Mrs. Wilton said, "It is very good and dear of you to think about us, Ray; I only hope you will be happy. My children's happiness is now the only thing I have to live for."

Salome bit her lip, as she listened to her brother for the next ten minutes, standing now with his back to the chimney-piece surveying the room, and interspersing his remarks on it, which were anything but complimentary, with stories of "Barington," and a fellow who had dined with them at "The Queen's."

"Shall we have prayers, mother?" Salome said at last. "You must be very tired, and – "

"Prayers! oh, not to-night, Sal; besides, who is to read them?" said Raymond.

Salome faltered a little as she said, "We can read a Psalm for the Evening in turn, and perhaps mother will say a prayer."

"Yes," Mrs. Wilton said; "you are quite right, dear. Call Reg and Stevens, and bring me my large prayer-book, for my eyes are so weak. I am in the evening of life, as Mrs. Pryor told me," she added with a sad smile; "and the last month has added ten years to my age."

"Why, mother, you look so young," said Ada. "I do dislike Mrs. Pryor talking in that whiny-piny voice; and how disagreeable she was about Puck."

Salome, who had gone to fetch the books, now returned with Stevens and Reginald, whom she had coaxed to come back. Then she found the places in the books, and the young voices read together the Psalm for the Seventh Evening. It seemed to bring its message of peace to the young, untried heart of the eldest daughter of those fatherless children.

"Fret not thyself because of the ungodly… Put thou thy trust in the Lord, and be doing good: dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed. Delight thou in the Lord: and he shall give thee thy heart's desire."

"I will try to delight myself – that means, be cheerful and patient," Salome thought. "I must take care not to be too hard on Raymond, as if I thought myself better than he. But I feel as if it would be a fight now, and as if I should never be able to forget the troubles quite. I must set myself to be patient and cure my own faults, and be as happy as I can, that mother may see we are all trying to help her, and that we like to help her. How far, far worse it is for her than for any of us."

Thoughts like these were in Salome's heart as she lay down to sleep that night, and there was a shining as it were from the "delight in the Lord" upon her young, sweet face, as her mother, weary, yet sleepless, took her candle and went to look at her children as of old in the spacious nurseries of Maplestone. The little boys lay in the profoundest slumber, and the mother's heart yearned over them with unspeakable tenderness. But as she left them and gently opened the door of the girls' room, and stood by the bed where the sisters slept, she felt as if the story of the last few weeks had left its trace on Salome's face. The expression was changed, and though bright and sweet, it was the face of the woman rather than of the child. Salome had entered the school where God takes the text and preaches patience.

CHAPTER IX
"SETTLING DOWN."

IT is wonderful how the wave of a great storm carries us unresisting on its crest. We are, as it were, washed ashore; stunned and bewildered for a time, but soon to find the necessity of struggling onward – to do our best. Stripped of all we have held dear, – however desolate, however bare, life must be faced and the burden must be borne.

Children like the Wiltons have youth and the freshness of spring-time to help them on; while women of Mrs. Wilton's age – in the autumn of her days – naturally clinging for support to others, are more likely to collapse, like the ivy when the prop on which it depended is removed.

A man so widely respected as Mr. Wilton had been was not without friends, and several of them came forward with valuable and substantial help. Ready money to meet the current expenses which were absolutely necessary was kindly offered; and Mr. De Brette wrote to Mrs. Wilton, after the sale at Maplestone, to say he had bought in one or two pictures, and some other little things, which she was to accept as a small token of gratitude for services rendered to him by Mr. Wilton in past years. The arrival of these things in the van from the railway caused great excitement amongst the children, while the sight of them seemed to open afresh the flood-gates of poor Mrs. Wilton's grief. They were chosen with that sympathetic feeling of what she would care for most, which doubled the value of the gifts. Her own and her husband's portrait, painted by a good artist at the time of her marriage; a beautiful copy of the San Sisto Madonna; her own devonport; a certain chair which she had always used; and the table and chair from Mr. Wilton's library; and a good many little odds and ends of familiar things. And a box containing enough plate for everyday use was brought by Mr. De Brette himself, and placed in Mrs. Wilton's hands.

The settling in of all these things was an interest and delight to the children, and Mrs. Wilton was glad for their sakes that it was so.

Mrs. Pryor could not be brought to admire anything. She was incredulous as to the identity of the fair, graceful, smiling girl in the picture with the pale, careworn widow lady who sat beneath it. As to the poor gentleman, he might have been good-looking, but he was not fit to hold a candle to the doctor. But she had been used to such beautiful pictures at her dear departed lady's house – nothing could look much after them. Her bitterest shafts were hurled against the devonport, to make room for which an old mahogany what-not had to be removed: "A clumsy thing, and yet all gim-cracky, with a lot of little drawers – no use to anybody. She hoped she was not expected to dust all them things, for she just honestly said she wasn't going to do it."

But at last all was settled down, and except for the standing grievance of Puck, peace was proclaimed. Puck had made a pretence of living at the shop, but this stratagem did not avail for long. He was continually rushing to and fro, and was oftener at Elm Cottage than at the baker's shop; but Mrs. Pryor thought more highly of him than at first, for he waged war against a large cat that Mrs. Pryor had convicted of killing a canary, and still occasionally dared to haunt the back premises to look for another victim! Puck's growls succeeded so well, that Mr. Tom contented himself with sitting on the low red-brick wall, with his back raised to a level with his head, and his tail swelled to the size of the boa Mrs. Pryor wore round her throat in winter.

Her son Frank, who left most of the conversation necessary to his wife, was heard to say, at the end of the first week of the Wiltons taking up their abode at Elm Cottage: "We live and learn. If any one had told me my mother would take children as lodgers, and those children with a little dog at their heels, I shouldn't have believed them. We shall see her with a monkey from the 'Zoo' next."

Lady Monroe was not slow to fulfil her promise of calling on her old friend, bringing Eva with her; and it so happened that Mrs. Loftus Wilton, Louise, and Kate arrived on the same day. The little square drawing-room was filled; and Hans and Carl, rushing up to the room where Salome sat with her old music portfolio and her manuscript, shouted out, – "Two carriages full of people are come to see mother. Go down, Salome."

"Ada is there," Salome said, telling the children not to talk so loud; and then she looked ruefully at her inked forefinger, and wished she had mended the crape on the skirt of her dress before she put it on that day.

"Miss Wilton – Miss Salome – my dear, do make haste; your mamma will be so pressed and worried. There's Mrs. Doctor Wilton, with a train of black silk long enough to reach from here to the gate almost. Do make haste, Miss Salome, my dear. If there isn't another knock! Dear me, I can't abide answering the door; it has never been my business." And Stevens bustled down, exhorting the children not to peep through the banisters, and signing to Salome to follow her, she disappeared to answer the door to Mr. and Mrs. Atherton. But happily Mrs. Atherton had seen the two carriages at the gate, and was just giving the cards to Stevens, saying she would come again, when Salome appeared.

"We hear your mother has visitors," said Mrs. Atherton, in one of those voices which ring with the clear sweetness of truth, – the voice which is so different from the "put on" or company voice, or the voice which regulates itself to the supposed requirements of the moment. "We will come again very soon. I hope your mother is pretty well?"

"Yes, thank you," said Salome. "Won't you come in?"

"No; we are near neighbours at the vicarage," Mr. Atherton said. "We were your predecessors here," he said with a smile; "so we know the rooms will not hold large levees. I want to know your brothers. I saw two elder ones at church with you on Sunday. If they care for cricket, we have a game going on every Saturday in the field above the church."

"Reginald is at the college now; but I will tell him, thank you."

And then, as Mr. and Mrs. Atherton said good-bye, Lady Monroe and her daughter came into the little passage with Ada.

"We shall only tire your mamma if we stay now," she said; "but I have made her promise to drive with me to-morrow if it is fine, and either you or your sister must come also."

Salome and Ada, after a few more words, went together to the little sitting-room, where their mother sat, flushed and ill at ease, with their Aunt Anna, Louise, and Kate.

Kate sprang up when Salome came in and kissed her affectionately; while her mother said, "How do you do? – is this Salome?" and then, with a very light salute on her cheek, went on in the same even current of talk which the entrance of the girls had checked, not stopped.

"I want to see your little brothers," Kate said to Salome; "may I come with you and find them? Louise can talk with Ada; they are certain to get on."

Salome glanced at her mother, who looked so worn-out and tired and sad, and wondered at her Aunt Anna's conversation, which all concerned herself and her friends, and her own interests and amusements. But it seemed hopeless to help her, and she left the room with Kate.

Hans and Carl were painting pictures in the dining-room, and Kate had soon finished with them.

"Why, they are twins, aren't they? Have you got to teach them? What a bore for you! Now show me your room. It is not so bad, really; and I like the look of your sitting-room – it has a home-like air. What a smoke! Where does that come from?" she said, looking from the window of Salome's room.

"That is the bake-house," Salome said. "Mr. Pryor is our landlady's son; and the garden is separated from ours by that wall."

"I smell the bread," Kate exclaimed; "it's rather nice. And what is this?" she said, pausing on the heap of foolscap paper lying on the chest of drawers. "Essays – papers? 'Chapter I.' Why, I believe it is a story. Have you actually written a story? You look like an authoress. Digby says he never saw a cleverer face than yours, and he quite admires you. Read me a bit of the story; tell me the names of the people."

Poor Salome was suffering all this time the pangs which sensitive natures like hers can only understand. To have her secret hopes and fears thus ruthlessly dragged to light – to see her sheets, which, alas for her wonted carelessness, ought to have been hidden in one of those deep drawers, fingered by strange hands, was misery to her. She tried to take them from her cousin's grasp; but she held them fast, and began to read: —

"'Under the shadow of a spreading cedar-tree, two little – '"

Salome was now really angry; her eyes flashed, and she said, "Give me the manuscript directly, Kate. It is excessively rude; I hate it; I – "

"Oh, I am only in fun. I don't see anything so wonderful in writing a story. Hundreds of people write now-a-days. I hope you will get fifty pounds for 'Under the shadow of the cedars.' Dear me, I did not think you could 'flare up' like that."

"I hope you won't tell any one about what you have seen," said poor Salome in a trembling voice. "I hope – "

"Not I. I forget everything directly. 'In at one ear, out at another,' Digby says. But I want to be great friends with you, so do not let us quarrel about that stupid old story."

It was a relief to Salome to hear Stevens's voice calling her, and announcing that "Mrs. Loftus" was going, and Miss Wilton was to come down directly.

It seemed delightful to be left alone; and Mrs. Wilton lay back in her chair, and in the gathering twilight Salome saw she was quietly crying. She stole up to her, and, sitting down on a low stool, said, "You were glad to see Lady Monroe, mother. She is so kind."

"Yes, very kind; and I must make an effort to drive with her to-morrow, as she has asked me; but – "

"Oh yes, dear mother, you must go. Aunt Anna was rather too much for you. It was a pity that they all came at once, as you have seen no one for so long."

"Yes; and it brought the past back. But I will try to be patient."

"You are patient, mother dear," Salome said.

Ada now drew near the fire, and began: "I like Louise very much. She wants me to go to Edinburgh Crescent to-morrow to play tennis in the square. May I, mother? I can walk as far as the turn to the college with Reginald."

"I think we ought to begin with the children's lessons," Salome said, "and settle down. They are getting very unruly, just because they miss Miss Barnes's hand."

"It is no use beginning in the middle of a week," Ada said; "and I suppose I may have some lessons too – music lessons I do want."

"We shall see our way in time, darling," Mrs. Wilton said; "and I must try to manage about a piano. But I think Salome is right about the children; they ought to begin regular lessons. Mrs. Pryor complains of their running so much up and down stairs. She says it wears out the carpet."

"Mrs. Pryor is a most disagreeable woman," said Ada. "I certainly do agree with Raymond that we ought to remove."

"Nonsense, Ada. Think of all the trouble over again, and all our things just settled in and unpacked."

She was interrupted by Reginald rushing in from the college. He was full of life and spirit; and had found Rugby boys were thought something of, as the head-master himself and several of the assistant-masters were Rugbians. He had taken an excellent place; and, altogether, the world seemed to smile on Reginald.

Raymond followed his brother in about ten minutes, and threw himself into a chair and yawned.

"Are you very tired, dear?" asked his mother.

"I should think I was. The air of that hole in Harstone is enough to choke a fellow. I don't believe you have any idea of the stuffy air; and such dirty clerks at the desks – a set of cads!"

"One isn't a cad anyhow," said Reginald. "His brother is in my form. His name is Percival."

"Oh, I know; his coat out at elbows, and his hair like a mop. I should say he was the greatest cad of the lot."

"That I know he isn't," said Reginald hotly. "He may be shabby – for his people are poor, and there are heaps of children – but I am certain Ralph Percival's brother isn't a cad."

"You needn't put yourself out about it," Raymond said. "Not one of the clerks is anything to me. I don't speak to them."

"I daresay as you get higher in the office you will find the class better. Mr. Warde's nephew and his two sons are in it. Uncle Loftus told me so."

"Any letters for me by the second post?" asked Raymond.

"No, dear. Whom did you expect to hear from?"

"Oh! – a friend – St. Clair. He may not have posted the letter in time." Another yawn, and then Raymond stretched his legs out before the fire, first giving it a vigorous stir with the tongs, which came more handy than the poker, and drew a newspaper out of his pocket.

"We have had a number of visitors to-day," Ada said. "Lady Monroe, for one, with her daughter. Such a pretty, nice girl!"

"Who is Lady Monroe? and how did she find you out?"

Ada explained; and Raymond seemed interested.

"I hope you will keep up with them," he said; "and mind mother drives with Lady Monroe to-morrow."

"They are going to the south of France for the winter very soon; that is the worst of it," Ada said. "Lady Monroe went to school with mamma, and seems so fond of her."