'Nay, nay, my la.s.s, you are misunderstanding my meaning.'

'No, father, begging your pardon, I am not; and, as I have often told Miss Ross, I never feel worthy to be the offspring of such parents. Miss Ross'--turning to her--'my father is a little low this evening, and I have put him out of his usual way. I will leave you to talk to him a bit while I open a bottle of our white currant wine to hearten you for your walk home.'

'Poor Prissy!' observed Mr. O'Brien, shaking his gray head; 'she is a worrier, as Susan used to say; but her bark is worse than her bite. She is a good soul, and I would not change her for one of the lively sort.'

'She is really very sorry for having pained you.'

'Sorry! Bless my heart, you don't know Prissy. She will be that contrite for showing the sharp edge of her tongue that there will be nothing she will not do to make amends. It will be, "Father, what will you have?"

and, "Father, do you think you could enjoy that?" from morning to night, as though I were a new-born babe to be tended. No, no, you are not up to Prissy. She has not got her mother's sweet, charitable nature--my Susan, bless her dear heart! always thought the best of everybody--but Prissy is a good girl, for all that.'

Audrey smiled as she drew down a tendril of jasmine to inhale its honeyed fragrance. There was not much girlhood left in the faded, sorrowful woman who had left them just now; but in the father's fond eyes Priscilla would always be a girl. Then, in her serious, sweet way, she began to talk to her old friend--drawing him out, and listening to those vague, far old memories that seemed dearer to him day by day, until he had grown soothed and comforted.

Mrs. Baxter joined them by and by, but she did not interrupt them, except to press another slice of the home-made cake on Audrey.

When she rose to go, father and daughter accompanied her to the gate, and wished her a hearty G.o.d-speed.

'Good-bye, my dear old friends,' she returned cheerfully; 'in seven weeks I shall hope to see you again. Take care of Mr. O'Brien, Mrs.

Baxter.'

'Oh yes, Miss Ross, I will take care of him. It is not as if one could have a second parent. Father, put on your hat; the dews are falling, and you are not as young as you used to be.'

CHAPTER XVII

AMONG THE BRAIL LANES

'Discreet reserve in a woman, like the distances kept by royal personages, contributes to maintain the proper reverence. Most of our pleasures are prized in proportion to the difficulty with which they are obtained.'--FORDYCE.

'A very slight spark will kindle a flame when everything lies open to catch it.'--SIR WALTER SCOTT.

While Audrey was talking to her old friend in the jasmine-covered porch of Vineyard Cottage, Cyril Blake was sitting on a stile in one of the Brail lanes, trying to solve a difficult problem.

A domestic matter had come under his notice that very afternoon--a very ordinary occurrence, if he had only known it--and had caused him much vexation. Not being more clear-sighted than other young men of his age, it is extremely doubtful whether he would have noticed it at all but for a few words spoken by Miss Ross.

A week or two ago he had observed casually to her, as they were standing together on the cricket-field, that he thought Mollie was growing very fast.

'I suppose she is strong,' he added doubtfully; 'but she has certainly seemed very tired lately'--this reflection being forced upon him by a remark of Kester's, 'that Mollie had such a lot of headaches now.'

'I am afraid Mollie is very often tired,' returned Audrey rather gravely.

Now, there was nothing in this simple remark to arrest Cyril's attention; but somehow Audrey's tone implied a good deal, and, though no further word pa.s.sed between them on the subject, Cyril was left with an uncomfortable impression, though it was too vague and intangible to be understood by him.

But on this afternoon in question he was rummaging among his possessions for some studs he had mislaid, and, thinking Mollie would help him in the search, he went in quest of her. He found her in the close little kitchen, ironing a pile of handkerchiefs and starched things. The place felt like an oven that hot summer's afternoon, and poor Mollie's face was sadly flushed; she looked worried and overheated, and it was then that Audrey's words flashed on him with a sort of electrical illumination--'I am afraid Mollie is very often tired.'

'Did you want me, Cyril?' asked Mollie, a little wearily, as she tested another iron and then put it down again.

'Yes--no, it does not matter,' rather absently. 'Mollie, is there no one else who can do that work? This place is like a brick-kiln.'

'Well, there is only Biddy, you know, and she does get up the things so badly. You remember how you grumbled about your handkerchiefs--and no wonder, for they looked as though they were rough-dried--and so mamma said I had better do them for the future, because I could iron so nicely;' and Mollie gave a look of pride at the snowy pile beside her.

But Cyril was not so easily mollified.

'I would rather have my things badly done than see you slave in this fashion,' he returned, with unwonted irritation. 'Mollie, does Miss Ross know you do this sort of thing?'

'Oh yes, of course; I always tell Miss Ross everything.'

'She must have a pretty good opinion of us by this time,' in a vexed voice.

'She knows it cannot be helped,' returned Mollie simply. 'She did say one day that she was very sorry for me, when she saw how tired I was--oh, she was so dear and sweet that day!--and once when I told her how my back ached, and I could not help crying a little, she said she would like to speak to mamma about me, but that she knew it was no business of hers.'

'Anyhow, I shall make it my business,' returned her brother decidedly; and he marched off to the drawing-room.

Mrs. Blake was sitting in the window, marking some of Kester's new socks. She looked very cool and comfortable; the room was sweet with the scent of flowers. The contrast between her and Mollie struck Cyril very forcibly, and when his mother looked up at him with one of her caressing smiles, he did not respond with his customary brightness.

'Mother, I want to talk to you about Mollie,' he said with unusual abruptness, as he threw himself down in a cushioned chair opposite his mother's little work-table.

'Yes, dear,' she returned tranquilly, pausing to admire an exquisitely-worked initial.

'I found her in the kitchen just now, with her face the colour of a peony, ironing out a lot of things. The place was like a furnace; I could not have stood it for a quarter of an hour. Surely, mother, there is no need for Mollie to slave in this way.'

'Do you call ironing a few fine things slavery?' replied Mrs. Blake in an amused voice. 'In our great-grandmothers' time girls did more than that. Mollie is not overworked, I a.s.sure you.'

'Then what makes her look so done up?'

'Oh, that is nothing! She is growing so fast, you know; and growing girls have that look. Mollie is as strong as a horse, really--at her age I was far weaker. Mollie is a good child, but she is a little given to grumbling and making a fuss about trifles.'

'Oh, I don't agree with you there.'

'That is because you do not understand girls,' returned his mother composedly. 'But you may safely leave Mollie to me. Am I likely to overwork one of my own children? Should I be worthy of the name of mother?'

'Yes, but you might not see your way to help it--that is, as long as you persist in your ridiculous resolution of keeping Biddy. Why, she ought to have been shelved long ago.'

'That is my affair, Cyril,' replied Mrs. Blake with unusual dignity.

She hardly ever spoke to him in that voice, and he looked up a little surprised.

'I hope we are not going to quarrel, motherling,' his pet name for her.

'Do we ever quarrel, darling? No, you only vex me when you talk of sending poor old Biddy away. I could not do it, Cyril. I am not naturally a hard-hearted woman, and it would be sheer cruelty to turn off my old nurse. Where would she go, poor old thing? And you know yourself we cannot afford another servant.'

'Not at present, certainly.'

'Perhaps we may in the future--who knows?' returned Mrs. Blake with restored gaiety; 'and until then a little work will not hurt Mollie. Do you know, when I was a girl, my mother always insisted on my sister Dora and myself making our own beds--she said it would straighten our backs--and she liked us to run up and down stairs and make ourselves useful, because the exercise would improve our carriage and complexion.

Dora had such a pretty figure, poor girl! and I think mine is pa.s.sable,'

drawing herself up to give effect to her words.