"I think I could give up that readily, if I could be sure you and Dulce were not miserable," sighed Phillis.

"That is what I say," returned Nan. "Don't you see how simple and beautiful that is? Thinking of each other gives us strength to go through with it all. This evening trying to cheer you up has done me good. I do not feel the least afraid of people to-night. Looking at that sea and sky makes one feel the littleness and unreality of all these worries. What does it matter--what does anything matter--if we only do our duty and love each other, and submit to the Divine will?"

finished Nan, reverently, who seldom spoke of her deeper feelings, even to Phillis.

"Nan, you are a saint," returned Phillis, enthusiastically. The worried look had left her eyes; they looked clear and bright as usual.

"Oh, what a heathen I have been to-day! but, as Dulce is so fond of saying, 'I am going to be good. I will read the evening Psalms to you, in token of my resolution, if you like. But wait: is there not some one coming across the sand! How eerie it looks, such a tall black figure standing between the earth and sky!"

Phillis had good sight, or she would hardly have distinguished the figure, which was now motionless, at such a distance. In another moment she even announced that its draperies showed it to be a woman, before she opened her book and commenced reading.

There is something very striking in a lonely central figure in a scene, the outline cuts so sharply against the horizon. Nan's eyes seemed riveted on it as she listened to Phillis's voice; it seemed to her as immovable as a Sphinx, its rigidity lending a sort of barrenness and forlornness to the landscape, a black edition of human nature set under a violet and opal sky.

She almost started when it moved, at last, with a steady bearing, as it seemed, towards them; then curiosity quickened into interest, and she touched Phillis's arm, whispering breathlessly,--

"The Sphinx moves! Look--is not that Mrs. Cheyne, the lady who lives at the White House near us, who always looks so lonely and unhappy?"

"Hush!" returned Phillis, "she will hear you;" and then Mrs. Cheyne approached with the same swift even walk. She looked at them for a moment, as she pa.s.sed, with a sort of well-bred surprise in her air, as though she marvelled to see them there; her black dress touched Laddie, and he caught at it with an impotent bark.

The sisters must have made a pretty picture, as they sat almost clinging together on the stone: one of Nan's little white hands rested on Laddie's head, the other lay on Phillis's lap. Phillis glanced up from her book, keen-eyed and alert in a moment; she turned her head to look at the stranger that had excited her interest, and then rose to her feet with a little cry of dismay.

"Oh, Nan, I am afraid she has hurt herself! She gave such a slip just now. I wonder what has happened? She is leaning against the breakwater, too. Shall we go and ask her if she feels ill or anything?"

"You may go," was Nan's answer. Nevertheless, she followed Phillis.

Mrs. Cheyne looked up at them a little sharply as they came towards her. Her face was gray and contracted with pain.

"I have slipped on a wet stone, and my foot has somehow turned on me,"

she said, quickly, as Phillis ran up to her. "It was very stupid. I cannot think how it happened; but I have certainly sprained my ankle.

It gives me such pain. I cannot move."

"Oh, dear, I am so sorry!" returned Phillis, good-naturedly; and, in the most natural manner, she knelt down on the beach, and took the injured foot in her hands. "Yes, I can feel it is swelling dreadfully: we must try and get your boot off before the attempt gets too painful." And she commenced unfastening it with deft fingers.

"How am I to walk without my boot?" observed Mrs. Cheyne, a little drily, as she looked down on the girl; but here Nan interposed in her brisk sensible way:

"You must not walk; you must not think of such a thing. We will wet our handkerchiefs in the salt water, and bind up your ankle as well as we can; and then one of us will walk over to the White House for a.s.sistance. Your servants could easily obtain a wheeled chair."

"You knew I lived at the White House, then?" returned Mrs. Cheyne, arching her eyebrows in some surprise; but she offered no opposition to Nan's plan. The removal of the boot had brought on a sensation of faintness, and she sat perfectly still and quiet while the girls swathed the foot in wet bandages.

"It is a little easier now," she observed, gratefully. "How neatly you have done it! you must be used to such work. I am really very much obliged to you both for your kindly help; and now I am afraid I must trouble you further if I am ever to reach home."

"I will go at once," returned Nan, cheerfully; "but I will leave my sister for fear you should feel faint again: besides, it is so lonely."

"Oh, I am used to loneliness!" was the reply, as a bitter expression crossed her face.

Phillis, who was still holding the sprained foot in her lap, looked up in her eager way.

"I think one gets used to everything; that is a merciful dispensation; but all the same I hope you will not send me away. I dearly like to be useful; and at present my object is to prevent your foot coming into contact with these stones. Are you really in less pain now?--you look dreadfully pale."

"Oh, that is nothing!" she returned, with a smile so sudden and sweet that it quite startled Phillis, for it lit up her face like sunshine; but almost before she caught it, it was gone. "How good you are to me!

and yet I am a perfect stranger!" and then she added, as though with an afterthought, "But I saw you in church this morning."

Phillis nodded: the question certainly required no answer.

"If I knew you better, I should ask why your eyes questioned me so closely this morning. Do you know, Miss--Miss----" And here she hesitated and smiled, waiting for Phillis to fill up the blank.

"My name is Challoner,--Phillis Challoner," replied Phillis, coloring a little; and then she added, frankly, "I am afraid you thought me rude, and that I stared at you, but my thoughts were all topsy-turvy this morning and refused to be kept in order. One feels curious, somehow, about the people among whom one has come to live."

"Have you come to live here?" asked Mrs. Cheyne, eagerly, and a gleam of pleasure shot into her dark eyes,--"you, and your mother and sisters?"

"Yes; we have just come to the Friary,--a little cottage standing on the Braidwood Road."

Her manner became a little constrained and reserved as she said this: the charming frankness disappeared.

"The Friary!" echoed Mrs. Cheyne; and then she paused for a moment, and her eyes rested searchingly on Phillis. "That shabby little cottage!" was the thought that filled up the outline of her words; but, though she felt inward surprise and a momentary disappointment, there was no change in the graciousness of her manner. Never before had she so thawed to any one: but the girl's sweet ministry had won her heart. "Then you will be near me,--just at my gates? We shall be close neighbors. I hope you will come and see me, Miss Challoner."

Poor Phillis! the blood suddenly rushed over her face at this. How was she to answer without appearing ungracious?--and yet at this moment how could she explain?

"If you please, we are dressmakers." Oh, no! such words as these would not get themselves said. It was too abrupt, too sudden, altogether: she was not prepared for such a thing. Oh, why had she not gone to the White House instead of Nan? Her officiousness had brought this on her.

She could not put the poor foot off her lap and get up and walk away to cool her hot cheeks.

"Thank you; you are very good," she stammered, feeling herself an utter fool: she,--Phillis,--the clever one!

Mrs. Cheyne seemed rather taken aback by the girl's sudden reserve and embarra.s.sment.

"I suppose you think I should call first, and thank you for your kindness," she returned, quickly; "but I was afraid my foot would keep me too long a prisoner. And, as we are to be neighbors, I hardly thought it necessary to stand on ceremony; but if you would rather wait----"

"Oh, no," replied Phillis, in despair; "we will not trouble you to do that! Nan and I will call and ask after your foot, and then we will explain. There is a little difficulty: you might not care to be friends with us if you knew," went on Phillis with burning cheeks; "but we will call and explain. Oh, yes, Nan and I will call!"

"Do; I shall expect you," returned Mrs. Cheyne, half amused and half mystified at the girl's obvious confusion. What did the child mean?

They were gentle-people,--one could see that at a glance. They were in reduced circ.u.mstances: they had come down to Hadleigh to retrench.

Well, what did that matter? People's wealth or poverty never affected her; she would think none the less well of them for that; she would call at the Friary and entertain them at the White House with as much pleasure as though they lived in a palace. The little mystery piqued her, and yet excited her interest. It was long since she had interested herself so much in anything. To Miss Middleton she had always been cold and uncertain. Mr. Drummond she treated with a mixture of satire and haughtiness that aroused his ire. Phillis's frankness and simplicity had won her for a moment to her earlier and better self: she conceived an instantaneous liking for the girl who looked at her with such grave kindly glances. "I shall expect you, remember," she repeated, as Nan at that moment appeared in sight.

"Oh, yes, Nan and I will come," returned Phillis, slowly, and almost solemnly; but an instant afterwards a flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt played round her mouth. It was painful, of course; but, still, how droll it was!

"How long you have been, Nan!" she exclaimed, a little unreasonably, as Nan ran towards them, flushed and breathless from her haste.

"It has not been long to me," observed Mrs. Cheyne, pointedly. She talked more to Nan than to Phillis after this, until the servants appeared with the wheeled chair; but nevertheless her last words were for Phillis. "Remember your promise," was all she said, as she held out her hand to the girl; and Phillis tried to smile in answer, though it was rather a failure after all.

CHAPTER XVIII.

DOROTHY BRINGS IN THE BEST CHINA.

"What a fool I made of myself yesterday! but to-day Richard is himself again," said Phillis, as she gathered up another muslin curtain in her arms ready to hand to Nan, who was mounted on some steps. It was only Monday afternoon, but the girls had done wonders: the work-room, as they called it, was nearly finished. The great carved wardrobe and mahogany table had been polished by Dorothy's strong hands. Mrs.

Challoner's easy-chair and little work-table at one window looked quite inviting; the sewing-machine and Nan's rosewood davenport were in their places. A hanging cupboard of old china, and a few well-bound books, gave a little coloring and finish, and one or two fine old prints that had hung in the dining-room at Glen Cottage had been disposed with advantage on the newly-papered walls. An inlaid clock ticked on the mantelpiece, and some handsome ruby-colored vases stood on either side of it. Nan was quite right when she had glanced round her a few minutes ago in a satisfied manner and said no one need be ashamed of living in such a room.