"Hush, father! you are putting Mattie out," returned Elizabeth, mildly. It was one of her idiosyncrasies to call people as soon as possible by their Christian names, though no one but her father and brother ever called her Elizabeth. Perhaps her gray hair, and a certain soft dignity that belonged to her, forbade such freedom. "Dear father, we must let Mattie speak." But even Elizabeth let her work lie unheeded in her lap in the engrossing interest of the subject.

"I do not mean they have been dressmakers all this time, but this is their plan for the future. Miss Challoner said they were not clever enough for governesses, and that they did not want to separate. But that is what they mean to do,--to make dresses for people who are not half so good as themselves."

"Preposterous! absurd!" groaned the colonel. "Where is their mother? What can the old lady be thinking about?" Mrs. Challoner was not an old lady by any means; but then the choleric colonel had never seen her, or he would not have applied that term to the aristocratic-looking gentlewoman whom Mattie had admired in Miss Milner's shop.

"I had a good look round the room afterwards," went on Mattie, letting this pa.s.s. "They had got a great carved wardrobe,--I thought that funny in a sitting-room; but of course it was for the dresses,"--another groan from the colonel,--"and there was a sewing-machine, and a rosewood davenport for accounts, and a chiffonnier of course for the pieces. Oh, they mean business; and I should not be surprised if they understand their work well," went on Mattie, warming up to her subject and thinking of the breadths of green silk that reposed so snugly between silver paper in her drawers at the vicarage,--the first silk dress she had ever owned, for the Drummond finances did not allow of such luxuries,--the new color, too; such a soft, invisible, shadowy green, like an autumn leaf shrivelled by the sun's richness. "Oh, if they should spoil it!"

thought Mattie, with a sigh, as the magnitude of her intended sacrifice weighed heavily upon her mind.

"It is sheer girlish nonsense,--I might say foolery; and the mother must be a perfect idiot!" began the colonel, angrily.

He was an excitable man; and his wrath at the intelligence was really very great. He had taken a fancy to the new-comers, and was prepared to welcome them heartily in his genial way; but now his old-fashioned prejudices were grievously wounded. It was against his nice code of honor that women should do anything out of the usual beaten groove: innovations that would make them conspicuous were heinous sins in his eyes.

"Come, Mattie, you and I will have a chat about this by ourselves,"

observed Elizabeth, cheerfully, as she noticed her father's vexation.

He would soon cool down if left to himself: she knew that well.

"Suppose we go down to Miss Milner, and hear what she has to say: you may depend upon it that it was this that made her so reserved with us the other day."

"Oh, do you think so?" exclaimed Mattie; but she was charmed at the idea of fresh gossip. And then they set off together.

Miss Milner seemed a little surprised to see them so soon, for Mattie had already paid her a visit that day; but at Miss Middleton's first words a look of annoyance pa.s.sed over her good-natured face.

"Dear, dear! to think of that leaking out already," she said, in a vexed voice; "and I have not spoken to a soul, because the young ladies asked me to keep their secret a few days longer. 'You must give us till next Monday,' one of them said this very morning: 'by that time we shall be in order, and then we can set to work.'"

"It was Miss Challoner who told me herself," observed Mattie, in a deprecating manner. "My brother and I called this afternoon: you see, being the clergyman, and such close neighbors, he thought we might be of some use to the poor things."

"Poor things indeed!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Miss Milner. "I cannot tell you how bad I felt," she went on, her little gray curls bobbing over her high cheek-bones with every word, "when that dear young lady put down her head there"--pointing to a spot about as big as a half-crown on the wooden counter--"and cried like a baby. 'Oh, how silly I am!' she said, sobbing-like; 'and what would my sisters say to me? But you are so kind, Miss Milner; and it does seem all so strange and horrid.' I made up my mind, then and there," finished the good woman, solemnly, "that I would help them to the best of my powers. I have got their bits of advertis.e.m.e.nts to put about the shop; and there's my new black silk dress, that has laid by since Christmas, because I knew Miss Slasher would spoil it; not but what they may ruin it finely for me; but I mean to shut my eyes and take the risk," with a little smile of satisfaction over her own magnanimity.

Elizabeth stretched out her hand across the counter.

"Miss Milner, you are a good creature," she said, softly. "I honor you for this. If people always helped each other and thought so little of a sacrifice, the world would be a happier place." And then, without waiting for a reply from the gratified shopwoman, she went out of the library with a thoughtful brow.

"Miss Milner has read me a lesson," she said, by and by, when Mattie had marvelled at her silence a little. "Conventionality makes cowards of the best of us. I am not particularly worldly-minded," she went on, with a faint smile, "but all the same I must plead guilty to feeling a little shocked myself at your news; but when I have thought a little more about it, I dare say I shall see things by a truer light, and be as ready to admire these girls as I am now to wonder at them." And after this she bade Mattie a kindly good-bye.

Meanwhile, Phillis was bracing herself to undergo another ordeal. Mr.

Drummond and his sister had only just left the cottage when a footman from the White House brought a note for her. It was from Mrs. Cheyne, and was worded in a most friendly manner.

She thanked the sisters gracefully for their timely help on the previous evening, and, though making light of her accident, owned that it would keep her a prisoner to her sofa for a few days; and then she begged them to waive ceremony and come to her for an hour or two that evening.

"I will not ask you to dinner, because that will perhaps inconvenience you, as you must be tired or busy," she wrote; "but if one or both of you would just put on your hats and walk up in the cool of the evening to keep Miss Mewlstone and myself company, it would be a real boon to us both." And then she signed herself "Magdalene Cheyne."

Phillis wore a perplexed look on her face as she took the note to Nan, who was still in the linen-closet.

"Very kind; very friendly," commented Nan, when she had finished reading it; "but I could not possibly go, Phil. As soon as I have done this I have promised to sit with mother. She has been alone all day.

You could easily send an excuse, for Mrs. Cheyne must know we are busy."

"I don't feel as though an excuse will help us here," returned Phillis, slowly. "When an unpleasant thing has to be done, it is as well to get it over: thinking about it only hinders one's sleep."

"But you will surely not go alone!" demanded Nan, in astonishment.

"You are so tired, Phil: you have been working hard all day. Give it up, dear, and sit and rest in the garden a little."

"Oh, no," returned Phillis, disconsolately. "I value my night's rest too much to imperil it so lightly: besides, I owe it to myself for a penance for being such a coward this afternoon." And then, without waiting for any further dissuasion, she carried off the letter and wrote a very civil but vague reply, promising to walk up in the evening and inquire after the invalid; and then she dismissed the messenger, and went up to her room with a heavy heart.

Dulce came to help her, like a dutiful sister, and chattered on without intermission.

"I suppose you will put on your best dress?" she asked, as she dived down into the recesses of a big box.

Phillis, who was sitting wearily on the edge of her bed, roused up at this:

"My best blue silk and cashmere, that we wore last at Fitzroy Lodge?

Dulce, how can you be so absurd! Anything will do,--the gray stuff, or the old foulard. No, stop; I forgot: the gray dress is better made and newer in cut. We must think of that. Oh, what a worry it is going out when one is tired to death!" she continued, with unusual irritation.

Dulce respected her sister's mood, and held her peace, though she knew the gray dress was the least becoming to Phillis, who was pale, and wanted a little color to give her brightness.

"There, now, you look quite nice," she said, in a patronizing voice, as Phillis put on her hat and took her gloves. Phillis nodded her thanks rather sadly, and then bethought herself and came back and kissed her.

"Thank you, dear Dulce; I am not nearly so tired now; but it is getting late, and I must run off." And so she did until she had turned the corner, and then, in spite of herself, her steps became slower and more lagging.

CHAPTER XX.

"YOU ARE ROMANTIC."

Human nature is p.r.o.ne to argument; a person will often in the course of a few moments bring himself or herself to the bar of conscience, and accuse, excuse, and sum up the case in the twinkling of an eye.

On arriving at the lodge-gates Phillis began to take herself to task.

Conscience, that "makes cowards of us all," began its small inner remonstrance; then followed self-flagellation and much belaboring of herself with many remorseful terms. She was a pitiful thing compared to Nan; she was conventional; there were no limits to her pride. Where were that freedom and n.o.bility of soul which she once fancied would sweep over worldly prejudices, and carry her into purer air? She was still choking in the fogs of mere earthly exhalations; no wonder Nan was a little disappointed in her, though she was far too kind to say so. Well, she was disappointed in herself.

By this time she had reached the hall door; and now she began to hold up her head more boldly, and to look about her; when a very solemn-looking butler confronted her, she said to herself, "It will be all the same a hundred years hence, and I am determined this time not to be beaten;" and then she asked for Mrs. Cheyne with something of her old sprightliness, and nothing could exceed the graceful ease of her entrance.

All the Challoners walked well. There was a purity of health about them that made them delight in movement and every bodily exercise,--an elasticity of gait that somehow attracted attention.

No girls danced better than they. And when they had the chance, which was seldom, they could ride splendidly. Their skating was a joy to see, and made one wish that the ice would last forever, that one could watch such light, skimming practice; and as for tennis, no other girl had a chance of being chosen for a partner unless the Challoners good-naturedly held aloof, which ten times out of twelve they were sure to do.

Phillis, who, from her pale complexion, was supposed to possess the least vitality, delighted in exercise for its own sake. "It is a pleasure only to be alive and to know it," was a favorite speech with her on summer mornings, when the shadows were blowing lightly hither and thither, and the birds had so much to say that it took them until evening to finish saying it.

Mrs. Cheyne, who was lying on her couch, watched with admiring eyes the girl's straightforward walk, so alert and business-like, so free from fuss and consciousness, and held out her hand with a more cordial welcome than she was accustomed to show her visitors.

It was a long room; and as the summer dusk was falling, and there was only a shaded lamp beside Mrs. Cheyne, it was full of dim corners.

Nevertheless, Phillis piloted herself without hesitation to the illuminated circle.

"This is good of you, Miss Challoner, to take me at my word. But where is your sister? I wanted to look at her again, for it is long since I have seen any one so pretty. Miss Mewlstone, this is the good Samaritan who bound up my foot so cleverly."

"Ah, just so," returned Miss Mewlstone. And a soft, plump hand touched Phillis's, and then she went on picking up st.i.tches and taking no further notice.

"Nan could not come," observed Phillis. "She had to run down to Beach House to report progress to mother. We hope she is coming home to-morrow. But, as you were so kind as to write, I thought I would just call and inquire about your foot. And then it would be easier to explain things than to write about it."