"And _now_, Maria, I want to know what is the meaning of all this," said the Doctor.

It was late that night, very late. Polly was in bed, and Helen lay in her little white bed also close to Polly's side, so close that the sisters could hold each other's hands. They lay asleep now, breathing peacefully, and the Doctor, being satisfied that no serious mischief had happened to any of his family, meant to have it out with his sister-in-law.

Mrs. Cameron was a very brave woman, or at least she considered herself so; it was perfectly natural that people should fear her, she did not object to a little wholesome awe on the parts of those who looked up to her and depended on her words of wisdom. To be afraid on her own part was certainly not her custom, and yet that evening, as she sat alone in the deserted old drawing-room, and listened to the wind as it rose fitfully and moaned through the belt of fir-trees that sheltered the lawn; as she sat there, pretending to knit, but listening all the time for footsteps which did not come, she did own to a feeling which she would not describe as fear, but which certainly kept her from going to bed, and made her feel somewhat uncomfortable.

It was about eleven o'clock that night when Dr. Maybright entered the drawing-room. He was a tall man with a slight stoop, and his eyes looked somewhat short-sighted. To-night, however, he walked in quickly, holding himself erect. His eyes, too, had lost their peculiar expression of nearness of vision, and Mrs. Cameron knew at once that she was in for a bad time.

"And now, Maria, I want to know what is the meaning of all this," he said, coming up close to her.

She was standing, having gathered up her knitting preparatory to retiring.

"I don't understand you, Andrew," she answered, in a somewhat complaining, but also slightly alarmed voice. "I think it is I who have to ask for an explanation. How is it that I have been left alone this entire evening? I had much to say to you--I came here on purpose, and yet you left me to myself all these hours."

"Sit down, Maria," said the Doctor, more gently. "I can give you as much time as you can desire now, and as you will be leaving in the morning it is as well that we should have our talk out to-night."

Mrs. Cameron's face became now really crimson with anger.

"You can say words like that to me?" she said--"your wife's sister."

"My dear wife's half-sister, and until now my very good friend,"

retorted the Doctor. "But, however well you have meant it, you have sown dissension and unhappiness in the midst of a number of motherless children, and for the present at least, for all parties, I must ask you, Maria, to return to Bath."

Mrs. Cameron sank now plump down into her chair. She was too deeply offended for a moment to speak. Then she said, shortly:

"I will certainly return, but from this moment I wash my hands of you all."

"I hope not," said the Doctor. "I trust another time you will come to me as my welcome and invited guest. You see, Maria"--here his eyes twinkled with that sly humor which characterized him--"it was a mistake--it always is a mistake to take the full reins of government in any house uninvited."

"But, Andrew, you were making such a fool of yourself. After that letter of yours I felt almost hopeless, so for poor Helen's sake I came, at _great_ personal inconvenience. Your home is most dreary, the surroundings appalling in their solitude. No wonder Helen died! Andrew, I thought it but right to do my best for those poor children. I came, the house was in a state of riot, you have not an idea what Polly's conduct was. Disrespectful, insolent, impertinent. I consider her an almost wicked girl."

"Stop," said the Doctor. "We are not going to discuss Polly. She behaved badly, I grant. But I think, Maria, when you locked her up in her room, and forbade Helen to go to her, and treated her without a spark of affection or a vestige of sympathy; when you kept up this line of conduct for four long days, you yourself in G.o.d's sight were not blameless. You at least forgot that you, too, were once fourteen, or perhaps you never were; no, I am sure you never were what that child is with all her faults--n.o.ble."

"That is enough, Andrew, we will, as you say, not discuss Polly further.

I leave by the first train that can take me away in the morning. You are a very much mistaking and ill-judging man; you were never worthy to be Helen's husband, and I bitterly grieve that her children must be brought up by you. For Helen's sake alone, I must now give you one parting piece of advice, it is this: When Miss Grinsted comes, treat her with kindness and consideration. Keep Miss Grinsted in this house at all hazards, and there may be a chance for your family."

"Miss Grinsted!" said the Doctor. "Who, and what do you mean?"

"Andrew, when I introduce you to such a lady I heap coals of fire on your head. Miss Grinsted alone can bring order out of chaos, peace out of strife. In short, when she is established here, I shall feel at rest as far as my dear sister's memory is concerned."

"Miss Grinsted is not going to be established in this house," said the Doctor. "But who is she? I never heard of her before."

"She is the lady-housekeeper and governess whom I have selected for you.

She arrives at mid-day to-morrow."

"From where?"

"How queerly you look at me, Andrew. n.o.body would suppose you were just delivered from a load of household care and confusion. Such a treasure, too, the best of disciplinarians. She is fifty, a little angular, but capital at breaking in. What is the matter, Andrew?"

"What is Miss Grinsted's address?"

"Well, well; really your manners are bearish. She is staying with an invalid sister at Exeter at present."

"Will you oblige me with the street and number of the house?"

"Certainly; but she can scarcely get here before mid-day now. Her trains are all arranged."

"The name of the street and number of the house, if you please, Maria."

"Vere Street, No. 30. But she can't be here before twelve or one to-morrow, Andrew."

"She is never to come here. I shall go into the village the first thing in the morning, and send her a telegram. She is never to come here.

Maria, you made a mistake, you went too far. If you and I are to speak to each other in the future, don't let it occur again. Good-night; I will see that you are called in good time in the morning."

It was useless either to argue or to fight. Dr. Maybright had, as the children sometimes described it, a shut-up look on his face. No one was ever yet known to interfere seriously with the Doctor when he wore that expression, and Aunt Maria, with Scorpion under her arm, hobbled upstairs, tired, weary, and defeated.

"I wash my hands of him and his," she muttered; and the unhappy lady shed some bitter tears of wounded mortification and vanity as she laid her head on her pillow.

"I know I was severe with her," murmured the Doctor to himself, "but there are some women who must be put down with a firm hand. Yes, I can bear a great deal, but to have Maria Cameron punishing Polly, and establishing a housekeeper and governess of her own choosing in this family is beyond my patience. As I said before, there are limits."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE HIGH MOUNTAINS.

Helen and Polly slept late on the following morning. They were both awakened simultaneously by Nurse, who, holding baby in her arms, came briskly into the room. Nurse was immediately followed by Alice, bearing a tray with an appetizing breakfast for both the little girls.

"The Doctor says you are neither of you to get up until you have had a good meal," said Nurse. "And, Miss Polly, he'd like to have a word with you, darling, in his study about eleven o'clock. Eh, dear, but it's blessed and comforting to have the dear man home again; the house feels like itself, and we may breathe now."

"And it's blessed and comforting to have one we wot of away again,"

retorted Alice. "The young ladies will be pleased, won't they, Nurse?"

"To be sure they will. You needn't look so startled, loveys, either of you. It's only your aunt and the dog what is well quit of the house.

They're on their road to Bath now, and long may they stay there."

At this news Helen looked a little puzzled, and not very joyful, but Polly instantly sat up in bed and spoke in very bright tones.

"What a darling father is! I'm as hungry as possible. Give me my breakfast, please, Alice; and oh, Nurse, mightn't baby sit between us for a little in bed?"

"You must support her back well with pillows," said Nurse. "And see as you don't spill any coffee on her white dress. Eh! then, isn't she the sweetest and prettiest lamb in all the world?"

The baby, whose little white face had not a tinge of color, and whose very large velvety brown eyes always wore a gentle, heavenly calm about them, smiled in a slow way. When she smiled she showed dimples, but she was a wonderfully grave baby, as though she knew something of the great loss which had accompanied her birth.

"She is lovely," said Polly. "It makes me feel good even to look at her."

"Then be good, for her sake, darling," said Nurse, suddenly stooping and kissing the bright, vivacious girl, and then bestowing another and tenderer kiss on the motherless baby. "She's for all the world like Peace itself," said Nurse. "There ain't no sort of naughtiness or crossness in her."