"You don't know how glad I am to see you Jeanie, and if I'm cross a single once while I'm here, you may scold me."

"Oh, Olive," and Jean laughed merrily. "The idea of my scolding you, that's too funny. Don't you ever get cross any more?"

"I try not, but then I do a great many times, I expect; I don't think I will now though, for I'm so glad to be with you, and find that you are just the same little Jeanie, that mama and the girls love and want to see so much. Why Kat said she expected you would have on long dresses, and be a young lady."

"What a funny old girl she is," cried Jean. "I'd give anything to hear her laugh once, it always sounds so pretty."

The rest of the drive was taken up in hasty chattering, as though they were going to be separated in just a few moments, and would leave something untold; and Olive never noticed that they had entered some tall gates, and were going up a white gravel road that wound in and out of the velvet-like lawn; and had quite forgotten her trepidation at meeting Mr. Congreve, until they came to a stand still, and James, throwing open the carriage door, revealed the great entrance portico, the open doors and the cool dark interior to Congreve Hall.

"Where is Uncle Ridley?" was Jean's first question, as James lifted her out and handed her cane, while Olive followed.

"I do not know, Miss Jean," James answered; but at that moment, Mr.

Congreve became visible, advancing through the wide hall, and with her heart in a little jump, Olive pa.s.sed Jean, entered the door, and met him, with outstretched hand.

"How do you do, Uncle Ridley?"

"Uncle Ridley! G.o.d bless my soul, just listen," cried the old man, the quizzical look on his face changing to one of blank delighted amazement, "Why, how do you do, my dear child; I didn't know but what you'd take my head off the first thing; you've changed a great deal; yes, bless my soul you have, but it's very becoming, it is indeed. Now come right in and sit down, and let me look at you, for I'd like to do so, yes I would. There--hum! ha, I never expected to get this close to you and be safe. And you called me Uncle Ridley too. Do it of your own accord?"

"Yes, sir."

"Going to do it again?"

"If you want me to?"

"Want you to! G.o.d bless my soul! Just listen. I never was a downright, unvarnished heathen, but twice in my life; and I guess you know about both of those times, and my first request is that you let them slide from your memory. The Lord knows I'd like to! Yes, child, I want you to call me uncle, I hoped you would, but I wasn't going to ask you to.

Before I die, I would like to be a better uncle to Robert's children than I ever was to him."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WHY, HOW DO YOU DO, MY DEAR CHILD?"]

Olive found that what little of the old dislike that lingered in her memory was fast vanishing, but before she could speak, he had whisked back into his odd, abrupt way.

"What stupids we are, to be sure; never ask you to take off your things, or wash your face; and it's dirty sure as I'm alive! but then, there's enough smoke and dust and stuff, between here and New York, to dirty the faces of all the angel hosts, so you needn't mind; though I don't suppose you do; bless me! no; but then, you had better go and wash it.

Jeanie, Olive is ready to go up stairs."

Jean had been fluttering about Olive's chair in impatient eagerness, and now signified her readiness to act as guide by seizing her hand and hurrying out.

"I was so afraid he would keep you there to talk," she said, as they went up the wide stairway, and through the hall, that made Olive open her eyes in spite of herself, for she never had seen such lavish display of elegance; and she was immediately seized with an old feeling of awkward strangeness, that brought a defiant color to her face, as she thought of any one discovering that she was unused to any elegance or custom that might reign in Congreve Hall.

"Uncle Ridley had these rooms fixed for you," said Jean, throwing open a large door, and ushering her in. "See, aren't they just beautiful?"

"Yes, indeed," exclaimed Olive in quick delight; for they were certainly gems to make a girl rejoice. Three, with a bath-room, all complete, and looking like t.i.tania's bower in their delicate green coloring and bamboo furniture. The carpets were like untouched moss clinging fresh and sweet, to mother-rocks, and to Olive, it seemed almost like sacrilege to tread upon it. From the wide, deep windows was a view, such as would hold the most careless gazer in a moment of ecstasy, and after one quick cry of artistic appreciation, Olive stood mutely entranced. Looking down, there were occasional glimpses of the magnificent lawn, with here and there, a rustic seat, and white statue, thrown in bold relief as seen through the tossing foliage; and looking out, there showed the road winding down through the mountains, every now and then disappearing, until finally lost to view; and farther off, and down in the valley lay Staunton, the busy, beautiful city, with its church spires rising into the hazy atmosphere, as though in defiance to the lofty peaks towering so much higher, and printing themselves against the sky in the far distance, in jagged, immovable lines, that looked like relentless guards to something beyond.

"Do you want a maid?" asked Jean, breaking in upon her reverie. "Uncle Ridley sent to ask you."

"A maid!" exclaimed Olive, feeling blank for a moment. Did she want a maid? No; of course she didn't. Ernestine would have taken a maid; oh, yes; and no one would ever thought but what she had had a maid and untold luxuries all her life. But she--"No, I don't want any maid," she said, almost sharply; then laughed as Jean looked grieved at the quick tone. "What would I do with a maid, Jeanie? She would know a great deal more what to do than I, and that would never do, you know. Besides, I'm too used to dressing myself. Do all young ladies in Virginia have maids?"

"All the rich ones, I guess. Miss Franc Murray,--she is going to marry Cousin Roger, Bettine says; she has one, and scolds her like everything when her hair isn't just right."

"Why, how do you know?" laughed Olive.

"I've been there lots of times. She comes here for me, and tells Uncle Ridley she loves me dearly; but Olive--"

"Yes."

"When she comes, she stays just as long as she can; and if Cousin Roger isn't around, she asks me where he is, and all about him; then I have to promise never to tell."

"But you are telling me."

"Oh, do you think that counts?" cried Jean in alarm. "She didn't ever mean you; but then, perhaps, I better not tell any more until I ask her, for I might break my word."

Olive could not resist kissing the childish, innocent face that looked more like a little angel's than a child of nearly twelve. Surely, no matter how Jean was surrounded, she would always retain that childish sweetness and purity, that had always made her seem more of heaven than earth. Before she left Congreve Hall, Olive many times wondered that the child was not spoiled, for her slightest wish was law, from the owner down to the last servant therein.

When the bell rang for tea, it broke in upon an earnest cosy chat between the sisters, and made them reluctant to leave their seat in the twilight; but Mr. Congreve was punctual to the letter, and required the same of others, so Jean led the way in a moment, and together they descended the stairs and entered the room.

"Here you are, with your face clean, and a posy in your hair," cried Mr.

Congreve, from his stand on the rug. "Fine looking girl, you are, my dear, and a Congreve every inch of you. Come here, and shake a paw with your Uncle Ridley."

Olive did so, and conscious that another gentleman was standing outside the circle of light, and doubtless regarding her as she crossed the room to "shake a paw," she advanced, and tried not to think whether she was doing so gracefully or not.

"That's the way," exclaimed Mr. Congreve, drawing her into the brightest light. "Roger, here is your Cousin Olive, and Olive, this is Roger Ridley Congreve at your service, and we will suppose that you are cousins, for the want of a better name. Now shake hands and be friends, children."

The gentleman came forward, and conscious that her face was growing scarlet, Olive bowed slightly, and murmured something wherein no words were audible, but his name, and grew furiously angry with herself, because she had become confused at the sight of a gentleman, where she had expected to see only a youth.

"Hoity-toity!" cried Mr. Congreve. "That will never do; call the boy Roger, Olive, and then we will go to supper."

"The boy" smiled in a friendly fashion, and supposing that her confusion arose from the old gentleman's abrupt manner, he held out his hand.

"Let us shake and be friendly, Cousin Olive, and it is a great wonder that he doesn't command a kiss of greeting, on the strength of our being cousins, more or less distantly removed."

As he spoke, Olive looked up with a startled air, and unconscious that he was holding her hand, she looked straight at him for several moments.

Where had she ever seen that face and heard that voice?

"What's the matter?" cried Jean, for the memory was in some way painful to her, and reflected itself so in her face.

"Nothing," exclaimed Olive, withdrawing her hand in mortified haste, and flushing scarlet again.

"I thought perhaps you was getting ready to blow his head off,"

exclaimed Mr. Congreve, as if in relief. "That's something the way you looked at me, only not so ferocious, no! G.o.d bless my soul, no! I should have run if it had been; I should indeed. Now let's go to supper.

Jeanie, come and help your old uncle along, and Roger, you take your Cousin Olive, and lead the way."

Olive was angry, mortified and confused, so her reception of Roger's arm was none too gracious, nor the few words she uttered in answer to what he said, anything but barely audible and civil. Sensitively aware that she had allowed her feelings to get possession of her in the commencement, she tried to rectify matters now, and grew so frigid that there was no thawing her out. Roger Congreve's eyes wore a constant twinkle, and he looked at her so frequently that Olive defiantly felt that he was laughing at her awkward confusion, and the thought made his prospects towards gaining her friendship, none too bright. So on the whole, supper was not a successful meal, for Mr. Congreve never, when at the table, allowed any duty or pleasure to interfere with his eating; in consequence of which, he now devoted himself solely to chicken and chocolate, with only an occasional word, shot in edgeways, between bites. Jean was worried, because Olive looked so displeased, and as for Mr. Congreve the younger, he soon found that their guest preferred to say little or nothing, so allowed her to have her way. Immediately at the close of the meal, Jean and Olive went up stairs. Mr. Congreve went to sleep, with a big pocket handkerchief over his head, and his hands folded solemnly over his waistcoat; and the young gentleman took himself away,--to see "Miss Murray," said Jean, as she settled in Olive's lap for a chat. "I know he's going there, because I heard him tell Carl, that's the gardener, to gather a beautiful bouquet."

For the first week the two sisters were left entirely to themselves; and they talked early and late, until every step travelled by each; during their separation, had been gone over, and made familiar with, by the other. Almost every day, Jean wanted to hear Ernestine's story repeated, and each time it seemed to grieve her more, though she never failed to say with a patient trusting faith--"She will come back, I know she will, for I ask G.o.d every night, and then somehow I always feel as though he had said to me: 'Wait a little longer Jean, I'm not ready quite yet,' so I'm waiting, Olive."

Such perfect unquestioning faith, was something that Olive could not understand; and many times, when Jean spoke in such a simple trusting way, of how she talked to G.o.d, and told Him her little wants and worries, the elder sister would feel, with a thrill of fear, that perhaps G.o.d was going to take onto Himself, the child, who, all her short life had seemed to breath the air of Heaven more than of earth; and that up above, she would be united to the sister, who seemed lost to them below.

They wrote home nearly every day, and Olive's letters were such blessings, for were they not filled, from beginning to end, with news of Jean! How she was growing strong and well, and would, perhaps, walk before Fall; how every one, from Uncle Ridley down, were devoted to her, and what a little dream of luxury her life was now, with every want or wish gratified, and everything that heart could wish. "And she is so sweet and unselfish," writes Olive. "A very little angel she seems to me, mama, and every hour that I spend with her, helps me in some way.

There is a little lesson for me in all her childish words, and I'm not ashamed to tell you that I wish I could be more like her, though I never can. She seems apart some way, and is a constant study, that becomes more precious to me every day. When I pray, it seems to me like an important extra thing, that I must make some preparation for and be precise about; and then I cannot help feeling, that perhaps I'm not heard after all, which I know is wrong; but it is so different with Jean. She goes to G.o.d, as she would to you or papa, and never seems to doubt that every word is heard, and interested in. She is perfectly confident that Ernestine is coming back, and it gives me hope just to be near such perfect faith."