His sister Rachel proved to be the same irritating, cross-grained woman he had quarrelled with and parted from so long before, and he was a little disappointed, for it is wonderful how time softens our thoughts of one another, and how true it is that--

"No distance breaks the tie of blood, Brothers are brothers evermore."

Although Miss Rachel ruffled and annoyed him at every second word--"rubbed him up the wrong way," as her maid Stimson would have said--the doctor had a real regard for her in his heart, and respected her as a woman of sterling principle, and one whose worst faults were all upon the surface.

"There is no need to talk about hotels," and Miss Harley drew herself up, half-offended in her turn. "It's a pity if I can't find houseroom for my own brother, let him stay as long as he will. Now, Edith, if that is your name, go along with Stimson, and she will show you your room, where you can take off your hat and things. And be sure, mind you brush your hair, child, and tie it up, or something. Don't come down with it hanging all wild about your shoulders like that."

Poor Edith's heart sank. She was rather proud of her luxuriant brown tresses, which her mother had always allowed her to wear in all their length and beauty, and she did not even know how to tie them up herself.

"This way, miss," said the prim, elderly servant. "I knew as soon as I saw you that your hair would never do for Miss Harley. I'll fix it neatly for you."

"Oh, thank you!" said Edith, much relieved; and in a few minutes all the flowing locks were gathered into one stiff braid, and tied at the end with a piece of black ribbon.

"There, now you look more like a young lady should!" cried Stimson, surveying her handiwork with pleasure. "You'll always find me ready to oblige you, miss, if you'll only try to please Miss Harley; and you won't mind my saying that I hope you'll be comfortable here, and manage to stay, for it's frightful lonely in the house sometimes, and some one young about the place would do the mistress and me good, I'm sure."

[Sidenote: A Great Improvement]

"Oh, thank you!" said Edith again. She could not trust herself to say more, for the words, that she felt were kindly meant, almost made her cry.

"Now you had better go down to the parlour," Stimson went on. "Miss Harley and your papa won't expect you to be long, and the tea is ready, I know."

With a beating heart Edith stepped down the wide, old-fashioned staircase, and went shyly in at the door which Stimson opened for her.

She found herself in a large, handsomely-furnished room, where the table was laid for tea; and Miss Harley sat before the tray, already busy with cups and saucers.

"Come here, Edith, and sit where I can see you. Yes, that is a great improvement. Your hair looks tidy and respectable now."

After this greeting, to Edith's great relief, she was left to take her tea in peace and silence, the doctor and his sister being occupied in conversation about their early days, and continually mentioning the names of persons and places of whom she knew little or nothing.

Only once the girl started to hear her aunt say, "I always told you, Henry, that it was a great mistake. With your talents you might have done almost anything; and here you are, a man still in middle life, saddled and enc.u.mbered with a helpless invalid wife and half a score of children, to take all you earn faster than you can get it. It is a mere wasted existence, and if you had listened to me it might all have been different."

"How cruel!" exclaimed Edith to herself indignantly. "Does Aunt Rachel think I am a stock or a stone, to sit and hear my mother--all of us--spoken about like that? I shall never, never be able to bear it!"

Even the doctor was roused. "Once for all, Rachel," he said in a peremptory tone, "you must understand that I cannot allow my wife and children to be spoken of in this manner. No doubt I have had to make sacrifices, but my family have been a source of much happiness to me; and Maria, who cannot help her health, poor thing! has done her best under circ.u.mstances that would have crushed a great many women. As for the children, of course they have their faults, but altogether they are good children, and I often feel proud of them. You have been kind enough to ask Edith to stay here, but if I thought you would make her life unhappy with such speeches as you made just now, I would take her back with me to-morrow."

"Well, well," said Miss Harley, a little frightened at the indignation she had raised. "You need not take me up so, Henry. Of course I shall not be so foolish as to talk to the child just as I would to you. I have her interest and yours truly at heart; and since I don't want to quarrel with you again, we will say no more of your wife and family. If you have quite finished, perhaps we might take a turn in the garden."

The rest of the evening pa.s.sed quietly away. Edith was glad when the time came to go to her room, only she so dreaded the morrow, that would have to be pa.s.sed in Aunt Rachel's company, without her father's protecting presence.

Soon after breakfast in the morning the doctor had to say goodbye. It was a hard parting for both father and daughter. Edith had never known how dearly she loved that busy and often-anxious father till she was called to let him go. As for the doctor, he was scarcely less moved, and Miss Rachel had to hurry him away at last, or he would have lost the train it was so important he should catch.

Somehow the doctor never could be spared from Winchcomb. There was no other medical man for miles round, and people seemed to expect Dr.

Harley to work on from year's end to year's end, without ever needing rest or recreation himself.

[Sidenote: A Close Examination]

As soon as they were left alone, Miss Rachel called Edith into the parlour, and bidding her sit down, began a rigorous inquiry as to her capabilities and accomplishments--whether she had been to school, or had had a governess; whether she was well grounded in music, and had studied drawing and languages; what she knew of plain and fancy needlework; if her mother had made her begin to learn cookery--"as all young women should," added Miss Rachel, sensibly enough.

Poor Edith's answers were very far from satisfying Miss Harley.

"You say you have had no teacher but your sister since Miss Phelps, or Phipps, or whatever her name was, left. And how old is your sister, may I ask?"

"Jessie is eighteen," answered Edith. "And she is very clever--every one says so, especially at music."

"Why didn't she teach you, then, and make you practise regularly? You tell me you have had no regular practice, and cannot play more than two or three pieces."

"It is not Jessie's fault," said Edith, colouring up. "Papa and mamma liked us all to learn, but I am afraid, aunt, I have no natural talent for music. I get on better with some other things."

Aunt Rachel opened a French book that lay on the table.

"Read that," she said shortly, pointing to the open page.

Edith was at home here; her p.r.o.nunciation was rather original, it is true, but she read with ease and fluency, and translated the page afterwards without any awkward pauses.

"That is better," said her aunt, more graciously. "You shall have some lessons. As for the music, I don't believe in making girls, who can't tell the National Anthem from the Old Hundredth, strum on the piano whether they like it or not. You may learn drawing instead. And then I shall expect you to read with me--good solid authors, you know, not poetry and romances, which are all the girls of the present day seem to care for."

"Thank you, aunt," said Edith. "I should like to learn drawing very much."

"Wait a while," continued Miss Harley. "Perhaps you won't thank me when you have heard all. I shall insist upon your learning plain needlework in all its branches, and getting a thorough insight into cookery and housekeeping. With your mother's delicate health there ought to be at least one of the daughters able to take her place whenever it is needful. Your sisters don't know much about the house, I daresay."

"Maude does," answered Edith, proud of her sister's ability. "Maude can keep house well--even papa says so."

"And Jessie?"

"Jessie says her tastes are not domestic, and she has always had enough to do teaching us, and looking after the little ones."

"And what did you do?" demanded Aunt Rachel. "You can't play; you can't sew. By your own confession, you don't know the least thing about household matters. It couldn't have taken you all your time to learn a little French and read a few books. What _did_ you do?"

Edith blushed again.

"I--I went out, Aunt Rachel," she said at last.

"Went out, child?"

"Yes. Winchcomb is a beautiful country place, you know, and Alfred and Claude and I were nearly always out when it was fine. We did learn something, even in that way, about the flowers and plants and birds and live creatures. Papa always said plenty of fresh air would make us strong and healthy, and, indeed, we _are_ well. As for me, I have never been ill that I remember since I was quite a little thing."

[Sidenote: We will Change all that!]

"My patience, child! And did Maria--did your mother allow you to run about with two boys from morning till night?"

"It is such a quiet place, aunt, no one thought it strange. We knew all the people, and they were always glad to see us--nearly always," added truthful Edith, with a sudden remembrance of Mr. Smith's anger when he found his cow in the potato field, and one or two other little matters of a like nature.

"Well, I can only say that you have been most strangely brought up. But we will change all that. You will now find every day full of regular employments, and when I cannot walk out with you I shall send Stimson.

You must not expect to run wild any more, but give yourself to the improvement of your mind, and to fitting yourself for the duties of life. Now I have letters to write, and you may leave me till I send for you again. For this one day you will have to be idle, I suppose."

Edith escaped into the garden, thankful that the interview was over, and that, for the time at least, she was free.

The very next day she was introduced to Monsieur Delorme, who undertook to come from Silchester three times a week to give her lessons in French, and to Mr. Sumner, who was to do the same on the three alternate days, for drawing. It seemed a terrible thing to Edith at first to have to learn from strangers; but Monsieur Delorme was a charming old gentleman, with all the politeness of his nation; and, as Edith proved a very apt pupil, they soon got on together beautifully.