A dark, handsome, wilful young face had Madame Giche's son, as seen in his portrait--a young man just on the threshold of manhood. Inna stood to gaze at it, wondering what it was stirring the depths of her sensitive little heart, and filling it with a lingering pain.

"Grand-auntie says these two pictures have no right here, and calls them alien pictures among aliens, because the house isn't ours and the pictures don't rightly belong here; but she took her son's portrait with her in all her travels, and her own was done abroad, and of course she brought them here."

"His wife wrote the letter telling of his death, and that he asked grand-auntie to forgive him--and that was all. She has never been able to find the wife nor the son."

"'Tis sad," sighed Inna; "because she might have been so fond of the son."

"Papa's portrait is at Wyvern Court--that's grand-auntie's own place, you know. Grand-auntie says we shall be twin heiresses by-and-by."

"And your papa is--" here Inna flushed at her inquisitive question.

"Dead; and mamma too," said grave-browed Olive.

"Do you like living at the farm with your uncle?" inquired sprightly Sybil.

"Yes; only I haven't been there long--and--and a grand-uncle isn't like a grand-auntie," said Inna.

"And Dr. Willett hasn't got a broken heart," returned Sybil; "I suppose doctors don't have broken hearts."

Well, the three dined in state at six with Madame Giche; the children were having a rather free-and-easy time of it, for their governess, Miss Gordon, was away nursing somebody ill, and so they did very much as they listed, so long as they did not weary their aged relative.

What a charmed life was that into which Inna took her one day's peep, and the outcome of it all was that when Miss Gordon returned she was to go up to the Owl's Nest, and have lessons with the twins. Meantime, she often spent a day there, and was brought home of an evening in the carriage; then Sybil and Olive came for tea at the farm, and, after a delightful evening spent in roasting chestnuts and the like, went back in their turn in the carriage, the happiest girls, perhaps, alive. Thus for a time all went merrily as Christmas bells; but one morning Oscar broke the pleasant spell by announcing, "I'm not going down to Mr.

Fane's to-day," as Inna waited for him at the door to walk as far as the Rectory gates with him, on her way to the Owl's Nest, her seat of learning.

"Oh! I wish you were," said Inna.

"Why?" gruffly.

"Because you ought; because 'tis right."

"Oh, bother right! I'm not going; in fact, I can't. d.i.c.k Gregory's coming over; there's to be steam threshing in the yard, no end of fun, and I can't disappoint him. Besides, it can't be far wrong; doing it under uncle's very nose;" and away went the boy, out of sight of his cousin's reproachful eyes.

When Inna came home from the Owl's Nest in the evening, a drizzling rain had come on. Oscar was absent somewhere with d.i.c.k Gregory, the two gentlemen still out; so after tea the little girl sat down with her knitting somewhat drearily by Mrs. Grant's side, with tears not far from her eyes, because her cousin would persist in taking these sudden and backward steps.

"I know he's to be a farmer, but there, even farmers mustn't be blockheads of dunces, as Oscar'll be if he don't alter," said Mrs.

Grant.

"To be a farmer?" inquired Inna.

"Yes, dearie, that's why his uncle is keeping on the farm. He talked of selling or letting it years ago, when it fell to him by heirship, but he didn't, but kept it on and on; and when his brother's orphan came to him, he said he'd keep it for him, if I didn't mind seeing to it a few years longer; and I said I didn't, being a farmer's daughter. I think I've made a better farmer than--than your uncle," laughed the good woman. "So the farm is for Master Oscar."

"So Oscar is to be a farmer," mused the little girl, hearkening for his coming, as she sat by the wood fire, while Mrs. Grant went presently to attend to the two hard-working doctors, just come in.

In he came at last.

"Well, Master Oscar, I hope you've had your swing," said the housekeeper, meeting him in the pa.s.sage.

"Yes, I have; and now I am going at once to make it straight with the doctor," he peeped into the kitchen to say to Inna. "That's a step in the right direction, you must confess;" and was gone.

CHAPTER VI.

INNA'S FIRSTFRUITS--ON THE TOR.

The going in to make confession of his neglect of his lessons by Oscar, that night, was like a very firstfruits to loving little Inna, in her endeavour to influence this big, strong, wilful cousin for good. Nay, she shamed him into industry and painstaking by her own application to studies, going to and from the Owl's Nest, "like clockwork, you little grinder!" as the boy expressed it, making his awkward admission to her on Christmas Eve, the two wreathing the house with holly and evergreens.

This was something which Carlo and s.m.u.t the black cat thought it their duty to look into, to judge from the way they pryingly inspected the monster heap of greenery in the wide pa.s.sage, where the boy and girl worked, making Inna laugh and laugh again, till her uncle peeped out of his study door to inquire what was the matter.

"I'm only laughing at Carlo and s.m.u.t, uncle," was her shamefaced reply.

"Ah! laugh and grow fat." With this, he went in and shut the door.

"Not at all a speech to address to a lady," remarked Mr. Barlow, crossing the hall at the moment. "But Christmas is the time for liberties of all sorts and unheard-of requests--have you any of the latter, fair lady?" and the surgeon halted behind her.

"I have one little wish, and 'tis about uncle and his den," ventured Inna, blushing a little.

"Well, suppose you tell me, and let me be the go-between--no enviable part to play, remember, to put a finger in anybody's pie, much more in that of a doctor and a young lady combined."

"May I put a bit of holly in uncle's den?"

"Make Christmas in the lion's den, eh, Oscar! Well, I'm off; but let me make sure of my errand. I go to prefer a pet.i.tion from the lamb to the lion for permission to enter his den with a flag of truce." In he went into the study.

"In the name of the lion, I say go in, little lamb, and at once," he came out almost immediately to say, and he stood by Oscar and the holly heap, while Fairy Inna went on her magic mission.

After that evening the doctor's study doors were open to Inna once and again; she tapped timidly for permission to go in and make up his fire on the cold evenings which came in with the new year, when snow lay upon the ground, and Mrs. Grant told her that most likely her studious, absorbed uncle was sitting with his fire gone out, and she herself dared not intrude to replenish it.

"Come in, dear," he would say at such times. "You'll not disturb me."

And before the winter was over he named her his "Little Salamander;" and once or twice peeped out and called for her when she did not come.

Well, winter was over at last, and March on its bl.u.s.tering way; the lambs in the fields, the colts in their paddock, and young exultant life everywhere. It was holiday time with Inna, for Miss Gordon was away with that invalid somebody again. d.i.c.k Gregory was still running wild in his happy banishment from school; Jenny, _alias_ Trapper, was running wild with him whenever she could persuade the dear old lady who played the part of governess to her to forego her tales of ill-learnt lessons. A sad dunce was busy Mr. Gregory allowing his merry little daughter to grow up to be.

Well, with so many holiday keepers, Oscar dared to join hands, and to take French leave, as he called it, in plotting and planning an expedition to the Tor without asking permission of his uncle. Not that he antic.i.p.ated a refusal, but just because young people will persist in thinking stolen waters are sweet--sweeter than any other waters. Ah, well! we know what the wise man says about the bread of deceit; it points out much the same moral.

But about the Tor. This was a high elevation--almost a mountain compared with the surrounding hills for miles--whence the sea could be descried, a misty mystery, not so far away; and around which sudden fogs wreathed themselves, shutting in those unfortunate enough to be on its heights in a rare tangle of perplexity when it thus chose to wrap itself up in this sullen mood. For there were ugly holes, pitfalls, and crevices in its ragged sides, making its descent a serious thing, except for adepts in climbing and scrambling down, even in the fair light of day. Moreover, there was on one side a disused flint-quarry, called by the ominous name of the Ugly Leap, because, once in the remote past, a shepherd boy, seeking a wandering lamb, had lost his way in the fog, having doubled and turned in his course unknowingly, and finally had fallen over the quarry side. Ah, well! he lost his life; and so his sad tale was told, and the Ugly Leap, with its suggestive name, bore witness to the same.

There were sea-fogs which swept up, and made the Tor so dangerous, Mrs.

Grant affirmed; but Oscar always said "Fudge!" to this--a pet word of his, as he did on that fair March morning, when not a cloud or an atom of fog was to be seen anywhere, but all was cold and brilliant, as some March mornings are.

"Just the morning for the old Tor," the lad said decisively: "the views splendid, sea and all."

"But how about school and your uncle?" inquired Mrs. Grant.

"Oh, they'll do very well, if you don't split upon me. I mean to go, and Inna won't be mean enough to go with me and play tell-tale-t.i.t afterwards; and besides, uncle wouldn't refuse me this one day, just to show Inna the Tor."

"But suppose we were to wait and ask him?" suggested Inna.

"I can't wait. d.i.c.k Gregory and his sister are coming over. We shall make such a jolly party, and there'll be more fun to steal a march upon someone:" this was Oscar's reasoning.