"No real work can be carried out by those who do," said Cecil.

"Oh!" added Rosamond, "I met Mrs. and Miss Bowater, and they desired me to say that Jenny can't come till the dinner-party on the 20th, and then they will leave her."

"How cool to send a message instead of writing!"

"Oh! she has always been like one of themselves, like a sister to them all."

"I can't bear that sort of people."

"What sort?"

"Who worm themselves in."

"Miss Bowater could have no occasion for worming. They must be quite on equal terms."

"At any rate, she was only engaged to their poor relation."

"What poor relation? Tell me! Who told you?"

"Raymond. It was a young attorney--a kind of cousin of the Poynsett side, named Douglas."

"What? There's a cross in the churchyard to Elizabeth Douglas, daughter of Francis Poynsett, and wife of James Douglas, and at the bottom another inscription to Archibald Douglas, her son, lost in the Hippolyta."

"Yes, that must be the man. He was flying from England, having been suspected of some embezzlement."

"Indeed! And was Jenny engaged to him? Julius told me that Mrs.

Douglas had been his mother's dearest friend, and that this Archie had been brought up with them, but he did not say any more."

"Perhaps he did not like having had a cousin in an attorney's office. I am sure I had no notion of such a thing."

Rosamond laughed till she was exhausted at the notion of Julius's sharing the fastidious objections she heard in Cecil's voice; and then, struck by the sadness of the story, she cried, "And that makes them all so fond of Miss Bowater. Poor girl, what must she not have gone through! And yet how cheerful she does look!"

"People say," proceeded Cecil, unable to resist the impulse to acquire a partaker in her half-jealous aversion, "that it was a great disappointment that Mrs. Poynsett could not make her sons like her as much as she did herself."

"Oh!" cried Rosamond, "how little peace we should have if we always heeded what people say!"

"People that know," persisted Cecil.

"Not very wise or very kind people to say so," quoth Rosamond; "though, by the bye, the intended sting is happily lost, considering that it lies among five."

"Why should you assume a sting?"

"Because I see you are stung, and want to sting me," said Rosamond, in so merry a tone that the earnestness was disguised.

"I! I'm not stung! What Mrs. Poynsett or Miss Bowater may have schemed is nothing to me," said Cecil, with all her childish dignity.

"People talk of Irish imagination," said Rosamond in her lazy meditative tone.

"Well?" demanded Cecil, sharply.

"Only it is not _my_ Irish imagination that has devised this dreadful picture of the artful Jenny and Mrs. Poynsett spinning their toils to entrap the whole five brothers. Come, Cecil, take my advice and put it out of your head. Suppose it were true, small blame to Mrs. Poynsett."

"What do you mean?" said Cecil, in a voice of hurt dignity.

"I may mean myself." And Rosamond's peal of merry laughter was most amazing and inexplicable to her companion, who was not sure that she was not presuming to laugh at her.

There was a silence, broken at last by Rosamond. "Cecil, I have been tumbled about the world a good deal more than you have, and I never found that one got any good by disregarding the warnings of the natives. There's an immense deal in the cat and the cock."

"I do not understand, said Cecil.

Whereupon Rosamond, in a voice as if she were telling the story to a small child, began: "Once upon a time there was a wee bit mousiekie, that lived in Giberatie O--that trotted out of her hole upon an exploring expedition. By and by she came scuttling back in a state of great trepidation--in fact, horribly nervous. 'Mother, mother!' said the little mouse, 'I've seen a hideous monster, with a red face, and a voice like a trumpet, and a pair of spurs.'"

"Of course, I know that," broke in Cecil.

"Ah, you haven't heard all. 'I should have died of terror,' said the little mouse, 'only that I saw a dear sweet graceful creature, with a lovely soft voice, and a smooth coat, and the most beautiful eyes, and the most exquisite pathetic expression in her smile; and she held out her velvet paw to me, and said, 'Dear little mousiekie- pousie, you're the loveliest creature I ever met, quite unappreciated in these parts. That horrid old cock is terribly vulgar and commonplace; and never you believe your mother if she tells you he is better worth cultivating than one who has such a deep genuine love and appreciation of all the excellences of all mice, and of you in particular with your dun fur.'"

Rosamond could not for her very life help putting in that word dun; and Cecil, who had been driving straight on with her eyes fixed on her pony's ears, and rather a sullen expression of forced endurance, faced about. "What you mean by all this I don't know; but if you think it applies to me or my friends, you are much mistaken."

"I told you," said Rosamond, with the same languor, looking out under her half-shut eyes, "that I apply things to myself. I've met both sorts in my time."

And silence reigned for the rest of the way. Cecil had read many more books, knew much more, and was altogether a far more cultivated personage than the Lady Rosamond; but she was not half so ready in catching the import of spoken words; and all this time she was by no means certain whether all this meant warning or meant mockery, though either was equally impertinent, and must be met with the same lady-like indifference, which Cecil trusted that she had never transgressed.

Neither of them, nor indeed any other living creature, knew of a little episode which had occurred about eighteen months previously, when Joanna Bowater had been taking care of Mrs Poynsett during Raymond's first absence from home after her accident. Of course he took her back to Strawyers as soon as he arrived; and about half- way, after a prolonged and unusual silence, he said, "Jenny, I believe we know one another's histories pretty well. It would be a great happiness and blessing if you could bring yourself to sink the past so far as to take me, and become indeed my mother's daughter.

Do not answer me in haste. Think it over, and tell me if it is possible."

Jenny let him drive on more than a mile before she spoke; and when she did, the tears stood on her cheek, and it was quite an effort that her voice was made steady. "No, Raymond, I am very sorry, but it will not do. Two griefs will not make one joy."

"Yes, they would, to my mother."

"Ah! there it lies! Indeed, Raymond, I do feel for you all so much, especially your dear mother, that I would bring myself to it, if I could; but the very thought brings Archie up so vividly before me that I cannot! He has almost seemed to be sitting by me all this time. It seems as though beginning again would kill my right to think of him foremost of all."

"I could bear with that and trust to time," said Raymond. "Think it over, Jenny. I will be candid with you. The old delusion was too strong for any repetition of that kind, as you may see by the lame performance I am making now."

Jenny gave a little agitated laugh, and ejaculated, "Dear Raymond!"

then added, "It is not on your account, but mine."

"But," he added, "my marriage is becoming a necessity, if only for my mother's sake; and you stand far before any other woman with me, if that would but satisfy you. I verily believe that in a short time we should be just as comfortable together as if we could start with more romance."

"I dare say we should, dear Raymond," said Jenny; "but I cannot feel that it is the right thing, while I have not _that_ feeling for you which overpowers everything else; it seems to me that I ought not to give up my place at home. Papa depends on me a good deal, and they both will want me more and more."

"Less than my mother."

"I don't know; and they are my first duty. I can always come to your mother when I am wanted, and I know in your secret soul you prefer me on those terms."

He made no answer, only when passing the lodge he said, "Will you consider it a little longer, Jenny?"

But this only resulted in a note:--