By C. S.

"But I'm not very tall, am I?" said the little book-keeper, coming close to the counter so as to prevent me from seeing that she was standing on tiptoe.

"A _p't.i.te_ woman," said I, "goes straight to my heart."

The book-keeper blushed and looked down, and began fingering a bunch of keys with one hand.

"How is the cold?" I asked. "You don't seem to cough so much to-day."

"It always gets bad again at night," she answered, still looking down and playing with her keys.

I reached over to them, and she moved her hand quickly away and clasped it tightly with the other.

I picked up the keys:--"Store-room, Cellar, Commercial Room, Office,"

said I, reading off the names on the labels--"why, you seem to keep not only the books, but everything else as well."

She turned away to measure out some whisky at the other window, and then came back and held out her hand for the keys.

"What a pretty ring," I said; "I wonder I haven't noticed it before.

You can't have had it on lately."

She looked at me fearfully and again covered her hand.

"Please give me my keys."

"Yes, if I may look at the ring."

The little book-keeper turned away, and slipping quietly on to her chair, burst into tears.

I pushed open the door of the office and walked in.

"What is it?" I whispered, bending over her and gently smoothing her hair.

"I--I hate him!" she sobbed.

"Him?--Him?"

"Yes,--the--the ring man."

I felt for the little hand among the folds of the inky table-cloth, and stooped and kissed her forehead. "Forgive me, dearest----"

"Go away," she sobbed, "go away. I wish I had never seen you. It was all my fault: I left off wearing the ring on purpose, but he's coming here to-day----and--and we are so many at home--and have so little money----"

And as I went upstairs to pack I could see the little brown head bent low over the inky table-cloth.

II--A Purple Patch

By O.

I

It was nearly half-past four. Janet was sitting in the drawing-room reading a novel and waiting for tea. She was in one of those pleasing moods when the ordinary happy circ.u.mstances of life do not pa.s.s unnoticed as inevitable. She was pleased to be living at home with her father and sister, pleased that her father was a flourishing doctor, and that she could sit idle in the drawing-room, pleased at the pretty furniture, at the flowers which she had bought in the morning.

She seldom felt so. Generally these things did not enter her head as a joy in themselves; and this mood never came upon her when, according to elderly advice, it would have been useful. In no trouble, great or small, could she gain comfort from remembering that she lived comfortably; but sometimes without any reason, as now, she felt glad at her position.

When the parlour-maid came in and brought the lamp, Janet watched her movements pleasurably. She noticed all the ways of a maid in an orderly house: how she placed the lighted lamp on the table at her side, then went to the windows and let down the blinds and drew the curtains, then pulled a small table forward, spread a blue-edged cloth on it, and walked out quietly, pushing her cuffs up a little.

She was pleased too with her novel, Miss Braddon's _Asphodel_. For some time she had enjoyed reading superior books. She knew that _Asphodel_ was bad, and saw its inferiority to the books which she had lately read; but that did not prevent her pleasure at being back with Miss Braddon.

The maid came in and set the gla.s.s-tray on the table which she had just covered, took a box of matches from her ap.r.o.n pocket, lit the wick of the silver spirit-stove and left the room. Janet watched the whole proceeding with pleasure, sitting still in the arm-chair. Three soft raps on the gong and Gertrude appeared. She made the tea, and they talked. When they had finished, Gertrude sat at her desk and began to write a letter, and still talking, Janet gradually let herself into her novel once more. There was plenty of the story left, she would read right on till dinner.

They had finished talking for some minutes when they heard a ring.

"Oh, Gerty, suppose this is a visitor!" Janet said, looking up from her book.

Gertrude listened. Janet prayed all the time that it might not be a visitor, and she gave a low groan as she heard heavy steps upon the stairs. Gertrude's desk was just opposite the door, and directly the maid opened it she saw that the visitor was an awkward young man who never had anything to say. She exchanged a glance with Janet, then Janet saw the maid who announced, "Mr. Huddleston."

And then she saw Mr. Huddleston. She laid her book down open on the table behind her, and rose to shake hands with him.

Janet had one conversation with Mr. Huddleston--music: they were very slightly acquainted, and they never got beyond that subject. She smiled at the inevitableness of her question as she asked:

"Were you at the Sat.u.r.day Afternoon Concert?"

When they had talked for ten minutes with some difficulty, Gertrude, who had finished her letter, left the room: she was engaged to be married, and was therefore free to do anything she liked. After a visit of half an hour Huddleston went.

Janet rang the bell, and felt a little guilty as she took up the open book directly her visitor had gone. She did not know quite why, but she was dissatisfied. However, in a moment or two she was deep in the excitement of _Asphodel_.

She read on for a couple of hours, and then she heard the carriage drive up to the door. She heard her father come into the house and go to his consulting-room, then walk upstairs to his bedroom, and she knew that in a few minutes he would be down in the drawing-room to talk for a quarter of an hour before dinner. When she heard him on the landing, she put away her book; Gertrude met him just at the door; they both came in together, and then they all three chatted. But instead of feeling in a contented mood, because she had read comfortably, as she had intended all the afternoon, Janet was dissatisfied, as if the afternoon had slipped by without being enjoyed, wasted over the exciting novel.

And towards the end of dinner her thoughts fell back on an old trouble which had been dully threatening her. Gertrude was her father's favourite; gay and pretty, she had never been difficult. Janet was more silent, could not amuse her father and make him laugh, and he was not fond of her. She would find still more difficulty when Gertrude was married, and she was left alone with him. His health was failing, and he was growing very cantankerous. She dreaded the prospect, and already the doctor was moaning to Gerty about her leaving, and she was making him laugh for the last time over the very cause of his dejection. Not that he would have r.e.t.a.r.ded her marriage by a day; he was extremely proud of her engagement to the son of the great Lady Beamish.

That thought had been an undercurrent of trouble ever since Gertrude's engagement, and she wondered how she could have forgotten it for a whole afternoon. Now she was as fully miserable as she had been content four hours before, and her trouble at the moment mingled with her unsatisfactory recollection of the afternoon, her annoyance at Mr.

Huddleston's interruption, and the novel which she had taken up directly he had left the room.

II

A year after Gertrude's marriage Dr. Worgan gave up his work and decided at last to carry out a cherished plan. One of his oldest friends was going to Algiers with his wife and daughter. The doctor was a great favourite with them; he decided to sell his house in London, and join the party in their travels. The project had been discussed for a long time, and Janet foresaw an opportunity of going her own way. She was sure that her father did not want her. She had hinted at her wish to stay in England and work for herself; but she did not insist or trouble her father, and as he did not oppose her she imagined that the affair was understood. When the time for his departure drew close, Janet said something about her arrangements which raised a long discussion. Dr. Worgan expressed great astonishment at her resolution, and declared that she had not been open with him. Janet could not understand his sudden opposition; perhaps she had not been explicit enough; but surely they both knew what they were about, and it was obviously better that they should part.

They were in the drawing-room. Dr. Worgan felt aggrieved that the affair should be taken so completely out of his hands; he had been reproaching her, and arguing for some time. Janet's tone vexed him.

She was calm, disinclined to argue, behaving as if the arrangement were quite decided: he would have been better pleased if she had cried or lost her temper.

"It's very easy to say that; but, after all, you're not independent.