There was a long afternoon to be dragged through: then there was a school-room tea, nominally at six, really not until nearly seven, according to the lax and unpunctual fashion of the Heron family. Mr.

Stretton had heard that there were to be guests at dinner, and, keeping up his character as a shy man, declined to be present. He was sitting in a great arm-chair by the cheerful, little fire, which was very acceptable even on an August evening: the clock on the mantelpiece had just chimed a quarter-past seven, and he was beginning to wonder where the boys could possibly be, when the door opened and Elizabeth came in.

He rose to his feet.

"They told me that you had come," she said, extending her hand to him with quiet friendliness. "I hope you had a pleasant journey, Mr.

Stretton."

"Very pleasant, thank you."

He could not say more: he was engaged in devouring with his eyes every feature of her fair face, and thinking in his heart that he had underrated the power of her beauty. In the fortnight that he had been away from her he had pictured her to himself as not half so fair. She had taken off her out-door things, and was dressed in a very plain, brown gown, which fitted closely to her figure. At her throat she wore a little bunch of sweet autumn violets, with one little green leaf, fastened into her dress by a gold brooch. It was the very ostentation of simplicity, yet, with that noble carriage of her head and shoulders, and those massive coils of golden-brown hair, nobody could have failed to remark the distinction of her appearance, nor to recognise the fact that there is a kind of beauty which needs no ornament.

Brian took off the ugly, blue spectacles which he had adopted of late, and laid them upon the mantelshelf. He did not need them in the flickering firelight, which alone illumined the dimness of the room.

Elizabeth laid her shapely arm upon the mantelpiece and looked into the fire. He stood beside her, looking down at her--for he was a little taller than herself--but she seemed unconscious of his gaze. She spoke presently in rather low tones.

"The boys are late. I hope they do not often keep you waiting in this way."

"They have never done it before. I do not mind."

"They were very anxious to have you back. They missed you very much."

Had she missed him, too? He could not venture to ask that question.

"You will find things changed," she went on, restlessly lifting a little vase upon the mantelpiece and setting it down again; "you will find us much busier than we used to be--much more absorbed in our own pursuits.

Scotland is not like Italy."

"No. I wish it were."

"And I----" Her voice broke, as if some emotion troubled her; there came a swift, short sigh, and then she spoke more calmly. "I wish sometimes that one had no duties, no responsibilities; but life would not be worth having if one shirked them, after all."

"There is a charm in life without them--at least, so far without them as that pleasant life in Italy used to be," said he, rather eagerly.

"Yes, but that is all over."

"All over?"

She bowed her head.

"Is there nothing left?" said Brian, approaching her a little more nearly. Then, as she was silent, he continued in a hurried, low voice, "I knew that life must be different here, but I thought that some of the pleasantest hours might be repeated--even in Scotland--although we are without those sunny skies and groves of orange trees. Even if the clouds are grey, and the winds howl without, we might still read Dante's 'Paradiso' and Petrarca's 'Sonnets,' as we used to do at the Villa Venturi."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, gently, "we might. But here I shall not have time."

"Why not? Why should you sacrifice yourself for others in the way you do? It is not right."

"I--sacrifice myself?" she said, lifting her eyes for a moment to his face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, "that I have watched you for the last three months, and I have seen you day after day give up your own pleasure and your own profit for others, until I longed to ask them what right they had to claim your whole life and leave you nothing--nothing--for yourself----"

"You mistake," she interrupted him quickly. "They leave me all I want; and they were kind to me when I came amongst them--a penniless child----"

"What does it matter if you were penniless?" said Brian. "Have you not paid them a thousand times for all that they did for you?" Then, as she looked at him with rather a singular expression in her eyes, he hastened to explain. "I mean that you have given them your love, your care, your time, in a way that no sister, no daughter, ever could have done! You have taught the children all they know; you have sympathised with the cares of every one in turn--I have watched you and seen it day by day!

And I say that even if you are penniless, as you say, you have repaid them a thousand times for all that they have done; and that you are wrong to let them take your time and your care, to the exclusion of your own interests. I beg your pardon; I have said too much," he said, breaking off suddenly, as the singular expression deepened upon her musing face.

"No," she said, with a smile, "I like to hear it: go on. What ought I to do?"

"Ah, that I cannot tell you. But I think you give yourself almost too much to others. Surely, no one could object if you took a little time from the interests of the rest of the family for your own pleasure, for your studies, your amusements?"

"No," she answered, quietly, "I do not suppose they would."

She stood and looked into the fire, and the smile again crossed her face.

"I have said more than I ought to have done," repeated Brian. "Forgive me."

"I will forgive you for everything," she said, "except for thinking that one can do too much for the people that one loves. I am sure that you do not act upon that principle, Mr. Stretton."

"It can be carried to an extreme, like any other," said Mr. Stretton, wisely.

"And you think I carry it to an extreme? Oh, no. I only do what it is a pleasure to me to do. Think of the situation: an orphaned, penniless girl--that is what you have said to yourself is it not----?"

"Yes," said Brian, wondering a little at the keen inquiry in her eyes as she paused for the reply. The questioning look was lost in a lovely smile as she proceeded; she cast down her eyes to hide the expression of pleasure and amusement that his words had caused.

"An orphaned, penniless girl, then, cast on the charity of friends who were then not very well able to support her, educated by them, loved by them--does she not owe them a great debt, Mr. Stretton? What would have become of me without my uncle's care? And, now that I am able to repay them a little--in various ways"--she hesitated as she spoke--"ought I not to do my best to please them? Ought I not to give them as much of myself as they want? Make a generous answer, and tell me that I am right."

"You are always right--too right!" he said, half-impatiently. "If you could be a little less generous----"

"What then?" said Elizabeth.

"Why, then, you would be--more human, perhaps, more like ourselves--but less than what we have always taken you for," said Mr. Stretton, smiling.

Elizabeth laughed. "You have spoilt the effect of your lecture," she said, turning away.

"I beg your pardon. I ought not to have said what I did," said Brian, sensitively alive to her slightest change of tone. "Miss Murray, tell me at least that I have not offended you before you go."

"You have not offended me," she said. He could not see her face.

"You are quite sure?" he said, anxiously. "For, indeed, I had forgotten that it was not my part to offer any opinion upon your conduct, and I am afraid that I have given it with impertinent bluntness. You will forgive me?"

She turned round and looked at him with a smile. There was a colour in her cheek, a softness in her eye, that he did not often see. "Indeed, Mr. Stretton," she said, gently, "I have nothing to forgive. I am very much obliged to you."

He took a step towards her as if there was something else that he would have gladly said; but at that moment the sound of the boys' voices echoed through the hall.

"There is no time for more," said Brian, with some annoyance.

"No," she answered. "And yet I have something else to say to you. Will you remember that some other day?"

"Indeed, I shall remember," he said, fervently. And then the boys burst into the room, and in the hubbub of their arrival Elizabeth escaped.

Her violets had fallen out of her brooch. Brian found them upon the floor when she had gone; henceforth he kept them amongst his treasures.