"What does he mean? Who is he?"

"He means that Melville has lost money to him by gambling; I think he is Lord Maythorne."

"What is to be done? What is to be done, Joyce?" Mrs. Falconer said.

"We must consult Mr. Paget, dear mother. Oh! how glad I was when you came; he is such a bold, bad man."

"Poor child! Poor Sunshine!" Mrs. Falconer said; "I have been very much to blame to leave you all the burden; I will _try_ to do differently now. Kiss me, Joyce."

"And here is a carriage coming up the road," was Piers' next exclamation; "a carriage full of people."

"Oh! there is an old gentleman in a wig and shovel hat, and--"

"It must be the Bishop," exclaimed Mrs. Falconer; "what shall we do?"

It was too late for Mrs. Falconer to retreat, for the carriage had driven up before the door, and the footman had the handle of the bell in his hand.

"The Lord Bishop," he said, addressing Piers, "Mrs. Arundel, and Miss Anson. Is Mrs. Falconer at home?"

And now Joyce advanced out of the shadow, and stood under the roses by the porch.

The late encounter with Lord Maythorne had heightened her colour, and tears were still upon her long lashes--the tears of vexation she had tried so hard to keep back.

One glance, and Mrs. Arundel felt sure she saw before her her son's "Joyce, Sunshine, Birdie! for they call her all those names," he had said.

She looked just now, with her head drooping, and the traces of tears on her cheeks, very like one of the China roses above her, hanging its head after a shower.

Gratian also examined her critically.

She is _beautiful_, she thought, but she has no style; while the Bishop leaned forward, and asked:

"May we alight?"

"Yes, my lord," Joyce said, in a low, gentle voice. "My mother has seen no visitors for a long time; but she will be pleased to see you, and--"

"Mrs. Arundel, I hope, also, and Miss Gratian Anson," the Bishop said, by way of introduction, "Madam," he continued, as he went into the hall, "Madam, I have heard of your good husband; I had once the pleasure--I may say the honour--of seeing him at the palace, and I desire to express to you my condolences. My son," he added, addressing a young gentleman in clerical dress, who was as much like his father as youth can resemble age, "my son is also anxious to pay his respects. My wife, Mrs. Law, is yet absent on account of her health, but returns to the palace next week."

Both the Bishop and his son were courtly gentlemen of what we call now "the old school," and they had peculiarly clear and sonorous voices; the old man's set in rather a lower key than his son's.

"Pray, my lord," Mrs. Falconer said, "walk in, and I beg you to excuse a desolate sitting room," opening a door to the right of the hall; "I have never had courage to sit here since--since our trouble. Joyce draw up the blinds and set the chairs." Mrs. Falconer said this, with something of her old quickness.

"Our little parlour would be warmer, mother; this room feels cold,"

Joyce said, in a low tone, as she obeyed her mother, and noticed the cold, damp, unused atmosphere, which always clings to a room that has been closed for some time.

That room, with its three windows set in thick frames, with deep window-seats beneath, had been Mrs. Falconer's pride. As she looked round now, the furniture seemed dull, and the whole aspect of things changed.

"Yes," she said, sadly, "yes, you are right, Joyce; this room is not fit to sit down in; we will go to our own sitting room, if his lordship will follow me."

The whole party adjourned there, and Piers, with unusual forethought, had already ordered a tray to be brought in; for it was always _en regle_ in country houses in those days to offer refreshment of wine and cake, as calls were paid early, just as afternoon tea is brought in now for visitors later in the day.

Mrs. Arundel left the Bishop to talk to Mrs. Falconer, and Gratian won Piers' heart by professing the deepest interest in his drawer full of birds' eggs, which happened to be opened. That was one of Gratian's strongest weapons; she took, or appeared to take, an interest in everybody's particular hobby, and yet she was listening with one ear to every word that pa.s.sed between Mrs. Arundel and Joyce. Poor Piers was quite unconscious that he had not her whole attention. When Mr. Law joined the discussion she withdrew and said to Joyce, "I should like to see the grounds, would you show me round." Piers wondered at her abrupt departure from the contemplation of the wren's eggs, and his animated story of the way the little wrens huddle together in a nest in the winter, under ground, in a hedge facing south, and come out to try the air in the first warm days in February, retiring again if it is too cold for them.

Joyce led the way, thankful to see how much more her mother looked like herself, as she told to the sympathetic ear of the Bishop the story of her grief.

Gratian took pains to suit herself to her company; she always did. She linked her arm through Joyce's, and talked in a low voice, instead of her wonted high pitched rattle. She told her how grieved she felt for her; she could easily imagine what such a sorrow must be; for she, a "poor orphan" herself, could indeed sympathise with her.

So she talked, as they paced the gravel walk under the sunny south wall of the old-fashioned garden, where the arms of a huge pear-tree were still heavily laden with brown fruit, and where bushes of pale lilac, Michaelmas daisies, and lavender, still attracted a number of late bees and errant wasps, who, like all the rest of the world, found it hard to believe that this was the November sunshine of a short winter's day, and not the long drawn out heat of July.

"I should like to know more of you; to see more," Gratian was saying.

"Of course, I expected you were charming from what Gilbert told me.

Gilbert and I are _great_ friends; he tells me everything."

A scarcely perceptible recoil, in the little figure by her side, was not lost on Gratian.

"Yes," she said, "he is a dear boy--a little spoiled by the notions he has taken up lately; but they are spreading everywhere. The Cambridge men are even worse than the Oxford men. However, I won't quarrel with Gilbert about that, and I can take a little preachment from him. Aunt Bella is pleased with anything Gilbert says or does; and as to Maythorne----"

Joyce started, very visibly this time, at that name, and said, withdrawing her hand from her companion's arm, and stooping to gather some sprigs of lavender:

"I suppose Lord Maythorne is a relation of yours?"

"Distant; very distant," was the reply. "A connection is nearer the truth."

"Because," Joyce said, "I think he is a very bad and wicked man, and I wish you could tell him never to come here again."

"Come here! Has he been here," Gratian exclaimed. "What on earth did he come here for?"

"He had not been gone half-an-hour before the Bishop's carriage drove up. He has, as you know, done my eldest brother a great deal of mischief; and, though my dear father thought he had cleared all his debts, this Lord Maythorne says that he still owes him a great deal, and we cannot pay it."

"And is that what he came to say; very kind and pleasant of him, I must confess. I expect he said a great deal more."

Joyce blushed scarlet.

"He was very impertinent," she said, "and talked in a very free way to me, but it is over now, and I wish to forget it. Only, if you can, will you prevent him from coming again; or as he is Mrs. Arundel's brother, could you ask _her_ to prevent him. When I have consulted Mr. Paget, dear father's executor and our trustee, I will try if any of the money can be paid."

"Don't think of paying a farthing," Gratian said, "pray; I will see what I can do in the matter. I will talk to Gilbert. Gilbert is certain to do what I ask him, and I know how much he cared about your brother. Yes, you may depend upon my doing my best, you darling!" Gratian said, stooping down and kissing Joyce's rounded cheek.

Joyce made no response, as Gratian expected, and then they walked silently to the house.

As they drove towards Wells, Gratian, after a pause suddenly said:

"Aunt Bella, Maythorne is still in this neighbourhood. He has been at Fair Acres to-day."

"Maythorne!" Mrs. Arundel exclaimed. Then to herself, but not aloud, she said:

"I must let Gilbert know at once."

[Ill.u.s.tration]