"I am not too weak to learn the truth," said Aunt Penelope. "I have, in my humble opinion, the first right to you, for it was I who trained you and who gave you what little education you possess; therefore I hold that I have a right. What did that woman do, why did you run away from her? As to your father, poor chap--well, of course, he's bound heart and soul to the horrible creature, but that's what comes from doing wrong.

Your father did a very bad thing and----"

"Aunt Penelope," I interrupted--I took her hand and held it firmly--"don't--don't tell me to-night."

She looked at me out of her hard, bright eyes, then seemed to collapse into herself, then said slowly--

"Very well, I won't, I won't tell you to-night, that is, if you promise to say why you have returned."

"I will tell you," I answered. "Auntie, Lady Helen's house is the world, and you taught me to despise the world; you taught me not to spend my time and my money on dress and grand things; you taught me not to waste such a short, valuable, precious thing as life. Oh, Aunt Penelope, in that house people do nothing but kill time, and my Daddy is in it--my own Daddy! You know how brisk he used to be, how bright, how determined, but now--something seems to be eating into his heart, and breaking his strength and spirit--and--people have hinted things about him!"

Aunt Penelope nodded her head.

"They're likely to," she answered. "Major Grayson could not expect matters to be otherwise."

"But, auntie, that is one of the hardest things of all. My darling father is not even called Major Grayson--he has to take the name of Dalrymple."

"What!" said Aunt Penelope. "Does he dare to be ashamed of his father's honest name?"

"I don't understand," I answered. "But I am called Dalrymple, too--Heather Dalrymple."

"Don't repeat the words again, child; they make a hideous combination."

"Well," I continued, "the house did not please me nor the people who came to it, and I hardly ever saw father, and I lived my own life. Lady Carrington was very kind to me, and I went to her when I could, but my stepmother was impatient, and did not want me to spend my time with her, and she put obstacles in the way, so that I could not see my kind friend very often. Still, I had no idea of deserting father and of going back to you; the thought of returning to you only came to me to-day--to-day, when I was in awful agony. Oh, auntie, dear, I can put it into a few words. I have met--I have met at Lady Carrington's house one----"

"You're in love, child," said Aunt Penelope. "I might have guessed it, it is the way of most women. I had half hoped that you'd escape. I never fell in love--I would not let myself."

"Oh, but if the right man came along, you could not help it," I replied.

"Then you think he is the right man--you have found your Mr. Right?"

"Yes, I have found the one whom I love with all my heart and soul; he is good. You would love him, too--but there's another man----"

"Two! G.o.d bless me!" said Aunt Penelope. "In my day a girl thought herself lucky if she found one man to care for her, but two! It doesn't sound proper."

"The other man is rich, and--oh, he's nice, he's awfully nice, only he is old--I won't tell you his name, there is no use--but Lady Helen wanted me to marry the rich old man, and to give up the young man whom I love, and--and father seemed to wish it, too--and somehow, auntie darling, I can't do it--I can't--so I have run away to you."

"Where you will stay," said my aunt, speaking in a firm and cheery voice, "until the Lord wills to show me clearly the right in this matter. You marry an old man whom you don't love, my sister's child exposed to such torture as that!--child, I am glad you came to me, you anyway showed a gleam of common sense."

"And you have taken me in," I answered, "and I'm ever so happy; it is home to be back with you."

Thus ended my first evening with Aunt Penelope. That night I slept again in my little old bed in my tiny chamber, and so kindly do we revert to the old times and to the things of youth that I felt more at home in that little bed and slept sounder there than I had done since I left it.

I had gone out into the world, and the world had treated me badly. I was not destined, however, to stay long in peace and quietness at Aunt Penelope's. On the very next day there arrived a letter from my father.

I recognised the handwriting, and as I carried Aunt Penelope up her tea and toast and her lightly-boiled fresh egg, I took the letter also, guessing in my heart of hearts what its contents were.

"Here is a letter from father, auntie," I said.

She looked into my face and immediately opened it. She was decidedly on the mend that morning: she said she had slept very well. As I stood by her bedside she calmly read the letter, then she handed it to me; I also read the few words scribbled on it:--

We are in great perplexity and very unhappy, Penelope. My dear wife and I returned unexpectedly from Brighton last night, and found that Heather had been out all day. Her maid was in a distracted state. I am writing to know if by any chance she has gone back to you? I have just been to Carrington's; she is not with them. I think the child would probably go to you; in any case, will you send me a telegram on receipt of this, to say if she is with you or not?

Your unhappy brother-in-law,

GORDON GRAYSON.

"What do you mean to do?" I said to Aunt Penelope, as I laid the letter back again on her breakfast tray.

"Leave it to me," she said. "You're but a silly sort of child, and never half know what you ought to be doing. You want wiser heads than your own to guide you."

"But you won't tell him--you won't tell him?" I repeated.

Aunt Penelope made no remark, but began munching her toast with appet.i.te.

"You do cook well, Heather," she said. "Although you are a society girl I can see that you'll never forget the lessons I imparted to you."

"I hope not," I answered.

"I consider you a very sensible girl." Here Aunt Penelope began to attack her egg.

"Really?" I answered.

"Yes, very. You have acted with judgment and forethought; I am pleased with you, I don't attempt to deny it. Now then, what do you say to my telling your father exactly where you are?"

"But, of course, you won't--you could not."

"Don't you bother me about what I won't or I could not do, for I tell you I will do anything in the world that takes my fancy, and my fancy at the present moment is to see you through a difficult pa.s.s. I don't trust Gordon Grayson--could not, after what has happened."

"Auntie! _How_ can you speak like that!"

"There you go, flying out for no reason at all. Now, please tell me, what sort of person is that young man you care for--I hate to repeat the word love. To 'care for' a man is _quite_ sufficient before marriage; of course, you may do what you like afterwards--anyhow, you care for or love, forsooth! this youth. What is he like?"

"Just splendid," I said. "I have put him into my gallery of heroes."

"Oh, now you are talking rubbish! Is he the sort of man your dear mother, my blessed sister, would have approved of your marrying? Think carefully and tell me the truth."

"I am sure she would," I replied, "for he is honest and tender-hearted, and poor and true, and devoted to me, and I love him with all my heart and soul!"

"Poof, child, poof! You're in love and that's a horrid state for any girl to be in; it's worse in a girl than in a man. You haven't a likeness of him by any chance, have you?"

"No, he never gave me his photograph, but he's very--I mean he is quite handsome."

"You needn't have told me that, for, of course, I know it. He is handsome in your eyes. You have no photograph, however, to prove your words; you are just in love with this youth, and your father wants you to return because he and that grand lady of his intend you to marry the old gentleman with the money. What sort is the old man? Is he in trade, in the b.u.t.ter business, or tobacco, or what?"

"Oh, no, he's a lord," I said feebly.

"Heaven preserve us--a lord! Then if you married him you'd be a countess?"

"I don't know--perhaps I should; I don't want to marry him."