next afternoon betty left jill engaged in filling up the blanks in her christmas letters, and pam lovingly dressing up pamela junior in her various costumes, and, accompanied by her father and miles, called for cynthia and set out to walk across the park to the albert hall, where miss beveridge and a friend had arranged to meet them in the box.

cynthia looked delightfully graceful and pretty in a blue costume and hat, which had already caused betty many pangs of envy, and perhaps it was a remembrance of his own youth which made dr trevor pass his hand through betty’s arm and lead her ahead, so that his son should have the pleasure of a talk with this very charming little lady. miles was the best of good fellows, all solid goodness and worth, but he was still in the boorish stage, and it would do him good to be drawn out of himself, and forced to play the gallant.

miles himself was by no means sure that he approved of the arrangement. he would have preferred to walk behind cynthia, and admire her pretty hair, her tiny feet, and the general air of daintiness which was to him the greatest charm of all, but he had not the slightest idea what to say, and thought of the long walk before him with something approaching consternation. fortunately for him cynthia was not in the least shy, and had so seldom an opportunity of talking to anyone of her own age, that she could have chattered away the whole afternoon without the slightest difficulty.

“it isn’t often you have a holiday, is it?” she said, smiling at him in her bright, friendly manner. “once when i was up very early i saw you going out before six o’clock, and now if i’m awake i hear the door slam—you do slam it very loudly, you know!—and know it is you going out to your work. it makes me feel so lazy, because i am supposed to do half an hour’s practising before nine o’clock breakfast, and i do feel it such a penance.”

miles laughed shortly.

“did you ever see me coming back?” he inquired, and when cynthia nodded, with a twinkle in her eye—“betty was afraid you would believe i was a real workman,” he told her. “she thought you would put us down as quite impossible people, having a workman living in the house!”

“betty is a goose,” said betty’s new friend cheerily, “but she is a nice goose. i like her. i guessed you were learning to be an engineer, because i have a cousin who did the same. i like a man to do manly work. i suppose you are dreadfully interested in all those noisy engines and things. tell me about them.”

it was rather a large order, and miles would have answered shortly enough if an ordinary acquaintance had put such a question, but there was a magnetism about cynthia which broke down reserve, and to his own astonishment he found himself answering quite easily and naturally.

“i am not studying for railway engineering—i am going in for mines. it’s a different course altogether, and in some ways much more difficult. there seems nothing that a mining engineer ought not to know—assaying, and surveying, and everything to do with minerals, and, of course, a thorough understanding of pumps, and all the machinery employed. then he ought to know something about doctoring, and even cooking, if he wants to be an all-round success, for ten to one he will be sent to some out-of-the-way wilderness where there is no one else to look after the comfort of his men—”

“is that what you intend to do? go and bury yourself at the end of the world?”

“i expect so—any time after the next six months. i shall have finished my course by that time, and be on the look-out for the first opening that comes!”

“what will betty do without you?”

betty’s brother shrugged his shoulders with the unconcern with which, it is to be feared, most lads regard their sisters’ feelings.

“oh, she’ll get used to it! it’s no use sticking at home if one wants to get on in the world. i should never be content to jog along in a secondary position all my life, as some fellows do. i don’t care how hard i work, but i mean to get to the very top of the tree!”

“wish i’d been born a boy! it must be delicious to rough it in the wilds,” sighed cynthia, stepping daintily over a puddle, and looking down with concern to see if perchance there was a splash on her boots. “boys have much the best of it; they have a chance of doing something great in the world, while girls have to stay at home and—darn their socks! all the great things are done by men—in war, in science, in discovery, even in art and literature, though a few women may equal them there. all the great things are made by men, too, the wonderful cathedrals and buildings, and the great bridges and battleships—all the big things. there’s so little left for us.”

miles looked at her beneath drawn brows, his rugged face softening with the smile that betty loved to see.

“and who makes the men?” he asked simply, and cynthia peered at him in startled, eager fashion, and cried—

“you mean—we do? women, mothers and sisters and wives? is that what you mean? oh, i do think you say nice things!” (shy, silent old miles being accused of saying “nice things” to a member of the opposite sex! wonders will never cease!) “i shall remember that, next time i see a lucky boy pass by rattling the railings, and looking as if the world belonged to him, while i must stand behind the curtains, because it’s not ‘lady-like’ to stare out of the windows! i do ramp and rage sometimes!”

miles’ laugh rang out so merrily that betty turned to stare in amazement. the idea of cynthia doing anything so violent as “ramp and rage” seemed impossible to realise, as one looked at her dainty figure and sweet pink-and-white face. all the same it was a pleasure to find that she did not belong to the wax-doll type of girl, but had a will and a temper of her own.

“yes, you may laugh,” she cried, laughing herself, “but it’s quite true. or perhaps it would be more ‘lady-like’ to say that i feel like ‘a caged bird,’ as people do in books. in future i shall console myself with the thought that i may be the lever which supplies the force. is that simile right, or ridiculously wrong? it’s rash of me to use engineering terms before you. i mean that i’ll try to be a good influence to some man, and so inspire work, if i can’t do it myself. the worst is, i know so few men! father is abroad, all our relations are far away, and until i come out i seem to meet nothing but girls, old and young. of course, if i got to know you better, i might influence you!”

she turned her laughing face upon him, the face of a frank, innocent child, for, though she was nearly seventeen years old, cynthia was absolutely innocent of the flirtatious instinct which is strong in some little girls in the coral and pinafore stage. she offered her friendship to betty’s brother as composedly as she had done to betty herself; it was miles who blushed, and stared at the pavement, and his voice sounded hoarse and difficult as he mumbled his reply—

“i wish you—i’m sure i should—awfully good thing for me if you did!”

“very well; but you will have to do great things, remember! i shan’t be satisfied with anything less. it will be good for me too, for i shall have to be very stern with myself, if i am to influence someone else. what are your chief faults? i ought to know, oughtn’t i, so as to be able to set to work the right way?”

she was so deliciously naïve and outspoken, that once again miles’ rare laugh rang out, and once again betty marvelled, and felt a thrill of envy.

by the time that the albert hall was reached, the two young people had progressed so far towards intimacy that miles had forgotten his shyness, and confided to his new mentor some of the trials and grievances which beset him in his work, the which he had never before confided in a human being. the attraction of one sex to another is a natural and beautiful thing. god designed it as one of the great forces in his universe, and an almost omnipotent power it is, either for good or evil. do the girls who jest and frivol with the young men with whom they are brought in contact, realise their responsibility in all they say and do? do they ever reflect that the beauty and charm which they possess are weapons with which god has endowed them,—weapons which may have more power in the battle of life than a two-edged sword? laugh and be merry—enjoy the sunshine of your youth; it is a sin to see a young thing sad; but never, never, as you value your womanhood, speak a slighting or irreverent word against god’s great laws of righteousness, nor allow such a word to pass unreproved in your presence. remember in the midst of your merry-making to preserve your dignity as women, knowing that by so doing you will not lose, but trebly strengthen your hold on any man worthy of the name. say to yourself, dear girls—“with god’s help i will be a good angel to this man, who has to meet trials and temptations from which i am exempt. so far as in me lies i will make him respect all women, and help, not hinder him in his work.” it isn’t necessary to be prim and proper—don’t think that! the misses prunes and prisms, who are always preaching, weary rather than help, but when the bright, sweet-natured girl, who loves a joke, and can be the whole-hearted companion of a summer day, speaks a word of reproof, or draws back from a proposed enterprise, her action carries with it a treble weight of influence.

when the whole party were seated in the box—miss beveridge and betty in the front row, cynthia and governess number two in the second, and the two “men” at the back—miles had little attention to spare for the music, so absorbed was he in gazing at cynthia’s delicately-cut profile, and in weaving about her the halo of a young man’s first romance. there was no romance in the two girls; they were absorbed in admiration of the wonderful building itself, in enjoyment of the music, and in anxiety to do their duty to dear mrs vanburgh’s “govies,” as they irreverently termed miss beveridge and her companion. even when on pleasure bent, the former could not be called “responsive.” when asked, “do you like music?” she replied curtly, “no! i teach it!” which reduced the questioner to stupid silence, though her thoughts were active enough.

“oh, indeed! that’s one for me, as i am a pupil still! it’s the stupidity of pupils which has made her dislike music, but then—why does she come to a concert? why couldn’t she have had the decency to refuse, and let someone else have the ticket? oh, i do dislike you—you cold,—cutting, disagreeable, ungrateful, snappy old thing!”

betty sat back in her chair and let her eyes rest on miss beveridge’s profile, as that lady in her turn stared fixedly at the orchestra. she was wearing quite “a decent little toque,” and had taken pains with the arrangement of her hair. betty was at the stage when she imagined that it was impossible that life could retain any interest after the age of thirty, but it dawned upon her now that, at some far-off, prehistoric period, miss beveridge had been handsome—even very handsome, which made her present condition all the more pitiable. suppose, just suppose for a moment, that one became old and lonely, and poor and plain and snappy, oneself! it was too horrible a prospect to be believed; much more satisfactory to take refuge in the usual rose-coloured dreams!

the royal box was close at hand—empty, unfortunately, of interesting occupants. how would it feel to be a princess, and loll back in one’s chair, conscious of being the cynosure of every eye? betty lolled, and tried to project herself into the position, pleasingly conscious of a new blouse, quite immaculate suede gloves, and cynthia’s buckle showing its dull blues and reds at the front of her belt. she turned her head slowly from side to side, and cultivated a charming smile.—“princess elizabeth appeared in the royal box, looking as fascinating as ever in a costume of her favourite grey.—”

the musical programme was interesting and varied, but during the second half of the concert the cheerfulness of the scene was sadly marred by the ever-increasing fog which crept in from without, filling the vast interior with a gloom against which the many lights seemed powerless to contend. dr trevor began to feel a little nervous about the safety of his party, and suggested making a move before the end of the concert, but miss beveridge insisted that she and her friend needed no escort home.

“it would have to be a very bad fog to frighten us. we are accustomed to going about town in all weathers,” she declared, and this was so obviously the case that it seemed affectation to protest. the doctor therefore explained that as he was in charge of cynthia he wished to allay her mother’s natural anxiety as soon as possible, and the young people bade farewell to their guests of the afternoon and hurried downstairs.

early though it was, hundreds of people seemed to have been inspired by the same fears, for the stairway was thronged and the passages downstairs were becoming momentarily blocked. dr trevor tucked cynthia’s hand through his arm.

“look after your sister, miles,” he cried, turning a quick glance over his shoulder. “i’m afraid it’s very thick. keep close behind me if you can. in any case make the best of your way home.”

a moment later they passed through the doorway into a world of black gloom, in which phantom shapes at one moment pressed against one, and at the next vanished utterly from sight.

betty gave a little cry of dismay, for, london-bred as she was, never before had she been out of doors in such an impenetrable fog. she put out her hand towards the spot where miles had stood a moment before, but her fingers gripped nothing more substantial than air. she gave a quick leap forward, and clutching at a shadowy coat-sleeve shook it violently, calling out in accents half-frightened, half-angry—

“miles, how horrid of you! you must not stalk on ahead like that! i shall be lost, and then what will become of me? for pity’s sake keep hold of my arm!”

she had walked a few paces forward as she spoke, but now she stopped short, in response to a determined movement of the arm to which she clung. betty glanced upwards in surprise; she could not see the face so near to her arm, but the blood chilled in her veins as a strange voice answered slowly—

“but—i’m sorry, but i do not happen to be miles!”