"will you answer this for me, baby?—tell major bethune that we shall be glad to see him here this week, and for as long as he cares to stay."

aspasia took the letter between disdainful finger and thumb, and turned it over to peruse. rosamond, leaning her chin on her hand, looked away from the breakfast-table through the small-paned windows into the wintry garden, and was lost in some dream again.

miss cuningham's nostrils dilated with indignation as she read the brief dry lines in which major bethune informed lady gerardine that he would be glad if she could now furnish him with some of the promised material for his work, as he was at a stand-still. he could run down for the day, if it suited, and with kind regards to her niece—begged to remain, and so forth.

"kind regards to her niece," repeated that young lady to herself with an ominous tightness of expression. "yes, aunt," she said aloud, with some alacrity. "leave it to me; i shall write to major bethune."

she finished her tea with a gulp and hurried to the corner of the drawing-room, where she had established her lares and penates, to undertake the congenial task.

her dimples pointed deep satisfaction as she wrote. "kind regards," indeed! this major of guides should be taught his proper place in the estimation of miss aspasia cuningham.

dear major bethune (she wrote)—my aunt bids me to say that she will be charmed if you can arrange your promised visit for next week. you did promise to come here, did not you? i positively forget. it seems such ages since that dreadful, dreary sea journey, that it was quite a surprise to hear from you this morning. we are having such a happy time here that india and all the rest of it seem never to have existed. we do enjoy being by ourselves. kind regards from my aunt, yours very truly,

concluded miss aspasia with a vindictive flourish.

having despatched this epistle in triumph, it was astonishing how much brighter became miss cuningham's outlook upon the world at large and the manor-house in particular. she developed a renewed interest in housekeeping details; not, as she was careful to explain, that it mattered really what they gave this gentleman to eat or to drink, only aunt rosamond was so fastidious.

she discovered that it was absolutely necessary for the entertainment of any visitor that a pony and cart should immediately be added to the establishment, and spent an exciting afternoon in scouring the countryside for the same.

it was, of course, the sense of duty well accomplished that gave such a sparkle to her eye and such an irrepressible tilt to the corners of her lips, as she sat waiting for the return of the above-mentioned vehicle from the station the day of major bethune's arrival. it had not been her intention to gratify him with a sight of her countenance so soon; but lady gerardine, after faithfully promising to be in attendance at the appointed time, had wandered off, in the vague way of which aspasia was becoming resignedly tolerant, for one of her long solitary rambles; and the girl could not, for the credit of the house, but take on herself the neglected hospitable duty.

alas for all the resolves of a noble pride! she had hardly been ten minutes in the company of the newly arrived guest before she had fallen into the old terms of confidential intimacy.

afterwards she could not quite tell herself how it had happened; whether because of the good softening of his harsh face as he looked down at her, or of the warm close grasp of his hand which drove away at once the forlorn feeling which had possessed her poor little gregarious soul all these days; or whether it were the mollifying influence of old mary's scones, the cosiness of the fragrant tea and the leaping fire in contrast to the dreary dusk gathering outside. perhaps it was merely that her healthy nature could harbour no resentment, albeit the most justifiable. however it may have been, major bethune found his welcome at the manor-house sweet. even the maidenly coldness of her first greeting pleased his fastidious old-fashioned notions; and the subsequent thawing of this delicate rime came upon him with something of the balm of sunshine on a frosty morning.

his face stiffened, however, at aspasia's first confidence about her aunt, into which she plunged, after her usual manner, without the slightest preamble.

"she's awfully good to me, always; sweeter to me than ever, these last few days—when we meet! but i scarcely see her, except at meals. and then we don't seem to be living in the same world. it's like talking through the telephone," cried the girl. "of course, i am quite aware," she went on, "that the poor darling is suffering from neu—neurasth—well, whatever they call it; that her nerves are all wrong. 'tisn't anything so very new either," she giggled, "'tis just too much runkle—runkleitis.... i know myself, even i, at times, have felt as if i could scream and tear out his hair by the roots. what must it have been for her! she kept up, you see; that's her way. and now that she's free of him for a bit, it's the reaction, i suppose."

he drank his tea in sips, listening to her, his head bent. the firelight leaped and cast changing lights upon his countenance. baby thought he looked thinner, older, sterner; yet she could never be afraid of him. there was something extraordinarily pleasant in having him there. the very loneliness of the old ancient house added a zest. the unsubstantial image of harry english faded like a ghost before the dawn in the strong man's presence. she edged her chair an inch closer.

"i am sorry lady gerardine is no better," said he, formally, into the silence.

"oh, better!" answered aspasia. "will you have another cup?" ("that makes the third." she was pleased; here was a tribute to her capacity.) "better?—that's what is so funny, she's as well as possible. she looks young, young, with a bloom on her cheeks, and sometimes she walks about smiling to herself. it makes me creep. i can't think what she's smiling at. she comes down, singing softly to herself. why, there are times when she looks just like a girl. no one could ever believe she's had two husbands," cried terrible baby.

major bethune put down his cup, untouched. ("he didn't want it after all," commented she.) "it is rather strange," she went on aloud; "she's simply bloomed since she came here, and the whole house is full of harry english. and she's shut up half the time, in his old rooms under the roof, routing among those old letters, you know—those letters there was all the fuss about. i thought we'd killed her over them between us," said baby, with her little nervous laugh. "and now, i don't know, but i almost think i would rather see her cry and look pale as before. it would seem more natural. really, i'm frightened sometimes."

her pretty face, with its wide open eyes, took a piteous look in the firelight.

"you don't think it means anything?" she resumed. and the tears suddenly welled, the corners of her mouth drooped: she seemed no more than a child. he stretched out his arm and took her hand.

"mean?" he said. "why, miss aspasia, what should it mean? something perhaps that your kind heart would find hard to understand. but it means, after all, nothing so very unusual. lady gerardine, and it is all the better for her, is of those who are quickly consoled. the country air is doing her good, and the old letters——" he dropped her hand, his tones grew incisive. "it is only when the past is more satisfactory than the present that memories are disagreeable."

"oh," cried aspasia. she started to her feet. "what a funny way you have of saying that!" and as the meaning of his words forced itself upon her, "how unkind! i think you hate aunt rosamond."

"i?" said he, startled. he rose in his turn. "what an absurd idea!" he laughed, but his lips seemed stiff. "i?—i would not presume, how could i? to have any feeling for lady gerardine but that of distant respect."

the door opened and in came rosamond.

"in the dark!" she said, looking upon them unseeingly after the light of the hall. "is that major bethune?"

she came forward, while aspasia, on her knees, violently poked the fire into a blaze.

"rose of the world," thought bethune, as the ruddy glow fell upon the figure of his friend's widow. it was true she looked like a girl. her cheek was rose-red from the cold wind. her shadowed eyes brilliant. the light tendrils of her hair floated back from her white forehead.

"you are welcome," she said, and mingled with her grace and sweetness there was a timidity which was as exquisite and as indescribable an addition to her beauty as the bloom to the purple of the grape or the mist to the line of the hills at dawn. he bowed over her hand. he felt angry with himself that he had no word to say.

"tea?" said aspasia. as he took the cup from her to pass it to lady gerardine, he heard the spoon clink against the saucer with the trembling of his own hand.