It was Saxa Lydon who said those words, for the old man’s face became suddenly convulsed; his head dropped back, and, as Neil sank on one knee and passed his arm beneath the neck, it turned sidewise, with the eyes seeming to gaze reproachfully into his, but there was neither sight nor understanding then.

The grey dawn was creeping into the room when Ralph Elthorne recovered consciousness, and looked up questioningly in his son’s face.

But he did not speak for a time, only let his eyes wander about the room, and they saw that he appeared to be noting who were present, his gaze resting long on both his sons, his daughter, sister, and the nurse.

At last he spoke.

“Isabel.”

She ran to his side, and sank upon her knees.

“The girls?” he said feebly. “Saxa – Dana?”

“They went home, papa, dear, about two,” whispered Isabel; “but don’t try to talk, now. Look at me, and I’ll try to understand what you mean.”

He took no notice of her prayer, but closed his eyes, and lay apparently thinking, his next words indicating that he recalled what had taken place.

“Yes,” he said gently; “they could not stay here. Tell Alison and your aunt to go and then you go too.”

Neil advanced just then to watch his father narrowly, but the old man made no sign of anger. He lay quite calm and still, as if utterly exhausted, but his son noted that he watched until Aunt Anne and Alison had gone, when he unclosed his eyes fully, and whispered to Isabel to leave.

“May I not stay, papa? I may be wanted.”

“No. You have been here all night. Kiss me and go – ”

Isabel bent down weeping, pressed her lips on her father’s brow, and then left the room, with Nurse Elisia and Neil both watching patiently as the stricken man’s eyes remained fast shut.

But he was quite conscious, for upon Neil approaching the couch after a time, his lips parted.

“I am not asleep,” he said, gently, “only very weak. You need not both stay.”

Neil looked at his father wonderingly, and with something of dread, the old man seemed so passionless and strange.

Just then the invalid opened his eyes and gazed full at his son.

“I know what I am saying,” he said quietly. “I recollect all that has passed, but I am too weak and helpless to speak much. Nurse!”

She went to his side.

“Let him stay with me. You can go for an hour or two. I am not going to die – yet.”

She looked at him keenly, and then at Neil, as if to question him, but she did not speak.

“The danger is past,” he said quietly. “You can safely go for a time.”

“Then set me free, sir,” she cried, quickly, her woman’s nature asserting itself now above the habit of the passionless trained nurse. “If there were danger, I would stay, but you say it is past; and it is impossible for me to stay here after what has happened.”

“There is no reason now, madam,” said Neil coldly. “I am doctor, and you are the nurse. You need not fear that I shall speak again. You cannot leave my father yet.”

She looked at him wildly, and then, growing momentarily less self-controlled, she avoided his eyes and turned to the invalid, bending down over him gently.

“Mr Elthorne,” she said; “you have heard your son’s words as regards your state. I cannot stay here now. Give me your permission to go.”

He looked at her sadly, and feebly shook his head.

“No, nurse,” he whispered huskily. “You cannot go. Not yet – not yet.”

She started, for he raised his hand, took hers and held it while he gazed half wonderingly in her face, as Neil, unable to conceal his feelings, hurried away to his own room.

“I am not fit to be left, nurse,” said Ralph Elthorne gently. “You know how ill and weak I am.”

A sob rose in her throat as she tried to be calm, while he gazed intently in her face, scanning each feature.

“So weak, so helpless,” he muttered, as if to himself, but she heard every word; “and I never thought of this, I never thought of this. Yes, Anne. You wish to see me?”

“Yes, dear,” said that lady, who had entered now unannounced even by a tap on the door. “Yes, Ralph. I want to speak to you very particularly.” He turned to Nurse Elisia, and spoke in an apologetic manner, and very feebly.

“Leave us, please, nurse,” he said. “I will talk to you later on.”

“No, sir,” she whispered. “Give me leave to go.”

“Not yet, not yet,” he replied. “I will lie here and think. It is all so sudden.” Then, with a sudden flash of his old manner, “No; you are not to go until I give you leave.”

She glanced at Aunt Anne, who had ignored her presence entirely, and then she went slowly to the room set apart for her use, asking herself how all this would end, and whether it would not be wiser to leave the house at once, and end the painful position in which she stood.

“Well, Anne, dear,” said Mr Elthorne feebly. “You want to speak to me?”

“Yes, Ralph, I must speak to you now.”

“Speak gently, then, dear; I am much weaker. Not so well to-day.”

“And never will be well again, Ralph, with the house in this state,” cried Aunt Anne, ruffling up, and speaking excitedly.

“What, what do you mean?” he faltered; and it was like the shadow of his former self speaking. “What do I mean, Ralph? I mean that the place has not been the same since that dreadful woman came.”

“You are wrong, my dear, you are wrong,” he said querulously. “So good and attentive to me. I should have been dead before now if it had not been for her.”

“Oh, my dear brother, how can you be so blindly prejudiced! Can you not see the woman’s cunning and artfulness?”

“No, Anne, no. She has been very good and kind.”

“Yes; that is it, Ralph dear, playing a part. She has won those two foolish boys to think of her only, and insult poor Saxa and Dana; and now she has ended by winning over poor Isabel, who is in a state of rebellion. I have had a terrible scene with her. She actually takes this dreadful woman’s part.”

“Poor little Isabel!” sighed the sick man.

“And she’s behaving shamefully to poor Sir Cheltnam.”

“Ah!”

“Yes; shamefully, Ralph, shamefully.”

“And you came to tell me that, my dear?” said Elthorne quietly.

“Yes, Ralph, and it has come to this.”

She stopped short, and dabbed her face with her handkerchief.

“Yes, my dear, it has come to this? Tell me. I am tired. I must sleep again.”

“That this woman, this nurse must leave the house at once.”

“Leave? Nurse Elisia leave?” said Elthorne with a faint smile. “No, my dear, you do not wish to kill me.”

“Heaven forbid, Ralph! I will nurse you now, and Isabel shall relieve me from time to time.”

“No, my dear, no,” he said gently. “You are very good and kind, but you do not understand.”

“Not understand nursing?” she cried angrily. “Not such nursing as I require. No, my dear. She cannot go.”

“Then I shall,” cried Aunt Anne angrily.

Her brother laughed softly.

“No,” he said; “you will not go. The house could not exist without you, sister.”

“Am I to keep your house, then, or not, Ralph?”

“To keep it? of course, dear, as you always have done.”

“I am mistress here, then?”

“Yes, my dear, yes.”

“Then that woman goes at once,” cried Aunt Anne emphatically.

“No,” said Ralph Elthorne quietly.

“But I say yes, Ralph. I am mistress of this house, and it is my duty to send her away.”

“And I am master, dear, feeble and broken as I am. She stays till I bid her go.”

“Ralph, must I tell you everything I know?”

“There is no need, sister.”

“But the woman’s antecedents? Maria was at the hospital, and saw all her dreadful goings on with the students, and with poor deluded Neil.”

“Maria? Pish!” said Elthorne with a contemptuous smile. “Nurse Elisia’s face tells something different from that, my dear. I would sooner believe her candid eyes than Maria Bellow’s oath.”

“Ralph! Has this dreadful woman bewitched you too?”

“Enough!” he said feebly. “Go to your cupboards and your keys, Anne. You are a good, true woman, but you have always been as blind and prejudiced as your brother has been overbearing and harsh. This illness has brought me very low, dear, and taught me much. Go now, and remember: I owe Nurse Elisia my life. She is to be treated with respect, and I shall send her away when I think good.”

“The woman is a witch,” muttered Aunt Anne, as she left the room.

Chapter Twenty Three.
Discussing the Past

A fortnight’s watching, and the accompaniments of care and skill, had been needed to save Ralph Elthorne from sinking slowly into his grave. The shock of his seizure had wrought terrible havoc, but the worst was now over, and he was weak, but recovering fast.

There had been no further talk of the nurse leaving, and matters had remained in abeyance. Sir Denton had been down twice and given his instructions, and she had resigned herself to her position – knowing that the invalid depended upon her for everything, refusing even to take his food from other hands, and that if she persisted in her wish to go, the consequences might be terrible.

It must have been a terribly lonely life, for she seemed to be avoided by all in the house. She saw Neil, of course, frequently in the sick room, but few words passed, and those he uttered with formal respect, as he gave her some instructions. Alison she saw from time to time, evidently watching her window, and from him came flowers and fruit daily, Maria being the bearer, and setting them down with an insolent sneer, which would have roused one less dignified and patient to some retort. But Nurse Elisia had her consolations in the progress of the patient and the grateful looks he gave her, while, regularly now, stealing in hurriedly, and as if she were performing some guilty act, a little figure crept in, last thing, to pass its arm about her neck, kiss her, and say “Good-night.”

It was then at the end of a fortnight, and Ralph Elthorne, terribly changed, but recovering now fast from the shock, lay near the window, while Nurse Elisia sat close at hand, working, and ready to attend to his lightest wish.

He had been lying there very silent since his son’s last visit to the room, when he suddenly raised one thin white hand, and beckoned.

Elisia was at his side in a moment.

“What can I get you, sir?” she said gently.

“Nothing. Come and sit here. I want to talk to you.”

“Do you feel strong enough, sir?”

“Yes.”

She brought her work and sat near him, but he signed to her to put the work away.

“I want to talk to you seriously about the past.”

She glanced at him quickly, and he went on.

“Yes – about the past. I have not said a word till now. I have been too weak, and it is only just within the last day or two that I have grasped it all thoroughly.”

“Pray leave it still, sir,” she said, with some show of agitation.

“No, I must get this all off my mind. Now, tell me – you heard what my son said on the day of my seizure – my son Neil?”

She bowed her head.

“Well, has he made further advances to you?”

“No, sir, we have only spoken in your presence.” There was a pause, and then, gazing at her curiously, he continued.

“Did you – know – what he expressed – before you came down here – at the hospital?”

“Yes, sir, perfectly well.”

“Ah! Then ought you to have come?”

“It was my duty sir,” she said with animation; “it was Sir Denton’s wish – almost his command; and, knowing what I did, I felt that I might come.”

“Knowing what you did? What was that?”

“I could trust myself, sir, to let Mr Neil Elthorne see that what he wished was impossible.”

“Ah, but he offered you his hand?”

“Yes, sir, and I refused.”

Again there was a pause.

“You do not like my son Neil?”

“Like him, sir!” she cried, with her face flushing; “I think him the truest, noblest gentleman I ever met.”

“Ah! And yet, feeling like that, you refused him?”

“Yes, sir, it is impossible.”

Ralph Elthorne lay watching her, and she met his searching gaze without blanching, her soft grey eyes slightly clouded by the tears which rose and gathered till they brimmed over and one great drop slowly trickled down her cheek.

“And my son Alison? – he was attracted by you too. What of him?”

“Mr Alison Elthorne has followed me from the day I came, sir, and proffered his love.”

“And you have turned a deaf ear to him as well?”

“Of course, sir,” she said coldly.

“And he, too, has given up, I suppose?”

“No, sir.”

“It is no more than I expected from such a woman as you, nurse,” said Elthorne, after another pause. “But there is a reason for all this. Forgive me: it is an old and broken man who speaks; there must be a reason.”

“Yes, Mr Elthorne,” she said, and her clear musical voice seemed to fill the room; “there is a reason – a good reason – for all this.”

“May I know it?”

“Yes; why not? Some women love but once.”

“Ah!” he said, and he took her hand. “Then you have loved – in the past?”

“Yes.”

She paused in turn, while he waited patiently, expectant that she would continue.

“Ask me no more, Mr Elthorne. I gave my trusting, girlish heart to one I believed good and noble, but I was rudely awakened from my dream; and, after a long illness, I devoted myself to the task of trying to help those in sore need of a woman’s hand, sometimes to nurse them back to life, sometimes – ah, too often! – to close their eyes in death. Ask me no more.”

He raised her hand reverently to his lips, and then let it fall.

“I will ask you no more,” he said gently; and they sat in silence for a time.

“L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose,” he said at last thoughtfully. “I have spent much of my time in planning, but too often my plans have been brought to naught. Nurse, I give up now; I will only try to do what is right while I stay. It will be a grief and will bring more suffering to me, but it is not just to you that I should keep you here.”

“No, sir. I am waiting patiently, hoping that I may soon be set free to return to my work. You are well enough now to require only the assistance of your child and your sister. Give me leave now to go. I would gladly stay longer, but there is no need.”

“No,” he said after a time, “there is no real need. You must go.”

She rose and stood before him, gazing down at him pityingly, as he lay there, aged by ten years since she came.

“Good-bye, sir,” she said softly.

“What!” he cried, “going now?”

“Better that I should go at once, sir. You will soon become accustomed to another hand. Let me take yours once, and thank you for all your kindness. I think you understand me, though I have failed with your sister. Good-bye.”

She held out her hand and he clutched it with both of his, clinging to it spasmodically as his face began to work.

“Mr Elthorne!” she cried, startled by the change. “Water,” he whispered, and he loosened one hand only as she reached to the table and then held the glass to his lips.

“Thank you,” he whispered; “thank you. I thought I was stronger. Hah!”

He lay back in silence for a time with his eyes closed, but still retaining one of Nurse Elisia’s hands. At last he opened his eyes.

“Weak now as some poor fretful child,” he whispered. “It came home then when you spoke. It cannot be for long, my child. I am only a poor broken man now, against whom his sons rebel, whose daughter is disobedient, and whose sister is ready to trample him down. Don’t leave me,” he pleaded. “Have pity on me, my child. I could not bear it. I – I should die.”

Nurse Elisia looked at him wildly.

“No, no,” she said hastily. “You feel low and weak to-day. In a short time you will have forgotten all this. I cannot – indeed I cannot stay.”

But even as she spoke she saw that her patient believed the words he had uttered, and, trembling for the consequences to one in his weak, imaginative state, she hastily promised to give up all thought of going for the present.

“Thank you – thank you,” he said, trembling as he clung to her hand. “You see how weak and childish I am. Only such a short time back and I was strong, and people hurried to obey my word or look. Now it seems as if everyone were falling away from me – even you.”

“Oh, no,” she said soothingly; “and, besides, what am I to you? Only the hired nurse.”

“Yes,” he said, gazing up at her piteously, “only the hired nurse; and yet you have tended me as if you were my child. But you will stay? You are not trifling with me?”

“No, no,” she said. “There, it is time you had your sleep.”

“Yes,” he cried bitterly, and with a suspicious look in his eyes. “You are treating me as if I were a child. Go to sleep, so that I may awake by and by and find you gone.”

She bent down and laid her hand on his, as she smiled sadly in his face.

“Have more confidence in me,” she whispered. “Have I ever deceived you in the slightest thing? I tell you I will stay till you are more fit to leave.” He uttered a low sigh and lay with his eyes half closed.

“It is so hard to have confidence when one is helpless as I am. People try to cheat me, and say to themselves, ‘It is for his good.’”

“You may trust me, Mr Elthorne,” she said gently, “trust me in everything. Sleep now – that is for your good. You shall find me here, or within call, when you awake.”

He looked at her sharply once, and then closed his eyes, dropping off at once into a heavy sleep which lasted some hours, but to awaken with a sharp start, and a wildly suspicious look around.

The chair, where it seemed to him only a minute before he had seen Nurse Elisia seated, was empty, and he uttered a low, despairing cry.

“It is my punishment,” he groaned, “for a life of arrogance and pride. It has been a kind of tyranny to them all, and now I am to lie here, helpless, deceived by everyone in turn. My punishment – my punishment! Better that I had never awakened to my wretched state.”

At that moment there was the faint rustling made by a door being softly opened and passing over a thickly piled carpet, and directly after a faint shadow fell across his couch, then another, and there was a faintly heard sob.

“Hush, dearest; he sleeps more lightly now.” Ralph Elthorne’s head was turned away from the speaker, but he knew the gentle voice, and he repeated to himself the words wonderingly, “Hush, dearest; he sleeps more lightly now.” To whom was Nurse Elisia speaking so tenderly?

The answer came at once.

“Oh, nurse, dear nurse, is he never to be well and strong again?”

The words came from the speaker’s heart so full of love and sorrow that there was a stifling sensation in the listener’s breast, and when, directly after, he felt warm breath upon his cheek, and a kiss, light almost as the breath itself, his arms clasped Isabel to his breast.

“Papa! papa!”

That was all; but as Nurse Elisia turned away to the window, it seemed to her that father and daughter were closer together in heart than they could have been for years.

Chapter Twenty Four.
Aunt Anne Harassed

Many days had passed, and life went on at Hightoft in the same sad way.

It was the “master’s” desire that the nurse should stay, but there was rebellion among the servants against “master’s favourite,” and poor Aunt Anne’s breast swelled with anger against her niece, who had ventured to tell her that she was unjust.

“But I shall say nothing, Isabel, only that some day you will come to me repentant, asking my pardon. I always have been ready to ridicule all superstitious things, and have laughed at table turnings, and talkings, and hypnotisms, and mesmerisms, and all the rest of it, but that woman has something of the sort in her, a kind of power for influencing weak people, for she has literally bewitched you all. If she had lived a hundred years ago, she would have died.”

“Why, of course, Aunt dear,” said Isabel smiling. “It is nothing to make fun of, my dear. She would have either had her toes tied together, and been thrown into a pond, or been burned at the stake. That was the fate of all these witches then.”

“Poor Nurse Elisia!” said Isabel smiling. “I’m glad she did not live then.”

“Maria tells me,” continued Aunt Anne, “that it was just the same at the hospital. That woman used to turn all the other nurses and the students round her little finger; and as for Sir Denton – well, they may call him a great surgeon, but if ever the carriage overturns, and I am badly hurt, no Sir Dentons for me. I call him a weak, silly, infatuated old goose. Maria only yesterday told me that once – ”

“Aunt Anne,” said Isabel quickly, “does it ever strike you that it is very undignified and degrading to listen to the wretched tattlings of an ignorant, spiteful woman, who returns all Nurse Elisia’s kindness to her by telling falsities and distorting simple matters that happened in the past?”

“Isabel!” cried Aunt Anne, starting bolt upright in her chair, “you surprise me!”

“Do I, Aunt?”

“Yes, you do. You, assuming the tones and manners of your poor father, and speaking to me, the mistress of the house, like that!”

“But you are not the mistress of the house, Aunt.”

“I beg your pardon, child. Your father has delegated all authority to me, and he renewed the charge only a few weeks back.”

“Then you ought to do your duty, Aunt,” said Isabel.

“Isabel, you do surprise me, you do indeed!” cried Aunt Anne, who looked quite aghast at what was, in her eyes, rank rebellion by a child against her authority.

“Do I, Aunt? I am very sorry,” replied Isabel quietly. “I was only thinking that if I were mistress here, I should consider it my duty to send Maria away at once.”

“And I do not,” cried Aunt Anne. “My idea is that it would be my duty to discharge that dreadful nurse.”

“But poor Auntie cannot,” thought Isabel, “and consequently she is not sole mistress of the house.”

“And now, as I have occasion to talk to you, Isabel,” continued Aunt Anne, drawing herself up, and gazing very sternly at her niece, “I will not reprove you for your very flippant, disrespectful treatment of your poor father’s sister.”

“Oh, Auntie dear,” cried the affectionate girl, jumping up from her place to go behind the elder lady’s chair, and place her arms about her neck.

“Isabel, I beg you will not do that,” said Aunt Anne. “It is not prompted by genuine affection.”

“Oh, yes, Auntie, it’s quite true,” said Isabel.

“It cannot be, my dear; but, as I going to say, as I have found it necessary to reprove you, I must remind you that your conduct is not what it should be to your friends Saxa and Dana.”

“But, Aunt dear, they went off to Lucerne without a word to me, and you know that I never felt that they were great friends of mine, in spite of all. They always looked down upon me because I did not care for horses, and dogs, and grooms.”

“I am not going to say any more about those two poor girls who have been expatriated by your brothers’ base conduct.”

“Auntie! It was not base if the boys did not love them.”

“They did love them, and they do love them, my dear,” said Aunt Anne sternly. “All this is but a passing cloud, spread by that wicked woman, which blinds them. But it was not about that I wished to speak to you.”

“What, then, Auntie?” said Isabel, looking at her suspiciously, and thinking of a visit she had paid a few days before to a certain invalid vicar who had lain back in his chair to proudly read aloud portions of a letter he had received by the last mail.

“Sir Cheltnam Burwood was here yesterday. Now, it is of no use for you to pretend that you did not know he was here, for I am certain that I saw you stealing off down the laurel walk, on the pretence of going to visit some of the poor, and I dare say, if the truth were known, you went to the vicarage.”

“There was no pretence about it, Aunt dear.”

“But indeed there was, Isabel, and I was obliged to entertain him, instead of you. Naturally enough, he complained very bitterly of your treatment, and I must say that for a young lady engaged to him it is most icy, almost paralysing.”

“Papa will not persist,” thought Isabel; “he has grown so kind and loving to me. He will not make me say yes, when he knows that it would break my heart.”

“Now, it is of no use for you to turn sulky, my dear, and take refuge in silence. That is very childish and unbecoming in a girl like you. For you are no longer a child, and if you cannot do what is just and right, you must be taught. I have invited Sir Cheltnam to dinner on Tuesday.”

“Aunt!”

“Yes, my dear, and I am sure your papa will highly approve of my plan. It is absurd to go on as you do, though your conduct is no worse than your brothers’. I declare, the house is quite wretched: Neil shut up always in the library, pretending to study bones, and Alison sulking about in the gunroom, and scowling at Neil whenever they meet. All I hope is that nothing worse will come of it.”

“Oh, Aunt, what could come of it?” said Isabel uneasily.

“Ah, you speak like a child. When you have had my experience of the world and man’s angry passions, you too will have fears.”

“It is all very sad and a great pity,” said Isabel. “Yes, and a greater pity that those two misguided young men’s sister should go on as she does, making a devoted friend of the cause of all the mischief.” Isabel winced.

“I’m sure we’ve quite trouble enough in the house without having a parricide.”

“Auntie! A parricide?”

“Don’t be absurd, Isabel. I said a fratricide.”

“Aunt, what a dreadful idea! Oh, for shame!”

“Dreadful enough, my dear, and I’m sure I sincerely hope there never will be anything of the kind, but Cain never could have looked at Abel worse than Alison did at Neil only yesterday.”

“Aunt!”

“Oh, it’s true, my dear. It sent a cold chill all down my back; and ever since I’ve felt quite a presentiment of coming evil. I do hope they will not quarrel, and really I think it would be better if Neil went back to town.”

“Aunt, dear, such ideas are too shocking. Just as if Neil would be likely to degrade himself by quarrelling with Alison. I am sure he has too much self-respect.”

“Ah, young inexperience!” cried Aunt Anne pityingly. “Young men forget all their self-respect when they have been blinded by such a siren as that nurse.”

“Oh, Aunt, you ought not to speak of nurse like that.”

“You think so, my dear; I do not.”

“But you will some day,” cried Isabel passionately, and with the tears of vexation in her eyes. “She is all that is amiable, and good, and ladylike.”

“Ladylike, child!”

“Yes, Aunt. If she were not, I’m sure poor dear Neil would not have cared for her as he does.”

“Ah, well,” said Aunt Anne, preening herself like a plump bird, “we shall see, I dare say. I will not call her an artful woman, but mark my words, Isabel, she will not rest till she has deluded one of your poor brothers into marrying her.”

“Aunt! And she avoids them, and is as distant as possible to poor Neil.”

“All feminine cunning, child. Oh, Isabel, I wish you would not be such a baby! Can you not see that it is to lead him on, while she is playing off one brother against the other?”

“I will not argue with you, Aunt,” said the girl indignantly.

“No, my dear, I beg you will not. Wait and see, and then come to me humbly, and own how wrong you have been.”

Isabel was silent, and Aunt Anne went leisurely on with some fancywork of a very useless type, till an idea occurred to her, and she looked up.

“Isabel, my dear, what wine was that Sir Cheltnam praised so, last time he dined here?”

“Really, Aunt, I do not know.”

“No, child, you never know anything. It is very tiresome. I should like the dinner to go off well, and that wine has quite slipped my memory. Now, was it the hock, or the champagne? He would like the compliment if I had the forethought to have it served.” Isabel shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

“It is very tiresome,” continued Aunt Anne. “He praised one of them, and made a face at the other; but perhaps I shall recollect by and by. I wonder that I remember anything, harassed as my poor brain is with worry and trouble, and you never trying in the least to help me, but rather setting yourself in antagonism.”

“Oh, Aunt, you are too hard.”

“Not a bit, child. And I am surprised at your giving so much as a passing thought to young Mr Beck. Tom! Gracious, what a name! Only fit for a groom, or one of the men about the farm.”

“Really, Aunt,” began Isabel.

“Now, pray do not interrupt me, Isabel. The name is common and absurd. Now, Cheltnam – Sir Cheltnam – Sir Cheltnam Burwood! It is old, aristocratic, and refined. A name to be proud of. But Beck – Tom Beck! Faugh!”

“It sounds honest, Auntie,” said the girl with spirit, “and does not suggest drinking the Cheltenham waters, which I believe are very bitter.”

“Now that’s absurd and childish, Isabel, and you know it is. I did hope that now young Beck has gone, you would come to your senses. But I will be fair, and say that your brothers are worse than you. I suppose I shall have to beg and pray of them to come in to dinner, and behave like Christians, and not let Sir Cheltnam think he is going to be brother-in-law to a couple of young men with malice and hatred in their hearts. All your beautiful nurse’s doing, my dear, all her fault. Well, really! To jump up and run out of the room like that!” cried Aunt Anne, staring in amazement at the last fold of her niece’s dress, as the poor girl hurried away, unable to bear the long flow of annoying prattle, and to hide her chagrin in face of the ordeal to which she was to be submitted at the dinner projected by her aunt.

She hurried up to her room, to sink upon her knees by her bed and bury her face in her hands.

“Crying, Isabel? What is the matter, dear?”

She had not heard the door opened, and she started to her feet to throw herself upon Nurse Elisia’s breast, sobbing out her trouble, and dread of the meeting on the following Tuesday, when she knew that in her mistaken notions of duty, Aunt Anne would contrive that she and Sir Cheltnam should be left alone.