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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78795 ***
+
+Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
+
+
+
+[Illustration: Rhona was dropped into his arms.]
+
+
+
+                         NUMBER THREE
+
+                         WINIFRED PLACE.
+
+
+                              BY
+
+                         AGNES GIBERNE
+
+
+
+                            London
+                 JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED
+                     22 BERNERS STREET, W.
+
+
+
+              Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
+              At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh
+
+
+
+                           CONTENTS.
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+CHAP.
+
+     I. A STRANGER
+
+    II. MR. POWIS' VISITOR
+
+   III. MOTHER AND CHILD
+
+    IV. ANOTHER LODGER
+
+     V. COLONEL SMYTH'S ARRANGEMENTS
+
+    VI. NO FRIENDS TO THE FORE
+
+   VII. THE COLONEL AND HIS LANDLADY
+
+  VIII. A BUNCH OF GRAPES
+
+    IX. WHERE COULD SHE BE
+
+     X. IN THE FOG
+
+    XI. THE THREE AUNTS
+
+   XII. STILL ABSENT
+
+  XIII. THE COLONEL AND RHONA
+
+   XIV. AN EVENTFUL EVENING
+
+    XV. FIRE!
+
+   XVI. ACROSS THE WAY
+
+  XVII. AFTERWARDS
+
+ XVIII. THE MORDAUNT HOUSEHOLD
+
+   XIX. A LINK WANTING
+
+    XX. RESTORED HOPE
+
+   XXI. ABOUT THE AUNTS
+
+  XXII. NUMBER THREE, AND NUMBER THREE
+
+ XXIII. WYVERN HOUSE
+
+  XXIV. RHONA'S REAL UNCLE
+
+   XXV. TOGETHER AGAIN
+
+  XXVI. GATHERING UP THE THREADS
+
+
+
+                 NUMBER THREE, WINIFRED PLACE.
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+A STRANGER.
+
+"THERE'S a ring at the door! I shouldn't wonder if it was somebody
+after lodgings! Look sharp, will you, Bertha, and don't go to sleep
+on the way. I never in all my life saw such a dawdle as that girl,"
+concluded Mrs. Burrell.
+
+It was a dismal afternoon in November. No actual rain had fallen since
+early morning, but the air reeked with damp, the sky was shut off by
+a dense haze overhead, and slush lay thickly on roads and pavements,
+while the thermometer stood at only one degree above freezing-point.
+Foot-passengers were hurrying to and fro, with a very evident dislike
+of the outer atmosphere, a very plain intention to get quickly through
+their divers businesses.
+
+Mrs. Burrell's shop, No. 3 of a row, lay close to one of the greater
+thoroughfares, though actually situated in a side street. In Mrs.
+Burrell's estimation, the locality was "quiet": for though the rumble
+of traffic went on unceasingly, the said traffic did not pass her
+door. But some lodgers in Albert Terrace were wont to hold a different
+opinion.
+
+The shop was well stocked with wools and fancywork of all descriptions,
+with Shetland shawls, worsted comforters, dainty work-baskets lined and
+unlined, supplemented by countless ornamental knick-knacks.
+
+Part of the street was given up to shops, part to private houses, part
+to lodging-houses, pure and simple; not every one caring, like Mrs.
+Burrell, to combine the two vocations.
+
+Mrs. Burrell herself was in appearance an eminently respectable and
+superior person, about fifty years of age, tall and upright in figure,
+with a sallow complexion and strongly-marked features. The curl in
+the end of her long nose, and the droop at each corner of her mouth,
+told tales of an uncomfortable temper; and her unsmiling eyes seemed
+to be ever on the look-out for something or somebody to blame. She had
+never yet learnt the happy and needful art of "shutting her eyes to
+things," had never yet realised the profound truth that other people's
+faults can no more be cured in a day than our own can be. Expecting
+absolute perfection in everybody—except of course in herself,—and
+failing to find what she looked for, she lived in a state of chronic
+dissatisfaction.
+
+So Mrs. Burrell's pretty daughter, Hope, and still more, her sad-faced
+orphan niece, Bertha Stephens, and most of all her over-driven
+maid-of-all-work, Hannah Hoskyns, had altogether rather a "hard life of
+it," especially in the London season. Nothing so shadows the individual
+lives in a household as the perpetual presence of even one habitual
+grumbler, male or female.
+
+As it was not now the season, Mrs. Burrell's "upstairs apartments"
+were empty, and had been empty for more than a fortnight. This was a
+somewhat unusual event, however. Mrs. Burrell's "connection" was so
+good, that even when London was most deserted, her rooms were often
+occupied.
+
+Business in the shop had been slack that afternoon. Mrs. Burrell found
+time, without difficulty, to sit down to tea with her daughter and
+niece in the small parlour behind, keeping watch through the glass door
+for possible customers. Once a young lady in sable furs appeared, and
+Hope was despatched to meet a demand for "one skein of white Andalusian
+wool." Then came the ring at the side-door, which "might mean lodgers;"
+and Bertha disappeared.
+
+"I never saw such a dawdle as that girl—never, in all my days,"
+repeated Mrs. Burrell. "If your father, now, had had an idea of what he
+was asking me to undertake when he made me promise to keep her—"
+
+"Why, mother, if we didn't have Bertha, we should be obliged to get in
+somebody else to do her work," said Hope.
+
+"Then I hope it would be somebody I could depend upon," responded Mrs.
+Burrell. "Which is more than I can say for you two girls. I'm sure
+the trouble and the worry and the plague I have to keep things going,
+nobody knows."
+
+Hope shrugged her shoulders, yawned, and drank her tea. Mrs. Burrell's
+mode of incessant faultfinding told ill upon this only daughter,
+inducing carelessness and a growing spirit of hardness, where a few
+words of kind encouragement would have made her willing to do her
+utmost. But—"nothing ever pleased mother," Hope was wont to say—"so
+where was the use of trying?" She had not been brought up by that
+mother to work from any higher motive.
+
+The effect of the same treatment upon Bertha was different. A higher
+motive, lacking in Hope, was present in Bertha. She did not toil the
+less hard, though certainly she toiled the more hopelessly, so far as
+regarded the satisfying of Mrs. Burrell.
+
+Bertha was not pretty, yet her face would have been very pleasant but
+for its singular sadness of expression. The downcast grey eyes were
+soft and pathetic, and she had a shrinking manner, as if labouring
+under a constant expectation of being blamed.
+
+As a matter of fact, Bertha Stephens was expeditious in almost
+everything that she undertook. But Mrs. Burrell, deceived by her
+quietness, never could believe that she was not wasting her time. Some
+people count "speed" to be synonymous with "bustle."
+
+"Well—here you are at last!" was the greeting she received on her
+return. "Who was it?"
+
+"Only a mistake," Bertha answered. "A gentleman came to the wrong door."
+
+"I thought it was something important, you were gone such a time."
+
+Bertha sat down silently, making no attempt at self-defence.
+
+"Have you finished putting up those curtains?" asked Mrs. Burrell, in
+a needlessly sharp manner. The question might just as well have been
+uttered kindly.
+
+"Yes, aunt."
+
+"You have been long enough about it, I hope! And the spots on the
+bedroom carpet,—of course you haven't seen to them."
+
+Bertha looked perplexed. "Which spots?" she asked.
+
+"As if you did not know. Don't pretend, Bertha. The best bedroom, of
+course. I showed them to you yesterday evening."
+
+"You showed them to me, mother, not to Bertha," said Hope.
+
+"Bertha knows better," said Mrs. Burrell curtly.
+
+Bertha evidently did not know better. She remained silent.
+
+"You will please to see to that as soon as ever you have done your tea.
+Anybody may call any day after lodgings, and I must have the place fit
+to be looked at. There's some one else come, Hope. Be quick."
+
+Reluctantly Hope rose, leaving half a cup of tea to grow cold, and made
+her way into the shop. This customer kept her longer than the last had
+done.
+
+Hope at length was free to turn once more towards the back-parlour. But
+hardly had she so turned, when she was arrested by a slight sound in
+her rear.
+
+A lady had entered, and stood there,—quite a young lady, if one might
+judge from appearances, yet dressed in deep mourning, with a black
+crape veil falling behind, and a widow's cap within the bonnet. She
+was rather above medium height and slenderly made, with small hands
+clasping and unclasping each other continually. A red spot showed in
+either cheek, the dark eyes were dilated, while the muscles round the
+delicate mouth quivered with incessant motion.
+
+"Can I show you anything, ma'am?" asked Hope.
+
+"Thank you, no. I am not come to buy," the lady said, in a hurried yet
+gentle and gracious manner. "I believe—I believe you have lodgings in
+this house to let."
+
+"Will you wait a moment, please? I'll call my mother," said Hope.
+
+The lady remained motionless till Mrs. Burrell appeared, when she
+mechanically advanced towards the counter.
+
+"I have been recommended to come to you," she said, in the same nervous
+though sweet voice which she had before addressed to Hope. "You have, I
+am told, rooms to let."
+
+"Yes, ma'am," Mrs. Burrell answered agreeably. "How many would you
+please to want?"
+
+"It is only for my little girl and myself. Your rooms are vacant now, I
+believe—at this present moment. I could come to you without delay?"
+
+"Yes, ma'am," repeated Mrs. Burrell, for the last words had been
+uttered questioningly.
+
+"I mean literally without delay—this afternoon," continued the lady,
+speaking again very hurriedly. "Circumstances have obliged me—There are
+reasons why I wish to leave my present rooms at once—immediately. It is
+not easy to find exactly what I want at such short notice, especially
+as I am a stranger to this part of London."
+
+Mrs. Burrell was silent, looking with some wonder at the speaker's
+agitated lips.
+
+"Indeed, I might say I am a stranger to London altogether." A faint
+smile accompanied the words, but was quickly lost in the painful
+quivering of every muscle. "Perhaps you would kindly—"
+
+"Would you like to come inside and sit down, ma'am?" asked Mrs.
+Burrell, as the lady came to a sudden pause, pressing one hand to her
+side. "I'm afraid you are not very well."
+
+"Thank you, no,—no; it is nothing. I must not waste a moment. The truth
+is, I have been a little upset to-day, and not being very strong—but it
+does not matter. If you would kindly tell me what rooms you have—"
+
+"Three, commonly. Sometimes I throw in a fourth," said Mrs. Burrell.
+
+"That would be much more than I need. But you do not let them all
+together?"
+
+"Well, no; I like that best, ma'am, but I don't stand out for it," said
+Mrs. Burrell. "In the autumn, I had a gentleman and his wife in the
+parlour and best bedroom, and there was a single gentleman in the back
+bedroom. It's a tidy room enough, but there is no parlour belonging to
+it. I've turned the little lumber-room into a servant's room once in a
+way, but it is a trouble, and I don't care to have it to do."
+
+"I think the one bedroom at the back might suit us," said the lady.
+"I cannot offer high terms. It is only for myself and my little girl,
+so we could manage nicely with one room. My little girl is only eight
+years old, and I shall have to leave her alone for several hours every
+day, while I am out—teaching." The speaker's lips trembled anew, as
+if this were a state of things to which she was not accustomed. "I am
+anxious to be in a house where she will be just a little looked after,
+and where I can leave her safely. She never gives trouble or gets into
+mischief. Still I do feel uneasy when she is alone, and your clergyman,
+Mr. Powis, told me—"
+
+"Oh, are you a friend of Mr. Powis', ma'am?" Mrs. Burrell had not
+entirely liked the aspect of affairs hitherto, but now her face cleared.
+
+The lady hesitated. "I cannot quite say that, but Mr. Powis mentioned
+your name to me, and assured me that we should be comfortable here."
+
+"I don't think you need be uneasy, ma'am," Mrs. Burrell said, with
+complacency. "Though it isn't, of course, for me to say it; I never do
+have complaints as to any want of comfort. Mr. Powis often sends his
+friends to me; indeed, his recommendations have been helpful. He is
+a good man,—a very good man is Mr. Powis. He'll never fail to go out
+of his way to do a kindness to anybody, and that's what I like in a
+clergyman. It's fine to be a grand preacher, there's no doubt, but I
+like a clergyman who'll take a little trouble for the sake of folks."
+
+Mrs. Burrell was really grateful to Mr. Powis for his frequent
+"recommendations" of her lodgings. She endeavoured to show her
+gratitude by forming one of his congregation at least once every
+Sunday. And if she rarely exerted herself to listen to his sermons, she
+rarely missed an opportunity of praising him.
+
+"I am sure he is a good man," responded the lady,—"though indeed I
+cannot claim more than a bare acquaintance with him. But now will you
+kindly let me see your rooms? My name is Mordaunt—Mrs. Mordaunt."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+MR. POWIS' VISITOR.
+
+"YOU'LL have to look sharp, and get—why, where is Bertha?" asked Mrs.
+Burrell, entering the little parlour, with an air of perturbation.
+
+"Gone upstairs," said Hope.
+
+"That girl is never at hand when I want her. And you have no business
+here, Hope. Why are you not in the shop?"
+
+"What did the lady want?" asked Hope, by way of answer.
+
+"She is a Mrs. Mordaunt, and she has taken the back room. There isn't a
+moment to be lost, for it must be ready in less than two hours."
+
+"Two hours!" repeated Hope.
+
+"Yes, I don't know why. She is in some sort of trouble, and obliged to
+move in a hurry. She seemed dreadfully upset and flurried, poor thing."
+
+"Only one lady?" asked Hope.
+
+"There is a child too. You wouldn't think it, to look at her, but she
+has a child eight years old. It seems odd, a lady being content with
+one room, but it's easy to see she's poor. She goes out teaching. But
+she's a lady, and no mistake, so I suppose she's been reduced. I only
+hope I shall get my money regular."
+
+"Oh, I dare say that will be all right," said Hope.
+
+"I'm not so sure. There's no telling beforehand. I had my doubts from
+the first, and if she hadn't come from Mr. Powis, I wouldn't have
+fitted in things so easy for her. But Mr. Powis sending any one makes a
+difference."
+
+Mr. Powis' name might this time have made rather less difference in the
+landlady's estimation, could she, by virtue of some unwonted power,
+have taken a backward glance into the study of St. Andrew's Rectory,
+less than one hour previously.
+
+
+Mr. Powis was a tall and shy-mannered man, apt to be taken with bashful
+or silent fits, and never ready in speech. But he was, as Mrs. Burrell
+had said, and in a deeper sense than Mrs. Burrell had meant, a good
+man,—earnest and hearty in work for God, ready and self-forgetting in
+work for man. He was in appearance plain-featured, and at first sight
+not attractive. Yet people who went to him in trouble did not think him
+plain; and children were the last to count him unattractive.
+
+He had been busy over his sermon that afternoon, when there came an
+interruption. Could he see a lady—a stranger? Mr. Powis hesitated.
+Would some other time do equally well? He was very much occupied. The
+answer returned was—No; it must be "now." Would Mr. Powis spare just
+five minutes?
+
+The sermon-sheets were pushed aside, and a young fair woman in deep
+mourning appeared. She was even more tremulous and agitated then, than
+a little later at Mrs. Burrell's. He shook hands kindly and handed
+her to a chair, interested at once in her look, and foreseeing also
+at once that the five minutes were likely to prove elastic in nature.
+Mr. Powis could, however, bear an interruption patiently if there were
+a sufficient cause; and he read cause enough in the troubled face
+opposite.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt was the first to break the brief silence. Twice she tried
+in vain, voice failing her. The third attempt was successful.
+
+"I am a stranger here," she said faintly. "I have no friends in
+London—no friends in England. My home has always been abroad,—and now
+it is all changed. I am a widow—and an orphan. I have come to beg your
+advice."
+
+Mr. Powis signified his readiness to advise, more by gesture than by
+utterance.
+
+"I must not take up your time—more than I can help," she went on
+hurriedly, with occasional pauses as if for breath. "But I have no
+friends,—none,—and I do so need one. And I have heard you preach
+once,—only once,—and I thought you would help me."
+
+"Take time about it. Don't distress yourself," said Mr. Powis, pushing
+his papers farther to one side. "There is no need for haste. You are
+suffering,—ill, I am afraid."
+
+"No, no, not ill. I have only been so cruelly agitated this morning,
+I cannot get over it. And I have no one to turn to—no one to help me.
+But you will be a friend—" and she looked up at him imploringly, like a
+child.
+
+"I will do what I can indeed," he said. "Tell me your difficulty."
+
+"I am encompassed with difficulties. I don't know how to breathe or
+how to move. And yet I must move, at once. I want to find lodgings in
+your Parish, if possible, to go into this afternoon. And I thought you
+would perhaps tell me where to inquire. I want to find a house where my
+little girl would be cared for, while I am out all day, teaching. That
+will have to be my work—teaching. Can you help me to find pupils?"
+
+"Wait—one thing at a time," he said slowly. "You want lodgings for
+yourself and your child." He spoke the last word wonderingly. "I
+suppose she is quite tiny—poor little one."
+
+"Rhona is close upon nine years old, and in mind is twice that. She
+has always been my friend and companion. You think me younger than I
+am!"—for he had uttered an exclamation.
+
+"You look hardly over twenty."
+
+"I am twenty-seven. I was only seventeen when I married. My husband
+was a clergyman, a chaplain in Italy. Before that I lived in the south
+of France, with my parents. So England is a strange land to me. I was
+an only child, and my parents are gone, and six months ago my husband
+was taken. I have only my little Rhona left, and 'very' little to live
+upon. So it is needful for me to work."
+
+Mr. Powis made a sound of commiseration, and then thought silently.
+"Your husband's relatives," he said at length. "Are there none? Or will
+they do nothing?"
+
+A rush of colour suffused her pale face. "No, no,—I can ask nothing of
+them. I must work for myself."
+
+"But perhaps if they knew and realised the state of your affairs—"
+
+"No, no," she said feverishly. "I cannot go to them—again. Oh no, it is
+impossible. If you knew all, you would say the same. They have always
+disliked me, and we have always been strangers. I must keep out of
+their way."
+
+"You have not seen any of them since your coming to England?"
+
+"Yes,—I 'have!'" she said with an effort. "I cannot again. That is at
+an end. It is quite at an end. I stand alone now, and I must stand
+alone. By-and-by my Rhona will work for me, but now I have to work for
+her. Will you not help me to find pupils? That is all I ask."
+
+Mr. Powis again studied the question seriously, in his deliberate
+fashion, playing with a paper-knife.
+
+"I have not told you my name," she said. "It is Mary Mordaunt. I trust
+you to take no steps whatever without my consent—I mean as regards
+my husband's relatives. If you hear of any Mordaunts at any time, or
+come across them, do not reveal where I am. I want only to get a quiet
+corner for myself and my child, and just enough work to eke out a
+living. You see I do not expect great things!" And she smiled sadly.
+
+"Do you think you have strength for what you propose?"
+
+"Oh yes, yes!—I am stronger than you would suppose. Only I cannot
+stand agitation. Since Arthur's death, I have been subject to this
+tremulousness—a kind of throbbing from head to foot. The least emotion
+brings it on, and my feelings have been cruelly tried to-day. But I do
+not mind work—any amount! And I know I have a gift for teaching. When I
+am peacefully alone with Rhona—away from discords—I shall be perfectly
+well."
+
+Then Mr. Powis thought of Mrs. Burrell, and he told his visitor all
+about her.
+
+"Let me know if you decide to go there," he said. "But about the
+question of teaching—"
+
+"Yes, about that!" she said earnestly.
+
+"I am rather in a difficulty, knowing so little of you." He was touched
+with her almost girlish simplicity in the matter. "People are usually
+rather particular in their inquiries."
+
+"But you shall know more—I will tell you anything you wish. I think
+it will be easy to satisfy you. And there is one kind old friend, a
+French 'pasteur,' who will confirm all I say, if you care to write to
+him. My father was in the Indian army till he retired, and we settled
+down abroad. And my education has been a very thorough one. It used to
+be thought that I might have to teach one day—before I was engaged, I
+mean. I could undertake all the plain branches, and music and singing
+and drawing—only not German. French and Italian are almost the same to
+me as English."
+
+"And—excuse me—your religious opinions?"
+
+"When I heard you preach, it was just what my husband would have said,"
+she answered, with a luminous gleam in her eyes. "I have always thought
+the same as Arthur. You can ask me any questions you like—another day."
+
+"When was it that you heard me?" he asked, rising as she rose.
+
+"Three Sundays ago. I have only been in London a few weeks. Some one
+spoke of you; and Rhona and I wandered off together. It was a very long
+walk, too long for either of us, and I could not attempt it again. But
+when I found myself in perplexity and trouble, my first impulse was to
+come to you."
+
+"You cannot recall the text of the sermon, I suppose?"
+
+Her lips could hardly form the words,—
+
+   "'A Father of the fatherless, and a Judge of the widows, is God in His
+holy habitation.'"
+
+"Ah, I remember," he said, as two burning tears fell. "Poor thing! But
+you will not say again, as you did just now, that you have no friend."
+
+"I never say such things to Rhona," she answered brokenly. "I would not
+for worlds utter a word to disturb my child's faith. Rhona seems to
+live in an atmosphere quite above all doubts, and she does not know the
+difference between herself and me. I do believe, but I am at a lower
+level. I cannot see—cannot realise. Your sermon helped me,—if it would
+but last. Nothing lasts, except the darkness and the sorrow. Perhaps,
+if I were to hear you every Sunday, I might feel differently. I must
+not wait longer now. I have to find the lodgings, and to bring Rhona
+away quickly from where we are now. Good-bye, and thank you for all
+your kindness."
+
+"We shall see more of you, Mrs. Mordaunt. You must come and make my
+wife's acquaintance, for she is tied to her sofa, and cannot go to
+you," were Mr. Powis' parting words.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+MOTHER AND CHILD.
+
+MRS. BURRELL'S apartments, when empty, were kept always in readiness
+for use at short notice.
+
+Still, a good many minor arrangements had to be made, and the two hours
+proved by no means too long a time for all that needed to be done. Mrs.
+Burrell had scarcely finished a final light dusting of the room, when a
+cab stopped at the side-door, through which lodgers went in and out.
+
+Mrs. Burrell was speedily there, wearing the agreeable manner which she
+rarely failed to put on towards strangers. It was a pity that she did
+not oftener wear the same manner in her own little home-circle.
+
+The cab bore upon its roof a goodly amount of luggage. Mrs. Mordaunt
+entered the house first, with a quiet step and graceful bearing.
+Every trace of the nervous agitation, visible two hours earlier, had
+vanished. Close behind her came a delicate small-limbed child bearing a
+bird-cage swathed in brown paper, and having a face of rare beauty.
+
+Mrs. Burrell involuntarily exclaimed, "My! What a pretty creature!"
+
+And the wonderfully soft dark eyes were lifted to hers, with an
+expression which seemed to signify grave rebuke.
+
+Mrs. Burrell was for the moment struck dumb. Bertha, standing behind,
+was absolutely thrilled by the sight of that little fair face, with its
+peach-bloom tinting and its broad serene brow. Her lonely heart went
+out with a bound, and clung to the vision of childish loveliness.
+
+"Mother, shall I go upstairs and see our room, while you have the
+boxes brought in?" were Rhona's first words, uttered in a voice which
+rivalled Mrs. Mordaunt's for sweetness.
+
+"Yes, certainly, darling. Some one will show you the way."
+
+"Bertha can go," said Mrs. Burrell.
+
+The child gave her a glance, and then went slowly up the first flight,
+clasping her burden tightly, and declining assistance.
+
+"No, I do everything myself for Fay," she said, in her serious voice.
+"Is that the room? Mother described the house to me as we came, so I
+thought I should know. Please open the door, because my hands are full.
+Oh, what a nice cosy room! And such a bright fire!"
+
+Rhona deposited the cage on a table, and looked round with flushing
+cheeks. "So nice!" she repeated. "And a bookcase for our books!"
+
+Then she walked to the window, and was silent. A small court-yard lay
+below, and a high blank wall rose opposite. Rhona sighed twice heavily,
+as if with a feeling of oppression, and turned away.
+
+"But I like the room itself," she said. "It seems cosy. Mother will be
+able to rest here. There isn't any noise."
+
+"It is always quiet at the back of the house," said Bertha.
+
+"I am glad of that. Mother does feel the noise so much. Please, will
+you help me get the brown paper off my cage?"
+
+Bertha obeyed, looking once or twice at the child's fading colour.
+
+Rhona began by helping her, but left off suddenly, and sat down on
+a chair close to the table, leaning an elbow on it, and resting her
+broad forehead on one of her little hands, while the dark eyes watched
+Bertha's movements earnestly.
+
+"Please don't be too quick. Fay is so easily frightened," she said, in
+a low voice.
+
+"I think you are tired, Miss Rhona," Bertha said.
+
+"Yes,—oh, very," Rhona answered, with another long breath. "This has
+been such a dreadful day. I can't bear to see mother worried."
+
+Then without changing her position, but with a look of interest, she
+added,—"Are you the landlady's daughter?"
+
+Bertha shook her head. "Then you must be the niece. Mother said there
+were two. Have you lived here always? Is the landlady kind to you? Have
+you any father or mother?"
+
+Bertha made another negative motion. "Mother died last summer, and
+father years ago, and I have nobody else belonging to me," she said
+huskily. "I have only been here six months. It isn't home."
+
+Rhona's eyes were full in a moment, not overflowing, but brimming with
+unshed sympathetic tears. "I am so sorry,—oh, so sorry," she said,
+putting her hand on Bertha's arm. "My father died too, and that is
+why we are in such trouble. We used to live with him in Italy, and it
+was so lovely. But God took father away, and then we had to come to
+England. He took your mother too, didn't He? I think it must be almost
+worse for you than for me, because I have darling mother still."
+
+Bertha was strangely comforted by the child's pity. All these past
+months she had been nursing her grief, struggling on in uncomplaining
+sorrow, knowing herself to be unwelcome under her aunt's roof, yet
+having no other home. Mrs. Burrell clearly disliked her, and from
+Hope she met with little more than indifference. Under a simple sense
+of duty, Bertha had striven persistently to do her best, but joy and
+loving-kindness seemed to have faded out of her life. Now, suddenly, a
+little sunbeam had fallen across her way.
+
+"So mother and I can both feel for you,—oh, so much," continued Rhona,
+a checked sob rising in her throat. And then, with a look of pain, she
+put her hand to her brow. "I can't bear to see anybody unhappy; it
+makes me 'ache,'" she added pitifully. "Poor Bertha! I dare say it was
+just as bad for you to come away from your home to Mrs. Burrell's, as
+it was for us to leave dear Italy. I don't mean exactly 'bad.' Mother
+and I couldn't complain, because God's will is always right. But we
+were very very sorry, and that is not wrong, for the Lord Jesus was
+sorry, and He wept. Mother did cry so dreadfully at first, and then I
+always liked to think about His tears. Because He could understand it
+all so well. Some people don't seem able to understand at all."
+
+"And you don't like London, Miss Rhona?" asked Bertha.
+
+"No," said Rhona sadly. "Not yet. Perhaps some day I shall, but
+everything is so different. If only we could have gone on living
+in Italy, and if mother need not work! Only that isn't God's will;
+and mother says we must be willing,—we must not want to choose for
+ourselves. When that feeling comes of wanting Italy so much, it must be
+temptation. Don't you think so?"
+
+"I don't know," faltered Bertha. Mrs. Burrell might be wanting her all
+this time, and she knew it; yet she stood as if fascinated, drinking in
+every word.
+
+"Oh yes, you do. Everything is a temptation that makes us want to have
+things different from God's will," said the child, with a curious flash
+of her eyes. "He loves us so much, and He always knows what is best.
+How can we know? We just have to be patient now. But by-and-by,—oh,
+won't it be different?"
+
+"By-and-by, when you are grown up, Miss Rhona?"
+
+"Oh, I did not mean that at all. I didn't mean growing up. I meant the
+great wonderful 'by-and-by,' when mother and I shall see my own father
+again, and the Lord Jesus will be our King for ever. And we shall be
+'with Him' then," added the child, in tones of awe-struck realisation,
+while her lips were grave, and her eyes shone. "Don't you know? Don't
+you remember—
+
+   "'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty'?
+
+"Don't you think very often about that time when you are sad?"
+
+Bertha was positively pale and trembling with undefined feelings.
+
+She said, "No, Miss Rhona, I don't."
+
+Rhona looked earnestly at her before speaking. Then there was a low,
+"Poor Bertha! It is much worse for you than for us."
+
+Bertha involuntarily asked, "Why?"
+
+"I think I'll tell you another time," said Rhona gently. "I am so tired
+now, and Fay wants his seed; and they are bringing up the boxes. But I
+am glad we have come here. I do like you so much."
+
+Mrs. Burrell's voice was audible outside, containing some smothered
+indignation. "Bertha! What are you after? Just come and help, will you,
+and be quick."
+
+The child's tired eyes gave a flash of half-comical meaning. "I should
+think Mrs. Burrell was cross sometimes," she said softly. "But go, you
+nice Bertha—don't stop."
+
+Fay had to wait longer for his seed. There was a bustle in the room for
+some minutes, boxes being carried in and placed here or there. When the
+business was accomplished, they found that Rhona had coiled herself up
+in the corner of the hard sofa, and was sound asleep. One little hand
+supported her cheek, and a look of sorrow rested still upon the brow.
+
+Mrs. Burrell had gone downstairs.
+
+And Bertha, lingering to see if anything more were needed, murmured
+involuntarily—"She's a beautiful child, ma'am."
+
+"Poor little pet!" the young mother said sadly. "It is such a baby-face
+in sleep, yet she is years beyond her age in mind."
+
+"She doesn't look strong," said Bertha.
+
+"No, she feels everything so acutely. They tell me her brain is far too
+active. She ought to have fresh country air, and not be allowed to read
+or think too much. But—" the pause following was expressive.
+
+Before either could speak, Rhona stirred, and—"Oh, poor Bertha!" broke
+from her.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt gave one surprised glance at her companion.
+
+Bertha volunteered no explanation.
+
+"I think we will have our tea before I begin to unpack. Just tea and
+bread and butter, if you please," said Mrs. Mordaunt.
+
+Bertha disappeared.
+
+And Mrs. Mordaunt, with a sudden movement, knelt down beside the couch,
+her hands locked together. "O Rhona—my little Rhona, my own little
+darling!" she murmured passionately. "Thank God, I have you still."
+
+For a moment her face was hidden. Then she looked up, to find Rhona's
+eyes fixed upon her.
+
+"Mother, are you crying? Has anything fresh happened?"
+
+"No, no, darling. I am only a little upset by all we have gone through.
+It is over now. See what a nice comfortable corner we have found."
+
+"You don't think they will find us out and come here, mother?" asked
+Rhona anxiously.
+
+"No, indeed, pet. How could they?" asked Mrs. Mordaunt, smiling, and
+smoothing the child's hair tenderly. "But we have had an exciting day,
+and I don't wonder that this little head is hot."
+
+"I had such a pain before I went to sleep, and it isn't gone yet," said
+Rhona wearily. "Bertha was telling me about herself. She has no home
+and no father or mother, and she doesn't look happy. I do wish nobody
+had any troubles!" And the child sighed.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+ANOTHER LODGER.
+
+"YOU may as well get something to do, Hope, and not sit wasting your
+time like that," said Mrs. Burrell with some sharpness.
+
+It was the evening of Christmas Day; consequently shops were closed,
+and business was at a standstill. Mrs. Burrell did not, like many of
+her neighbours, go in for Christmas festivities. She counted such
+doings a waste of time and of money. Beyond the presence of her
+favourite nephew, Neil Burrell, a young Parish schoolmaster, who
+usually spent his holidays under her roof, there was little to mark the
+date.
+
+Snow had fallen heavily for some hours, and when evening came, the
+weather proved to be such that no one could venture out,—not even Hope,
+under her cousin Neil's guardianship. She was vexed at the deprivation,
+and sat discontentedly before the fire, while her mother and Bertha
+plied their needles, and Neil busied himself with a book. He was a
+quiet intelligent young man, more given to reading than to talking, as
+a rule.
+
+The drawing-room apartments were empty still. Mrs. Burrell lived in
+daily expectation of fresh lodgers, and hitherto she had been daily
+disappointed.
+
+"It is Christmas Day," Hope answered, without turning her head. "I
+don't see any need to sew on Christmas Day."
+
+"There's no need to waste your time, whatever day it is," rejoined Mrs.
+Burrell.
+
+Hope gaped listlessly. "I wish something would happen. It is so stupid,
+spending Christmas just like any other day. Except of course that we
+shut up, and that Neil is here. But Neil only sits and reads."
+
+Neil good-naturedly laid down his book. "How is the poor lady upstairs
+getting on, aunt Burrell?" he asked, by way of conversation.
+
+"What makes you call her 'poor'?" Hope inquired.
+
+"Well, I don't know. She can't be very rich to live in only one
+room,—and she carries trouble in her face."
+
+"I am sure I should be troubled about that child, if I was her," said
+Mrs. Burrell, adjusting a seam.
+
+Bertha asked,—"Why?"
+
+"Why? It's easy to see she isn't long for this world," said Mrs.
+Burrell. "I never came across such a child. The way she talks, it isn't
+natural. It's like an old woman that has had her fill of life,—and
+she scarcely nine years old! I don't mean to say she is going to die
+directly. But you mark my words,—she will never grow up."
+
+"People can't tell beforehand," said Neil, noting Bertha's distress.
+
+"She would be a pretty child, if she wasn't so grave," said Hope.
+
+"I think her lovely," murmured Bertha. "It is a little angel's face."
+
+"That's just what I say," Mrs. Burrell remarked conclusively. "She has
+the look of one who isn't long for this world. You can believe me or
+not as you like. Just you wait and see. I know!"
+
+The bell at the side-door tingled furiously.
+
+"Who is that, I wonder?" Hope said.
+
+"Bertha can answer it," said Mrs. Burrell. "Hannah is busy upstairs. Be
+quick, and don't keep people waiting."
+
+"I heard a cab," said Neil.
+
+The others ascribed this to imagination. Yet when Bertha opened the
+door, letting in a rush of icy air and snow-flakes, there in very truth
+was a cab, dimly visible. Bertha shivered, but stood her ground. A
+gentleman descended with deliberation, picked his way across the snowy
+pavement, and entered.
+
+"You can wait," he said peremptorily to the cabman, and then to Bertha,
+with equal peremptoriness, "Shut the door."
+
+Bertha obeyed, not without an instant's hesitation. She found herself
+confronted by an elderly man, muffled up to the eyes in wraps. The
+said eyes surveyed her sharply, from beneath a pair of overgrown grey
+eyebrows.
+
+"Mrs. Burrell's?" he asked.
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"I wish to see the lodgings,—vacant now, I am told."
+
+"Yes, sir. I'll call Mrs. Burrell," Bertha answered, in accordance with
+repeated instructions.
+
+"Stop. How many rooms?"
+
+"Drawing-room and best bedroom," said Bertha.
+
+"Humph! No other?"
+
+"I think a small servant's room could be fitted up. Mrs. Burrell does
+it sometimes."
+
+"That would do. A box-room, not for a servant. Any other lodgers?"
+
+"Yes, sir; a lady."
+
+"No babies?"
+
+"No, sir, only one little girl."
+
+"Past the crying age?"
+
+Bertha could have smiled. "Yes, quite," she said.
+
+"Doesn't race about or make a racket?"
+
+"No, sir. I never knew a quieter child."
+
+"How old?"
+
+"About nine," said Bertha.
+
+"Too young. Much too young," said the gentleman, with an odd
+expression. "Well, well, the rooms may do, perhaps."
+
+"I will call Mrs. Burrell, if you please," began Bertha.
+
+"Stop a moment—stop a moment. No such hurry. Parlour faces south, eh?"
+
+"Yes, sir, and the bedroom too."
+
+"Cooking good?" He lowered his voice to a confidential tone. "Be
+honest and speak out. It's no earthly use my coming if the cooking
+isn't good. I shouldn't stay a week. Good cooking is an essential with
+me—absolutely an essential."
+
+"Mrs. Burrell is a first-rate cook," said Bertha.
+
+"Come, that promises well. Does it all herself, hey?"
+
+"No, sir, but she sees to it all, and does a good deal."
+
+"Come, that's fair. Knows how to roast and stew and bake, and all the
+rest of it? Soup and fish; curries—'ragoûts'—everything of that sort,
+eh?"
+
+"I think Mrs. Burrell could undertake whatever you are likely to want,"
+said Bertha.
+
+"Good. You look as if you were speaking the truth too."
+
+Mrs. Burrell suddenly appeared on the scene, inwardly wrathful at not
+having been summoned.
+
+"You can go!" she said in an undertone to Bertha, when some words of
+explanation had been uttered, and a private glance of displeasure
+was shot sideways. Then with a genial and smiling air, Mrs. Burrell
+addressed herself to the task of escorting her visitor upstairs.
+
+"That isn't a bad-looking girl," he remarked.
+
+"She's one of the best girls that ever was," said Mrs. Burrell, with an
+alacrity which would have amazed Bertha. "Just one of the old-fashioned
+sort, thorough in her work, and don't mind how much she has to do, and
+always has a pleasant manner."
+
+"Knows how to wait at table?"
+
+"Yes, sir. Bertha always waits on the drawing-room lodgers."
+
+"Ha! So this is the parlour. Well—it might be worse. Tolerable as to
+size. You don't call that daub a picture, I hope. Better have bare
+walls than daubs. Never mind; I have pictures of my own, so it doesn't
+matter. Bedroom over this, I suppose. The girl said it faced south. One
+of these windows ought to be a bow. How large is the third room? Big
+enough to hold lumber? Yes, yes,—I'll see them both directly. May as
+well tell me your terms first."
+
+Mrs. Burrell obeyed, and found no objections offered.
+
+"I suppose you could have all made ready for me in a couple of
+days. Hotel life does not suit me, and I want to be settled for a
+time. No,—on second thoughts I shall not be able to come till next
+Thursday—if I decide to have your rooms. By-the-bye, you don't have any
+piano-strumming near?"
+
+"No, sir; not even next-door."
+
+"Neither side? Rare that, in London. And you are not musical
+yourselves, I hope?"
+
+"No, sir," repeated Mrs. Burrell.
+
+"If I come, I am likely to stay. I don't care for changes."
+
+At this moment, to Mrs. Burrell's horror, the sound of a soft
+"contralto" came floating across the passage, through the shut door of
+the back bedroom.
+
+"Mercy! What's that?" exclaimed the gentleman.
+
+But when Mrs. Burrell would have spoken, he held up his hand,
+authoritatively imposing silence. They stood silent; the gentleman
+listening and the landlady chafing. Every word was distinct.
+
+   "'For ever with the Lord!'
+       Amen; so let it be!
+     Life from the dead is in that word,
+       'Tis immortality.
+     Here in the body pent,
+       Absent from Him I roam,
+     Yet nightly pitch my moving tent
+       A day's march nearer Home.
+
+    "My Father's House on high,
+       Home of my soul! how near
+     At times, to faith's foreseeing eye,
+       Thy golden gates appear!
+     Ah! Then my spirit faints
+       To reach the land I love,
+     The bright inheritance of Saints,
+       Jerusalem above."
+
+Mrs. Burrell fidgeted, but fidgeted in vain. Her possible lodger
+stirred not a finger.
+
+There came at length a slight cough.
+
+And then a child's voice said,—"Don't sing any more, mother darling."
+
+The mother replying,—"Perhaps I had better wait a few minutes, Rhona.
+This London air seems to make me husky."
+
+"Montgomery!" muttered the gentleman.
+
+Mrs. Burrell stared, and after a moment's hesitation, her perplexity
+found vent in,—"Beg pardon, sir?"
+
+"Montgomery! Wrote it, of course," said the gentleman impatiently.
+"Your walls appear to be uncommonly thin."
+
+"I don't think they are, sir. And that is the first time I have heard
+the lady's voice, though she has been here more than a month. And she
+has not any piano."
+
+"So much the worse," the gentleman made answer unexpectedly.
+
+Mrs. Burrell stared afresh and was mute, while conducting him upstairs.
+He surveyed the two remaining rooms almost without a remark, went back
+to the drawing-room, and stood there absently, drumming on the table
+with the fingers of one hand.
+
+"Very well. Next Thursday," he said, waking up suddenly.
+
+"You decide to take the rooms, sir?" asked Mrs. Burrell.
+
+"Of course. Did I not tell you so just now?"
+
+Mrs. Burrell wisely refrained from answering in the negative.
+
+He pulled out a piece of paper, wrote something, and handed it to her.
+
+"My name and present address. I shall send some of my luggage on the
+morning of Thursday, and come myself after luncheon. Mind you have
+the rooms well aired,—and fires laid, but not lighted till I arrive.
+Dinner at eight o'clock. I will send you word what to get for me.
+And—by-the-by, you need not say a word to Mrs. Mordaunt about her
+singing. That is not strumming, you know."
+
+"No, sir," assented Mrs. Burrell.
+
+"Good evening. Ahem! Did you say—?" And he paused again, with a rather
+curious expression. "Has she a husband living? Does he happen to be
+musical too?"
+
+"Mrs. Mordaunt is a widow, sir."
+
+"All right. Good evening."
+
+Mrs. Burrell looked at the paper in her hand, read aloud,—"Colonel
+Smyth," and returned to the back-parlour.
+
+"What made you stand all that time talking to the gentleman?" she
+demanded of Bertha. "Gossiping about Mrs. Mordaunt! As if she was any
+concern of his."
+
+"I didn't!" Bertha answered in surprise. "He was asking about the
+rooms, and he would not let me call you sooner."
+
+"You mean to tell me you were not speaking of Mrs. Mordaunt?"
+
+"I told him there was a lady in the house, and a little girl, and
+I said she was not noisy. That was all," Bertha replied. "He asked
+questions, and I had to answer."
+
+"He didn't ask her name, I'll be bound," said Mrs. Burrell.
+
+"No, and I did not tell it him," said Bertha.
+
+Mrs. Burrell turned upon her sharply. "Well, I did think you ware a
+truthful girl, anyway."
+
+Bertha's pale face flushed. "I am speaking the truth, indeed I am," she
+said. "I did not know it mattered much either way, but I am sure I did
+not say Mrs. Mordaunt's name—quite sure."
+
+"It doesn't matter, except that I hate gossip," said Mrs. Burrell. "And
+I hate to have a thing denied when it's been done. Why, the gentleman
+had her name as pat as could be."
+
+"Bertha wouldn't deny what she knew she had done," said Neil
+persuasively. "The gentleman may be an old acquaintance of Mrs.
+Mordaunt."
+
+"I don't think he can be," said Bertha. "He did not even know whether
+we had any other lodgers in the house."
+
+"Well then, either you or aunt must have let slip the name, without
+thinking," said the young man.
+
+"Not I!" retorted Mrs. Burrell. "Gossip isn't in 'my' line. And I don't
+mean it to be in Bertha's either. So you mind!"
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+COLONEL SMYTH'S ARRANGEMENTS.
+
+THURSDAY came, and a supply of heavy luggage arrived, followed later by
+Colonel Smyth himself.
+
+Divested of outdoor wraps, he showed as an elderly man, disposed to
+stoutness, yet of upright and military carriage. He had closely cropped
+hair, iron-grey in hue, and there was a certain fierceness about
+the outline of his grizzled moustache, calculated to intimidate the
+womankind. Moreover, his glance was severe, his manner was curt, his
+voice was peremptory, and he appeared to be altogether of a particular
+and impatient disposition.
+
+Mrs. Burrell, Hope and Bertha, not to speak of Hannah Hoskyns, were
+hard at work for hours, attending to the Colonel's requirements.
+Happily for them, shop-business was slack that afternoon; yet somebody
+had to remain always within call. Moreover, preparations for the
+Colonel's late dinner took considerable time.
+
+Even Neil was pressed into the service of the military man. That which
+had to be done, whether in the way of moving boxes, hanging pictures,
+or aught else, was done at once; for the Colonel would on no account
+consent to defer operations till the morrow.
+
+"Sharp was the word," as Mrs. Burrell privately declared, in much
+dudgeon. And if anybody failed at a glance to see and carry out the
+Colonel's will, very sharp was the blame. "I'm sure, if I had known
+what he was going to be like—! I don't know what in the world we shall
+do, if he keeps on much longer. It's enough to drive us all frantic."
+
+At length, the rooms were arranged; furniture was placed as the
+Colonel desired, "daubs" had given place to artistic views, lumber had
+found its way to the lumber-room, and countless fidgets had received
+attention. Books remained to be unpacked, but Colonel Smyth would trust
+no hands save his own about his beloved books. This point reached, he
+subsided for a while, and the ordinary work of the house might receive
+attention.
+
+"Talk of trouble," Mrs. Burrell groaned. "That man gives ten times as
+much trouble in an hour as Mrs. Mordaunt does in a week."
+
+"Men always do," Hope averred, out of her limited experience.
+
+
+In truth, the occupants of the back bedroom had given little enough of
+trouble that afternoon. The young widow had spent the greater part of
+her morning in a long walk, the object of which was a possibility of
+regular employment as daily governess in a private family. But the hope
+had proved delusive.
+
+Two hours of teaching every morning, with twenty pounds yearly by way
+of remuneration, seemed something worth grasping, in addition to her
+most slender income. Mr. Powis was actively interesting himself among
+his friends on Mrs. Mordaunt's behalf, and he had succeeded in finding
+two music-pupils, each for one hour weekly, at very low terms. It was
+something to make a beginning, he said, and Mrs. Mordaunt acquiesced.
+But as weeks passed with no further advance, difficulties loomed
+increasingly, and patience was sorely taxed.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt was not only a highly-cultivated but a
+highly-accomplished woman, thoroughly well fitted for the work of
+teaching. Yet this availed her little in London, without friends or
+recommendations. Mr. Powis spoke for her warmly, but Mr. Powis was only
+a recent acquaintance, and he had a character for being sanguine.
+
+Since their simple early dinner, the mother and child had spent an
+undisturbed "tête-à-tête" afternoon. Mrs. Mordaunt was busied with some
+fine needlework. And Rhona sat close beside her, threading needles,
+and chatting often as if with a wish to wile away the long hours, but
+her fair brow looked grave with a reflection of her mother's evident
+sadness. This morning's disappointment had fallen upon them heavily.
+
+Increasing darkness presently made needlework an impossibility. Lights
+were due; but though busy feet went to and fro in the house, no one
+entered. Mrs. Mordaunt laid carefully aside the delicate white cambric
+over which she had been employed, glad to take a few minutes' rest, for
+the morning's excursion had left her unnerved and wearied.
+
+As the passing minutes grew into a full half-hour, she rang the
+bell, once and twice in vain. A third effort brought Hope, dusty and
+flurried, to ask what was needed.
+
+"Candles, if you please, and I shall be glad of tea early," Mrs.
+Mordaunt said in her gentle way, contrasting not a little with the
+Colonel's dictatorial air.
+
+But whether or no Hope marked the contrast, she was speedily distracted
+by fresh demands on the part of the Colonel, and forgot all about Mrs.
+Mordaunt's needs, while Bertha was not permitted an instant's freedom.
+Mother and daughter had to sit idly in the fire-light, and tea bade
+fair to be unusually late instead of unusually early.
+
+"Mother, I think they ought to attend to us," said Rhona soberly. "I
+don't mind your having to rest a little longer, but I do want you to
+have a cup of tea."
+
+"Everybody seems to be busy about the new lodger," said Mrs. Mordaunt.
+
+"Yes,—he's a Colonel," remarked Rhona. "Colonel Smyth, Bertha says. I
+wonder if we shall know him."
+
+"Not likely," Mrs. Mordaunt said, her lips hardly forming the words.
+
+"Mother, you are so tired. Couldn't we ring again?" asked the child
+anxiously.
+
+"Better not yet. We must have a little patience, darling."
+
+"Then put your head down on the sofa-pillow,—so—sweet mother," Rhona
+said lovingly, as she twined a slender arm in one of Mrs. Mordaunt's,
+and bent over her, with wistful eyes. "Is that nice? Was it a very very
+long way this morning?"
+
+"Yes, rather. But I don't mind the actual distance so much, Rhona.
+It is these noisy crowded streets which try me,—and the terribly
+unprotected feeling. I cannot shake off the nervousness of that, or of
+having to speak to strangers about myself. Sometimes I feel quite ill
+with the effort,—yet I ought to be able to do what other people do.
+I am afraid you have a poor weak silly mother, darling." She did not
+often betray her feelings thus to her child, for she had a dread of
+agitating Rhona. But occasionally a passing impulse proved too strong
+for her usual principle of action.
+
+Rhona's pained voice in answer immediately opened her eyes to the
+mistake.
+
+"O mother! Don't say such things. Please don't,—it makes me so unhappy,
+You 'know' I understand. Father always took such care of you, and you
+never had to do anything alone till—till—" the poor child could hardly
+speak, for struggling sobs. "O mother! I do wish I were old enough to
+take care of you. Couldn't you let me walk with you another time? I
+should like it so much; indeed I should. And I could wait outside the
+house for you, I shouldn't mind how long. O mother! Do let me, and then
+you won't feel quite so lonely perhaps."
+
+"My pet, you 'do' make me ashamed of myself," Mrs. Mordaunt said,
+sitting up, and taking into her arms the little slight figure,
+quivering with distress. "Hush, darling,—don't cry, or you will make
+yourself ill, and that always gives me such a heart-ache. I will not
+call myself silly again, if it grieves you. But you know, I have to
+conquer these feelings of nervousness and weakness, darling Rhona. If I
+did not, I should be wrong, and foolish too. I 'have' to stand alone;
+and if it is God's will for me, He can give me strength. If dear father
+were here, he would wish me to do God's will bravely. So now you are
+not going to be unhappy any more. Let me see you smile!"
+
+The smile came, but it was dim in kind. Tears flowed in one sense
+readily with Rhona, if her feelings were stirred or hurt for others.
+But in another sense, they did not flow easily. Unlike most children,
+she could not weep without positive physical pain and after exhaustion.
+For some minutes, neither spoke; and Rhona's head lay silently on her
+mother's shoulder.
+
+"They seem quite to have forgotten us," Mrs. Mordaunt said at length,
+speaking cheerfully. "We shall be glad of our tea when it comes, shall
+we not?"
+
+"Yes,—very," Rhona said, sighing. "Mother, isn't it funny how much
+harder it seems to be patient about little things than big things? I
+wonder why. I think I feel generally pretty patient about our great
+troubles,—leaving the dear Italy home and all that. But I 'do' get
+vexed when you want your tea so much, and they won't bring it. I get
+vexed if things are uncomfortable, and there is no real reason."
+
+"There is always a reason," said Mrs. Mordaunt.
+
+"Oh yes,—the people of the house are busy. But that isn't a good
+reason. They ought to remember us."
+
+"But perhaps the good reason lies behind," said Mrs. Mordaunt, softly
+laying her hand on Rhona's. "When a great trouble touches us, we know
+it comes from God, and we lean on Him, and He comforts us. But when
+there are little worries, we think they only come from man, and we
+forget that the least things may be part of our discipline, and so we
+are easily upset and vexed."
+
+"Such a little thing as tea being late,—is that a part?" asked Rhona
+slowly. "Mother, in our last lodging, when the woman was so careless,
+and cooked everything badly, I used to see how patient you were. Was
+that why?"
+
+"That was why I tried to be patient, darling, though indeed I was not
+always. But I am sure that not even a pin's prick of worry can reach
+one of His children, without His permission. And if so, it follows that
+the little pin-prick is from Him, as much as the greatest sorrow,—and
+then it must follow that we have to accept all patiently."
+
+Rhona folded her hands.
+
+"I didn't see that before," she said quietly. "Then it is not wrong of
+them to keep us waiting, if they are just doing God's will."
+
+"Ah, that is another part of the question," said Mrs. Mordaunt, almost
+smiling. "Neglect of duty is wrong in any case. It may be God's will
+that you and I should have our patience tried, but certainly it is not
+His will that anybody should be careless or forgetful. There is the
+same difficulty—if it is a difficulty—in great troubles, Rhona. Sorrow
+may come through another person's wrong-doing, and yet may come to us
+straight from God, though the wrong-doing could not possibly be as He
+wills. For instance,—suppose a thief came and stole everything we have
+here. He would not be doing God's will,—and yet the trial of losing our
+things would be sent straight to us from God."
+
+"Oh yes,—I see," Rhona said. "I shan't mind little worries so much, if
+I think about them like that. Only I do wish the tea would come. Oh,
+here is Bertha at last."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+NO FRIENDS TO THE FORE.
+
+LESS than half-an-hour later, Bertha reappeared.
+
+"If you please, ma'am, could Mr. Powis have a word with you?" she asked.
+
+"Certainly. Show him in. And, Bertha, you can take away the tray."
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt flushed slightly, as she heard the clergyman's
+approaching step. Her hand made a quick movement, as if to thrust out
+of sight the delicate needlework upon which she was employed. She
+checked the impulse, however, and continued sewing until he entered.
+What need to be ashamed?
+
+"I have apologised before now for receiving you here—continental
+fashion," she said, rising. "You know it to be my only reception-room."
+
+Mr. Powis deprecated any apology on her part. He was at first in one
+of his constrained moods, saying that he could not possibly stay, yet
+taking a chair, and seeming then at a loss for remarks. Mrs. Mordaunt
+saw his eyes travel questioningly round the room, dimly lighted with
+one candle, and she drew his attention to the sofa, where Rhona had
+curled herself up in her favourite corner, and had fallen asleep. He
+said "Ah!" softly, and drew his chair nearer.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt broke out suddenly—"London air does not suit her."
+
+"No," he answered in a tone of consideration. "The child looks frail."
+
+"She is just that—not ill, but frail. Sometimes I think I shall have to
+go away—to take her into the country. But—where?"
+
+"You have no friends in the country?"
+
+"None. And none in London either, for the matter of that, except you."
+
+"My wife wishes to be your friend too, Mrs. Mordaunt. Will you not let
+her? She cannot come to you."
+
+"I ought to have been to call, I know. It is neglectful. Forgive me. I
+seem to have no heart for anything."
+
+Mr. Powis turned towards her with a look of interest. "Still so much
+depression," he said kindly, emerging from his fit of bashfulness.
+
+"It is not mere depression. It is deadness," she said, in a low voice,
+with clasped hands, her eyes resting on Rhona's face. "I seem to see
+nothing, to feel nothing, to know nothing, except that Arthur is gone.
+It is a kind of spiritual paralysis. I have only power of feeling in
+connection with Rhona. Everything else is dull and dead."
+
+"I think not entirely," he said.
+
+"Yes,—entirely. You would hardly imagine how far it goes. My spiritual
+senses are in a state of blank. I cannot describe it. I can talk to
+Rhona—read the Bible with her, and speak of Christ. I know it all, and
+I find myself speaking as if I felt it all. But there is no feeling.
+When her dear little face lights up, there is no real response in my
+heart. And yet I cannot let her know how things are with me—I dare not.
+She suffers so intensely if she sees me grieved."
+
+"There is no need," said Mr. Powis. "If Christ the Physician is
+acquainted with your state, you are not compelled—believe me, you are
+not compelled—to tell your symptoms to everybody around."
+
+"But it seems almost hypocrisy to talk without feeling."
+
+"I think not, I think not in your case. Numbness is not death.
+Sometimes we may be fully assured of a truth without the present power
+to feel. A severe blow may result in want of sensation. I think you
+have been stunned."
+
+"Yes,—paralysed," she said in a low voice.
+
+"Christ Jesus cured paralytics," said Mr. Powis.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt's eyes shone. "Thank you," she murmured.
+
+"No lack of real feeling there, poor thing," the clergyman thought, but
+he did not say so.
+
+Rhona suddenly opened her eyes, and after one bewildered glance, she
+sprang up to greet her kind friend, and was speedily seated on his knee.
+
+"I must not wait," he said a minute or two later. "Mrs. Powis has two
+or three friends to tea, and she expects me back early. But—the fact
+is, Mrs. Mordaunt,—I came to see,—to inquire—to find out if anything
+had resulted from that lady,—from the hope of teaching, I mean." He was
+suddenly embarrassed and hesitating again. "That which you were to ask
+about this morning."
+
+"It has fallen through," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "Rhona and I are sadly
+disappointed. Mrs. Hayes had just decided to have a resident governess."
+
+"Disappointed,—yes, no doubt," Mr. Powis said, a slow smile creeping
+over his face. "But sometimes,—yes, sometimes, disappointment turns out
+to be in the end the best, the very best for us."
+
+"I am sure of that," Mrs. Mordaunt could reply.
+
+"Mother said she shouldn't wonder if something else quite as nice was
+waiting for her somewhere," remarked Rhona.
+
+"It often is so,—often, with those who trust a Father's care," said
+Mr. Powis. "Will you, if you please, Mrs. Mordaunt,—will you kindly
+read this note? I am very glad you have had the little disappointment
+to-day."
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt read of a lady, with three children, desiring to find a
+daily governess, who should teach for four hours every morning, remain
+to early dinner, walk with the children for an hour and a half every
+afternoon except Saturday, and receive the sum of fifty pounds per
+annum. "I should imagine from your description that Mrs. Mordaunt would
+exactly suit me," the lady wrote. "I have no one else in view. Would
+you kindly arrange for an early interview between her and me? I am
+anxious to have the matter settled, that lessons may begin again next
+week. I object to long holidays for the children."
+
+"O mother! Isn't it beautiful?" Rhona exclaimed. "If the lady this
+morning had settled to have you, we couldn't have seen about this."
+
+"No. In that case I should not have mentioned Mrs. Howard," said Mr.
+Powis.
+
+
+It seemed to Mrs. Burrell a very odd, not to say uncomfortable
+coincidence, that neither of her two lodgers—the young widow and the
+elderly Colonel,—rejoiced in relatives or friends.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt made no secret of the fact in her own case. She told Mrs.
+Burrell frankly that her girlish home had been in France, that her
+married life had been spent in Italy; that consequently, she had had no
+opportunity of cultivating acquaintances in England. That having been
+herself an only child with parents now dead, both of whom were also
+only children, she possessed no living relatives of her own; and that
+as for her husband's relatives—
+
+"There were some," she said hesitatingly, with a faint blush,—"but the
+terms on which they would wish to hold intercourse were such as she
+could not possibly consent to." With a sad smile she added,—"So you
+see, Mrs. Burrell, you will not be much troubled with callers while I
+am here. My only friend in London is Mr. Powis."
+
+It was hardly wise to say so much, but being young and lonely, the
+temptation to seek a little sympathy was urgent. Mrs. Burrell rather
+objected to the state of affairs thus revealed, yet felt flattered by
+the confidence reposed in her.
+
+"Dear me, ma'am, how melancholy!" she said more than once; and to
+do her justice, she sincerely pitied Mrs. Mordaunt. "For it's a
+forlorn position, there's no denying," she remarked afterwards to her
+daughter,—"and that young thing wants a protector. It's my belief she
+isn't long for this world; and whatever is to become of the child
+when she is taken, nobody knows. Why, there would be nothing but the
+workhouse. To be sure, she might be got into some sort of orphanage.
+But that kind of thing calls for a deal of interest and expense. I dare
+say Mr. Powis would do all he could, and that wouldn't be much; for
+everybody knows Mr. Powis hasn't got enough for his own children, let
+alone a stranger's."
+
+Naturally the Colonel was less communicative towards his landlady than
+Mrs. Mordaunt. Yet, strange to say, he seemed to be in much the same
+condition with respect to relatives and friends.
+
+Weeks went by, and nobody came to see him. Apparently too, he
+corresponded with nobody. Certainly not a letter had been brought to
+the house addressed to "Colonel Smyth" since his arrival.
+
+He seemed content in his solitude. Every morning, after a hearty
+breakfast, he sallied forth, and did not return until luncheon-time.
+Every afternoon, he shut himself up, and either read or wrote or slept
+till about five, when he took another ramble, returning in time for
+dinner. Dinner was a serious matter in Mrs. Burrell's estimation; for
+though the Colonel usually contrived to make a very good meal, and
+sometimes condescended to allow that his landlady did "pretty well" in
+the culinary line, yet he rarely failed to indulge in complaints as to
+each separate item of food, no small trial to the temper of a good cook.
+
+He paid his bills regularly, and that spoke in his favour. Still there
+was about him a slight flavour of mystery, aggravating to a landlady's
+feelings. There was no knowing who were his friends, or what were his
+occupations. He read much, and wrote a little, but all his books were
+locked up in the two glass bookcases, and all his papers were locked
+up in desks and drawers. The Colonel's keys were never visible, and
+nothing was ever left accidentally open. Mrs. Burrell would have prided
+herself in taking never a peep, if a peep had been in her power, but
+she objected to its not being in her power. She did not like "being
+distrusted."
+
+The Colonel, however, caring little for her likes or dislikes, went on
+in his own fashion.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt was, soon after Christmas, started in her new vocation
+of daily governess. She found another acquaintance in the children's
+mother, but it was an acquaintance only, not a friend. Mrs. Howard
+rarely appeared in the school-room; and when she did appear, although
+kind, she was stately.
+
+The young widow proved to be not only an accomplished but a most
+painstaking teacher; and the children soon repaid her trouble with
+warm affection. Mrs. Howard was fully satisfied, and that was all. She
+gave no thought to the home-life or possible home-cares of the gentle
+instructress.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt woke vividly to the change in her own position, shrank
+into a shell of reserve, and sensitively declined any further
+acquaintances offered by Mr. Powis, deferring still her long-talked-of
+visit to the clergyman's invalid wife. She pleaded her occupations and
+her lack of a sitting-room, and begged that no one might be asked to
+call, forgetting that for Rhona's sake, she ought to have been willing
+to put aside her own feelings in the matter.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+THE COLONEL AND HIS LANDLADY.
+
+THE Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt had never yet seen one another.
+Neither of the two evinced any particular curiosity as to his or her
+fellow-lodger. Still it was singular that weeks should pass without an
+accidental encounter on the stairs or in the street.
+
+Once, the doors of their respective apartments opened at the same
+instant. But before Mrs. Mordaunt could catch a glimpse of the Colonel,
+he had beaten a sharp retreat.
+
+"What a funny man he must be, mother!" little Rhona said, laughing. "He
+seems to be quite afraid of you."
+
+She had met him herself twice, and Colonel Smyth had looked steadily,
+with evident interest, at the child's fair face, but not a word had
+been exchanged.
+
+Rhona's life at this time was a lonely one. From nine o'clock every
+morning until about half-past four in the afternoon, she had to employ
+herself as best she might in her mother's absence. There was nothing to
+be seen from the window, and her books were not many in number. Every
+day she had some simple lessons to prepare, set her by Mrs. Mordaunt
+the evening before; and when these were done, she read and re-read
+Rollin's "Ancient History," Mackintosh's "History of England," and a
+few more volumes of a like nature. Now and then Mr. Powis brought her
+a story-book for perusal, and had he understood what a boon he was
+conferring, he would have done so oftener.
+
+The little delicate plant soon showed signs of drooping, under lack
+of fresh air and sunshine. Not so much to the mother's eyes, for
+Mrs. Mordaunt's return was always the signal for flushing cheeks and
+eager talk. But Bertha knew, as no one else did, how often the child
+sat listlessly, curled up in her sofa corner, too languid to employ
+herself, spending hour after hour in wistful dreams of the dear Italian
+home or tired longings for her mother.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt often took her for a little stroll in the afternoon, when
+her own day's work was done, little equal as she might be to this extra
+exertion. And sometimes Mrs. Powis' nurse, with half-a-dozen small
+children, called to escort her in a longer ramble. But London streets
+wearied rather than refreshed Rhona. And the afternoon stroll grew
+quietly shorter week by week, suiting the lessened powers of mother and
+child.
+
+For Mrs. Mordaunt had never been strong, and her strength was now
+severely taxed. The walk to and fro, between Mrs. Burrell's and Mrs.
+Howard's, was far too long when supplemented by a considerable ramble
+with her pupils, and often by a little turn with Rhona. Also, she had
+the stress of four hours' teaching, and another hour at night with
+Rhona, not to speak of the continual weight at her heart whenever she
+was absent from her child. Rhona never complained, but Mrs. Mordaunt
+realised only too well the long and lonely days which had to be passed
+through. Moreover, the having to venture out in all weathers, after
+almost a lifetime in sunny southern climes, and yet more the continual
+struggle with her own nervous and shrinking timidity—a timidity
+natural to her, and fostered by a hitherto guarded and sheltered
+existence,—these things told heavily upon her. But she hardly knew how
+much her health was suffering. She was only bent upon keeping on.
+
+Sometimes it occurred to her that the distance between her lodgings
+and her work was too great, and that she might be wise to search for
+a room nearer to Mrs. Howard's. Yet for Rhona's sake, she dreaded the
+thought of a move. During her long daily absences, the remembrance of
+Bertha was an unspeakable comfort. Mrs. Burrell was, in a general way,
+kindly disposed towards the child, but Bertha would have done anything
+for her. Busy as Mrs. Burrell kept her niece, Bertha rarely allowed an
+hour to pass, without glancing in, if but for one moment, to see if
+the child were happy. Besides, Mrs. Mordaunt was earnestly desirous
+to remain in Mr. Powis' parish. She felt that if anything happened to
+herself, he would be a friend to Rhona.
+
+
+One foggy evening, the Colonel caught a cold, which after some days of
+neglect proved rather severe. He spent a whole morning over a blazing
+fire. Then masculine patience failed, and he sallied forth, in despite
+of rain. Naturally, the cold was worse next day. And Mrs. Burrell,
+being summoned by his express wish, found him doing the sick man in
+deplorable wise, rolled up in a big shawl, and coughing incessantly.
+Mrs. Burrell, accustomed to take a shady view of matters, thought him
+very bad, and told him so; whereat the Colonel's face grew longer, and
+his voice grew thicker.
+
+"There's a very bad sort of throat going about," Mrs. Burrell said, by
+way of further encouragement. "Wouldn't you like to see a doctor, sir?
+We've got one living close by, quite handy."
+
+Colonel Smyth growled a protest. "Only one doctor in the world whose
+opinion I value a rap."
+
+"Well, sir, couldn't we get him?" asked Mrs. Burrell.
+
+"No!" the Colonel said indignantly, forgetting at once his hoarseness
+and his reserve. "I wouldn't have him know I am in London,—on any
+account."
+
+Then, seeing by his landlady's face that he had committed himself to
+something,—he did not exactly know what,—Colonel Smyth added, with a
+return of hoarseness,—"That is to say, I should not mind his knowing.
+But it might go farther."
+
+"To be sure, sir," Mrs. Burrell said, as if she understood, which
+certainly she did not. "And you wouldn't like a word sent to any friend
+or relation neither,—some one, I mean, sir, that might come and help
+you get agreeably through a few days of illness, if it was to turn out
+to be anything."
+
+The fish rose to the bait, but in such wise that Mrs. Burrell rather
+repented throwing her line. "Thanks, Mrs. Burrell!" the Colonel said
+sharply, in a voice of remarkable clearness. "You seem to take a great
+interest in my private affairs. I am much obliged to you for your
+solicitude. For the future, however, I recommend you to attend to your
+own concerns rather than mine. You may as well understand once for all
+that I have no friends and no relatives—"
+
+"Dear me, sir, how melancholy!" Mrs. Burrell said to him, as she had
+once said to Mrs. Mordaunt, gratified curiosity predominating over
+annoyance.
+
+"Will you be so good as to hear me out, instead of cutting me short?"
+demanded the Colonel. "I was about to say simply that I have no friends
+or relatives, whom it would give me at this moment any special pleasure
+to see, except—but it does not matter. If I choose to enjoy a few weeks
+or months in quiet, that is my own concern. I do not pretend to have
+no relations in the world—plenty of them, no doubt, to come and bicker
+over my goods when I am dead. But I have not the least intention of
+dying yet, so you really need not trouble yourself."
+
+"I am sure, sir, I hadn't any idea of giving offence," Mrs. Burrell
+said, half-irate, half-apologetic. "But you see, sir, you 'do' look
+bad; and I thought—if it was to chance to be one of them throats—"
+
+The Colonel coughed obediently to the suggestion, but repeated, "I am
+not going to die yet, Mrs. Burrell."
+
+"No, sir, to be sure," assented Mrs. Burrell; "though I suppose, as one
+may say, nobody knows beforehand when his time is. And there was Mr.
+Green, in the next street, carried off by a throat, only ten days ago."
+
+"Who is Mrs. Mordaunt's doctor?" asked the Colonel unexpectedly.
+
+"She don't have one, sir, though to my thinking there's need. If
+anybody ever did look like a downright ghost, it's Mrs. Mordaunt when
+she comes back of an evening. And then there's the child."
+
+"Where does Mrs. Mordaunt come back from?"
+
+"She goes out teaching, sir," Mrs. Burrell answered, though convinced
+that what she said came as no news to the Colonel. "Every day except
+Sunday. And that child left alone from half-past nine—or I'm not sure
+it isn't nine—of a morning, till near five. It isn't Mrs. Mordaunt's
+fault."
+
+"Every day from half-past nine till nearly five," repeated the Colonel.
+
+"That's about it," said Mrs. Burrell, "and Saturdays no better; for if
+she's back sooner from Mrs. Howard's, she goes out again to give music
+lessons. It's my belief she's just killing herself. And the child sits
+there alone, hour after hour, as patient as a lamb,—never a tear nor a
+grumble. I get her down into our little parlour once in a way, but Mrs.
+Mordaunt seems to have a dread of the child making acquaintances. And
+Miss Rhona is always content. It isn't natural. I doubt she's too good
+for this world."
+
+"Stuff and nonsense, my good woman," said the Colonel testily. "There
+is no such thing as being too good for this world. Bad people die quite
+as often as good ones."
+
+Mrs. Burrell could not dispute the assertion, though of course she held
+fast to her own opinion. To do her justice, she was not yielding to a
+mere spirit of gossip, but was moved by an honest desire to interest
+the Colonel in Rhona, for the child's benefit. Being somewhat offended,
+however, at the term "good woman" as applied to herself, in what she
+counted a slighting manner, she showed signs of beating a retreat.
+
+"Stop a moment. What is the matter with the child?"
+
+"I don't know as there's anything particular, sir, only she looks pale,
+and don't seem to have any spirit. And she talks,—to hear her talk,
+it's like a dying person."
+
+"Humph! Stuffed full of religious notions, I'll warrant," muttered the
+Colonel. "Children are regular little parrots."
+
+"Yes, sir. But it isn't a parrot-like sort of way that Miss Rhona has.
+She's a child of wonderful feeling, and understands for all the world
+like a grown person."
+
+The Colonel sat plunged in thought, his brows drawn together. Mrs.
+Burrell hesitated two or three seconds, then withdrew, shutting the
+door behind her.
+
+That recalled Colonel Smyth to the present position of affairs, and he
+went back to the consideration of his cough. He did not, however, cease
+to consider Rhona also.
+
+No immediate results followed upon the conversation. But in a few
+days, when his cough had vanished and he was abroad again, he began to
+institute a system of nods and smiles, exchanged between himself and
+Rhona, when they chanced to meet, which was not often.
+
+Rhona learnt to look out for these occasional glimpses of the Colonel,
+as a pleasant excitement in her life.
+
+No words were as yet spoken. And still, it never came to pass that the
+Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt had an encounter.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+A BUNCH OF GRAPES.
+
+"MOTHER," Rhona said wistfully one morning; "I wish you had not to go
+to Mrs. Howard's."
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt was vaguely conscious of the same wish. She had been
+very weary for many days past, and this day an indescribable weight
+of dizziness and confusion oppressed her. Breakfast had been a mere
+make-believe. Rhona's eyes watched her mother wistfully. She did not
+know what was wrong, but she could plainly see that all was not right.
+
+"Mother, I do so wish you hadn't to go," she repeated.
+
+"I must," Mrs. Mordaunt said, stooping to kiss the child.
+
+"But you are not well. I know you aren't. Wouldn't Mrs. Howard let you
+off for just one day? Do you think she would mind? It is so cold and
+foggy. Look how thick the air is,—all yellow."
+
+"Yes; I must not mind that. I am really getting used to the London
+atmosphere," said Mrs. Mordaunt, trying to speak cheerfully.
+
+"We never had fogs in Italy, mother."
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt put her hands to her brow with a sudden movement. "O
+Rhona! Don't talk to me of Italy just now. I can't stand it. Don't make
+me look back."
+
+Rhona stood in silence, watching her mother's preparations. They were
+not so expeditious as usual. Twice she stopped, with a bewildered
+expression, as if unable to remember what had to be done next; and she
+would have forgotten her cloak altogether, if Rhona had not brought it.
+Mrs. Mordaunt was not naturally forgetful, and Rhona had a sense of
+something unusual.
+
+A good-bye kiss was as always exchanged, and Mrs. Mordaunt moved away.
+At the door she paused, and came back.
+
+"My darling," she said, bending over Rhona,—"did I speak crossly just
+now? I did not mean it, Rhona."
+
+"O mother! No,—as if you 'could' be cross!" said Rhona eagerly, pulling
+Mrs. Mordaunt down upon the sofa, and clinging to her. "You are never
+never cross for one moment, darling mother; only you are so tired
+to-day."
+
+"Yes,—I am tired," said Mrs. Mordaunt dreamily. "I think this fog
+oppresses me, for I feel as if I hardly knew what I am doing this
+morning. It must be a kind of stupid headache, I suppose. Perhaps
+having to attend to lessons will rouse me. I could not rest all night,
+and that is so wearying."
+
+She laid her head down on the arm of the sofa, closed her eyes, and
+remained still.
+
+Rhona watched her wonderingly.
+
+"Mother, you look as if you were going to sleep," she said at length.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt sprang to her feet, with an incoherent exclamation, and a
+white scared look.
+
+"O Rhona! You startled me so!" she said hurriedly. And then, with an
+attempt at a smile, "I—I think I forgot where I was. How stupid of me!
+I must have been almost asleep for a minute. My head feels so strange.
+But I must start at once, and walk fast."
+
+"Couldn't we ask Mrs. Burrell to send word that you are not fit to go
+to-day?" pleaded Rhona, distressed at her mother's manner. "I am sure
+Mrs. Howard wouldn't mind. You do look so very pale."
+
+"No, no, my pet, it will never do to let Mrs. Howard think me an
+invalid. I was only startled for a moment, and the strange feeling
+seems going off. Perhaps walking will do me good. If this fog lasts,
+the children will not be allowed to go out, and I shall get home early.
+That is one good thing about bad weather. Good-bye, my darling."
+
+"Good-bye, 'sweet' mother," Rhona said passionately.
+
+She stood, smiling, while her mother went out, and watched her over the
+balusters. But when the front door was opened and shut, a change came
+over the child's face. She went back heavily into the room, her little
+hands clasped, and large tears filling the dark eyes. Rhona would not
+give way willingly, and she took out her lesson books without delay.
+But the French translation made slow advance, and more than one bright
+drop splashed down into the fresh writing, making a smudge upon the
+page.
+
+A tap at the door caused her to look up.
+
+"Come in," she said, expecting Bertha.
+
+Instead of Bertha, a sunburnt hand appeared, bearing a bunch of grapes;
+the hand being followed by some grizzly moustaches.
+
+"Who is it?" Rhona asked, rather alarmed. Then in a changed tone, "Oh,
+I am so glad. Please come in."
+
+"All alone?" asked Colonel Smyth, gratified at the manner of his
+reception.
+
+"Quite," said Rhona. "Mother is always away all the morning, and most
+of the afternoon. Won't you sit down, please?"
+
+Colonel Smyth disregarded the request, and stood looking fixedly at the
+child.
+
+"Lessons a trouble?" he inquired.
+
+"No," faltered Rhona.
+
+"Something is, that's plain. Dear me, look here—why, it's a downright
+blot. Mother will be angry, I expect?"
+
+"Mother is never angry—never," said Rhona. Then with a sudden movement
+she turned away, and her little hands went over her eyes.
+
+"Come, come; that will never do!" said the Colonel decisively.
+
+And before Rhona knew what was coming, she found herself seated on his
+knee, with his arm round her, and her head on his shoulder.
+
+For two or three minutes not a word was spoken. Rhona gave one long
+sobbing breath, and then remained motionless,—greatly comforted.
+
+"Better now?" asked the Colonel presently. "What is it all about?"
+
+"Mother!" Rhona evidently thought no more explanation was needed.
+
+"Ah!" the Colonel said, as if he understood. "But I would not cry about
+it if I were you. Crying does nobody any good. Do you like grapes?"
+
+He held up the luscious bunch. Rhona allowed herself to be raised to
+a sitting position. "Yes,—thank you," she said wistfully. "We used to
+have them in Italy, but we don't now."
+
+"Well, we will leave them here, and you can dispose of them at your
+leisure," said the Colonel, rising. "Come and take a peep at my room
+first."
+
+Rhona followed at once, much interested. He took her round step by
+step, pointing out pictures, showing Indian curiosities, opening
+drawers full of tropical shells, bits of coral, or impaled insects.
+Rhona said little, but her eyes grew large and shining with eagerness,
+and the wan look passed from her face. The Colonel's attention seemed
+drawn to her irresistibly.
+
+"Better now, my dear?" he asked a second time, as she stood gazing into
+a pink-lined shell from some Eastern strand.
+
+"Oh yes, thank you," Rhona answered gratefully.
+
+"Look here," said the Colonel abruptly, laying his and on the top of
+her head,—"I've a notion you read and think too much. Little girls of
+your age have only to laugh and skip."
+
+It was not a childlike look that she gave him, with her soft serious
+eyes. "But I am mother's only friend now," she said. "So I 'must'
+think."
+
+"What made you come away from Italy?" asked Colonel Smyth.
+
+"Mother had not enough to live on there," said Rhona. She was usually
+as discreet and reserved as any grown person, but the Colonel had
+charmed her into confidingness. "We didn't know what else to do; and
+mother thought the aunts would help us, perhaps."
+
+"The aunts," repeated Colonel Smyth.
+
+"The three aunts in London," said Rhona. "Mother has nobody belonging
+to her except me, but they are my father's aunts." She spoke in a
+curious staid manner.
+
+"Three Miss Mordaunts, eh?"
+
+"Yes," Rhona answered. "But I don't like the aunts. One was just a
+little kind, and the others were so cross. They wanted to take me away
+from mother, and make me live with them. As if I 'could!'"
+
+"Of course you couldn't," said the Colonel.
+
+"Mother has nobody else,—and father told me I must never never leave
+her. I think it would kill mother to lose me."
+
+"Of course it would," assented the Colonel, looking deeply interested,
+yet speaking absently.
+
+"And when mother found out what they really meant, she was so
+frightened that she hunted for these lodgings, and we came off as quick
+as possible, and didn't tell anybody where we were going."
+
+"Ran away, in short," said the Colonel, with a chuckle.
+
+"Oh no, I don't think it was running away, because the aunts had no
+right over us," said Rhona seriously. "God gave me to mother, and they
+ought not to have wanted to take me from mother. If they would have
+had her too, it would have been all right, but they were so unkind to
+mother. Only think—if she had to live all alone, or among strangers!
+But we knew aunt Barbara and aunt Clara would be angry, and perhaps
+aunt Susanna too; and mother was afraid, so we came away quietly."
+
+"What was their reason for being unkind to your mother, my dear?"
+
+Rhona reflected. "I am not sure that I ought to say more," she replied.
+"Mother thought she knew, and of course she told me her thoughts. But I
+almost think mother will say I have talked too much already about our
+affairs. And, please, she would not like you to tell anybody else about
+us and the aunts, because we don't wish them to know where we are."
+
+The Colonel was a good deal diverted at the old-fashioned preciseness
+of manner. "You are safe with me, my dear," he said. "I have no friends
+just now to talk with; and if I had, your information should go no
+further. Now I have an engagement, so I must say good-bye. But you ask
+your mother's leave this afternoon, and I will take you for a walk
+to-morrow."
+
+"May I? Oh, that would be nice," said Rhona. "Only, won't you come and
+see mother, and ask her yourself?"
+
+"Well, no—I think not—on the whole," said Colonel Smyth. "Some day I
+may peep in on you again, if she doesn't forbid it. I dare say you feel
+lonely sometimes when your mother is away."
+
+Rhona was silent, and the Colonel awaited an answer.
+
+"It is not exactly loneliness," she said in a soft reverent voice,
+peculiar to herself. "God is always here, you know."
+
+Colonel Smyth positively started.
+
+The words came with a certain assured sweetness, not at all as if the
+child were merely repeating what she had been taught to say, but rather
+as a simply assertion of that which in her own experience was true.
+
+"So I cannot be really alone," she added. "But I do long often to have
+more of mother. And it is nice to have somebody come in for a little
+talk. I think I am fond of talking."
+
+"You shall talk to me as much as you like," said the Colonel, stooping
+down, and letting his grey moustache brush her forehead. "Good-bye,—and
+mind you don't think any more about anything for the rest of the day."
+
+Rhona reckoned that if the fog continued, her mother would get away
+from Mrs. Howard's in time to reach home before three.
+
+
+The fog did continue. At noon, it lightened slightly. But by half-past
+two, it had grown again yellow and dense. There could be no doubt
+whatever that Mrs. Howard would keep her children indoors that
+afternoon.
+
+Yet three o'clock and half-past three came, and Mrs. Mordaunt did not
+appear. Four o'clock, and she remained absent.
+
+The next hour passed wearily to Rhona, who was sadly disappointed.
+No doubt, Mrs. Howard had kept her governess to amuse the children
+indoors. Rhona thought this rather hard. She did so want her mother to
+have a little extra rest for once.
+
+Five o'clock passed, and still the minutes went relentlessly by, while
+Rhona sat waiting. She was no longer able to employ herself with books
+or work.
+
+Bertha presently came in, and said,—"It is quarter to six, Miss Rhona.
+Your mamma seems late to-day. Will you wait for her, or have tea now? I
+do think you want it."
+
+"I'll wait, please; it is no matter about me," said Rhona. "Bertha, I
+can't think what keeps mother so long. She is always home before this."
+
+"I suppose she has to pick her way slowly," said Bertha. "We haven't
+had such a fog all the winter through. Perhaps the lady has made her
+wait because of the weather."
+
+"Oh no, that isn't like Mrs. Howard at all. And mother would be sure to
+come."
+
+"Perhaps she has missed a right turning somewhere," suggested Bertha.
+"That would make her late. But there are always people about, so she
+could ask her way. I wouldn't worry, if I was you, Miss Rhona. I must
+go now, for there's aunt calling, but I shan't wait long before I bring
+you a cup of tea."
+
+She kept her word, and the cup of tea came, while Mrs. Mordaunt still
+remained away. Rhona could eat nothing, but having disposed of the tea,
+she sat patiently in the sofa corner, with her little hands clasped,
+and her large eyes bent ceaselessly on the door.
+
+Half-an-hour later, Bertha reappeared, carrying a neat
+purse-pocket-book of dark morocco, rather large for a lady's use.
+
+"Miss Rhona," she said, and she looked anxious,—"isn't this your
+mamma's?"
+
+Rhona raised herself upright, and took the purse. "Yes," she said
+gravely. "That is mother's. It used to belong to father."
+
+"She must have dropped it as she was going out this morning. Hannah
+found it just now, lying in a corner of the hall, close to the front
+door. I think there is money inside, Miss Rhona, but you wouldn't know
+how much there ought to be."
+
+"Yes; I know," said Rhona, in the same serious tone. She counted slowly
+the contents of the two pockets, and glanced through a few papers. "It
+is all right. But—"
+
+"I am glad she didn't drop it outside," said Bertha.
+
+"But mother has been thinking all day that the purse was lost," the
+child said sadly. "I am so sorry; for she was tired enough before. And
+if the fog was ever so bad, she wouldn't have been able to get into an
+omnibus, because she has no money with her—not one penny."
+
+"She could take a cab, and promise to pay here," suggested Bertha.
+
+Rhona shook her head. "That would cost too much," she said. "Especially
+when mother would be thinking that she had just lost her purse. Poor
+darling mother!"
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+WHERE COULD SHE BE?
+
+"HEY? What? I don't understand," said Colonel Smyth sharply.
+
+"If you please, sir—"
+
+"What do you mean by coming in like that without knocking? Insufferable
+impertinence!" growled the Colonel, in angry tones.
+
+For he had been indulging himself in a lengthy evening siesta, and
+like the rest of the world, he objected much to be caught napping out
+of authorised hours. The Colonel sat bolt upright, and made believe to
+have been absorbed in the book which lay open on his knee.
+
+"If you please, sir, I did knock,—several times," Bertha answered, "but
+I could not make you hear."
+
+"The noise in the street, my good girl, always that wretched rumble
+going on. And when one has an interesting book into the bargain,—but
+mind you knock another time loud enough to get an answer. Well—what do
+you want?"
+
+"It is half-past nine o'clock, sir, and Mrs. Mordaunt hasn't come
+back," said Bertha. "Mrs. Burrell thinks you might perhaps be able to
+advise us what to do."
+
+"Not come back! Mrs. Mordaunt! Where from? What is she about?"
+
+"Nobody knows, sir. She went to her teaching in the morning as usual,
+and that is the last seen of her. Miss Rhona expected her home about
+three o'clock. We are afraid she must have lost her way in the fog."
+
+"Not at all surprising if she has,—a comparative stranger to London! No
+doubt she will have taken shelter somewhere."
+
+"Miss Rhona is so frightened," said Bertha. "We can't persuade her to
+go to bed."
+
+"Frightened! The child! Of course she is, poor little mite. Thoughtless
+of the mother, not to manage differently."
+
+Colonel Smyth considered; then asked,—"Where does she go to her work?"
+
+Bertha named the square.
+
+"Humph! Easy enough to miss a turning in the fog between that and
+this. I wouldn't answer for coming straight myself. Probably they have
+kept her for the night,—most humane thing they could do under the
+circumstances."
+
+"Miss Rhona thinks her mother is sure to have started for home, sir."
+
+"Miss Rhona knows no more about the matter than anybody else. Children
+are always positive," said the Colonel.
+
+"And there is something else too," Bertha continued, after a slight
+break. "Mrs. Mordaunt dropped her pocket-book in the hall, as she went
+out this morning, so she has no money with her."
+
+"People don't commonly carry money in pocket-books, my good girl."
+
+"This is a particular kind of pocket-book-purse," said Bertha,
+preserving her quiet manner. "Miss Rhona knows her mother has not
+a penny with her besides. And if anything was to happen to Mrs.
+Mordaunt,—such as being knocked down or run over in the fog,—there
+would be nothing about her to show who she is, or where she lives."
+
+"Umph! I don't like that," muttered the Colonel. "Not of course that
+one need suppose anything 'has' happened to her. Still, people have no
+business to go about in London, without their names and addresses in
+their pocket."
+
+"She thought she had, you see, sir. But I have not put this idea into
+Miss Rhona's head. There is no need to frighten her more."
+
+"Of course not—of course not. I'll come and see the child if you like."
+
+Bertha opened the doors with alacrity, ushering the Colonel into Mrs.
+Mordaunt's room. He expected to find Rhona sobbing and distressed,
+with ordinary childish show. Instead of which, he came upon a calm
+and tearless little face, white as marble, with the large eyes widely
+opened, and only a slight quiver round the lips, telling of strong
+feeling below.
+
+"Well, my dear, so mother hasn't come back yet," said the Colonel,
+sitting down beside her.
+
+"No," said Rhona, looking up in his face. "And I can't go and find her!
+If only I were old enough! Bertha says I must not go out; and I am
+afraid mother would not let me."
+
+"Pshaw, my dear; nobody could find anybody such a night as this. You
+would be lost yourself, before you reached the end of the street,"
+said the Colonel, with an uneasy conviction that Rhona would look upon
+him as the right person to search for Mrs. Mordaunt. "Much worse than
+looking for a needle in a haystack, and you know how hopeless a matter
+that is. Mother has no doubt missed her way in the fog, and wisely
+taken shelter somewhere."
+
+"But she has nowhere to go," objected Rhona.
+
+"Plenty of places in London," said the Colonel. "There are always
+shops; and anybody would give one shelter on a day like this. I should
+not wonder for my part, if Mrs. What's-her-name has kept your mother
+for the night."
+
+"Oh no, I am sure she would not," the child said decidedly. "And mother
+would not stay. She would be quite quite certain to try to get home."
+
+"You see, one can't possibly do anything except wait," explained the
+Colonel, putting down a mental suggestion that one might do something
+else. "If your mother is there, she is all right. And if she has taken
+shelter in a shop, she is all right too. And if she really has tried
+to find her way home, and has wandered out of the road,—why, it comes
+to the same thing, for she will 'have' to take shelter somewhere until
+the morning. She might in such a case be anywhere, far or near. Hunting
+for her would be an absolutely hopeless matter. It is a thousand pities
+that she didn't take a cab, and drive straight back, while she was
+able,—I doubt if even a cabby could find his way far now. But she is
+not used to London yet, and perhaps the idea did not occur to her."
+
+"Mother might think of that, but she would not do it," Rhona said.
+
+And the story of the purse followed.
+
+Colonel Smyth listened, as if he had not heard the same before, and
+Bertha stood patiently near the door, without uttering a word.
+
+"Come, that explains a good deal," he said. "One may almost look upon
+that fact as a satisfaction, my dear, seen in one aspect. Having no
+purse, she would not, of course, get into an omnibus, and thinking her
+purse lost, she would not like to venture on a cab. No doubt she has
+tried to walk home as usual, and has missed her way, and some friendly
+individual has given her shelter."
+
+It was all very simple and encouraging, if only Rhona could have been
+sure.
+
+"So now, my dear, you will be a good sensible little maid, and go to
+bed and sleep soundly till she comes back in the morning," pursued
+Colonel Smyth.
+
+Rhona shuddered. "Oh, not to bed!" she said. "Oh no,—not to bed. I
+never went to bed without mother's kiss. I'll wait here."
+
+"But you can't sit up all night," remonstrated the Colonel. "I do not
+in the least expect your mother to return before daylight. The fog has
+been tremendous the last two hours. Wherever she is, there she will
+have to stay."
+
+"I think she wouldn't wish you to stay up, Miss Rhona," said Bertha.
+
+"Ah,—just so," said the Colonel, catching at the suggestion. "Mother
+wouldn't wish it. You have to do exactly what she would like if
+she were here, and of course she would tell you to go to bed. Why,
+look!—you haven't eaten the grapes yet. Your mother shall have some
+more, so don't keep these. I promise to send somebody early to-morrow,
+to ask about her at Mrs. Howard's. But most likely, she will appear
+before we can send. Don't distress your little heart; mother is old
+enough to take care of herself, after all."
+
+"God will take care of her," said Rhona, in a low voice.
+
+"Very well, my dear, put it any way you like," answered the Colonel;
+and he said good-night in a hurry.
+
+"Bertha, it is nearly ten o'clock," said Rhona slowly, when he was
+gone, and her look was very pitiful.
+
+"Yes, Miss Rhona; I do think your mamma must have taken shelter
+somewhere, just as the Colonel says."
+
+"I wish I knew," Rhona answered, sighing deeply. "I do wish I really
+knew. But I'll go to bed now, because mother would like it. I don't
+want any help, Bertha, only please come back presently, just for a
+minute."
+
+"Yes, Miss Rhona. Would you like to have me in the room to-night? I
+could sleep on the sofa."
+
+"No, thank you," replied Rhona. "Mother might come in any time,—only
+please come to see me the last thing. And if mother rings at the front
+door, you'll be 'sure' to hear?"
+
+Bertha could see how strongly the child's self-command was strained,
+and she dreaded that sleep might prove an impossibility.
+
+"Yes, indeed, dear," she said, "I will be sure. But I don't expect your
+mamma back before to-morrow."
+
+"You don't know and I don't know," said Rhona. "Only God knows. And He
+can take care of my own sweet mother."
+
+Bertha lingered yet, though aware that she was required elsewhere.
+"You'll ask Him, won't you, Miss Rhona," she said.
+
+"I am asking Him all the time,—every minute," said Rhona. '"It is the
+only thing I can do. O Bertha! If I were a big strong man like the
+Colonel, I wouldn't sit indoors, and leave mother out in that dreadful
+fog, with nobody to help her."
+
+"You see, Miss Rhona, the Colonel doesn't believe she is out in the fog
+now; and he doesn't know where to go."
+
+"Ah, but I would try," said Rhona plaintively. "And if my father were
+here, he would go. There is nobody now to take care of mother."
+
+"Except—" Bertha said in a low voice.
+
+"Yes,—except God. I mustn't forget," said Rhona. And then with a sigh,
+she rested her head against Bertha, murmuring, "O Bertha! It 'does'
+ache so."
+
+Bertha hardly knew whether the "aching" referred to head or heart;
+perhaps it was to both. "Yes, I know," she said sadly. "But you'll get
+into bed now, Miss Rhona, and try to go to sleep."
+
+Rhona answered in the affirmative, though with a sound of hopelessness.
+An hour later, when Bertha came softly in, the child was lying quietly
+with clasped hands, and wide-open unresting eyes. Further on, when once
+more she stole down for last glimpse, she found the same. So the hours
+of the night dragged by.
+
+
+Morning dawned, clear and sunshiny, the dense pall of yellow fog having
+vanished like a dream. Some mistiness still hovered over the great
+city, but this was soon dispelled.
+
+"There will be nothing to keep mother from coming home early this
+morning," said Rhona, as Bertha stood by her side. The child seemed
+less affected by her long night-vigil than Bertha had feared. She
+looked pale and heavy-eyed, but the eyes themselves were full of peace.
+
+"You have not had much sleep, dear," Bertha said pityingly.
+
+"I couldn't," Rhona answered. "I did so long to know where mother was.
+The first part of the time seemed almost more than I could bear. I
+could only just pray and pray that she might be safe. And then I had
+such beautiful thoughts of how the Lord Jesus loves mother,—oh, such
+love! It made me so happy."
+
+"He loves you too, Miss Rhona," Bertha said gravely.
+
+"Yes,—oh, I am sure of that. But the other thought was what comforted
+me. I had a feeling of mother lying in His arms, and being taken care
+of until He brings her back to me. I do hope He will bring her very
+very quickly. Bertha, I am going to get up now, so as to be ready."
+
+"Yes, dear," Bertha said, and she turned away, lest Rhona should see
+the tears in her eyes.
+
+
+Colonel Smyth's morning meal did not take place till nine o'clock. But
+at eight, he came to Mrs. Mordaunt's room, hat in hand. Rhona had been
+dressed for an hour, and was taking her breakfast.
+
+"Oh, are you going to look for mother?" she said eagerly.
+
+"I'm just thinking of asking at Mrs. Howard's door, my dear, whether
+she is still there, and if so when we may expect to see her. You poor
+little white-faced mite! Come, cheer up; we shall soon have her back
+now, I don't doubt. You don't call that scrap of dry toast 'breakfast,'
+I hope! Here, my good girl,—" he turned to Bertha, who had brought in
+the small tray—"just get for the child some of that cold chicken which
+I had yesterday. She wants feeding up—looks like a wraith already,"
+muttered the Colonel. "Mind, Rhona, you are to eat a good meal."
+
+"I don't think I am hungry, but I'll try," Rhona said gently. "How kind
+you are."
+
+"Pshaw! You are the first person that ever thought so. I'm capable of a
+feeling of humanity, perhaps. Good-bye. I shall soon be back again."
+
+
+There was much looking out for the Colonel's return, downstairs as well
+as upstairs. He entered at length by the shop, instead of through the
+usual side-door, having been absent considerably more than an hour, and
+asked of Mrs. Burrell, "Not come back yet?"
+
+"Mrs. Mordaunt? No, sir."
+
+"I am afraid it is a bad business," said the Colonel. "She left Mrs.
+Howard's early yesterday—two o'clock in the afternoon."
+
+Mrs. Burrell uttered a sound of dismay and commiseration.
+
+"The fog was hardly at its worst then, certainly not so bad as an hour
+later. Mrs. Howard advised her to start immediately after luncheon, on
+account of it, and recommended an omnibus. She says she saw little of
+Mrs. Mordaunt, but thought her looking extremely ill. And the children
+say she seemed confused and unlike herself all the morning. I asked if
+she had discovered the loss of her purse while there, and it appears
+not; at all events, she did not allude to it.
+
+"Really I do not know how to tell that poor child. We must do so
+gently; merely suggest that she has probably found shelter somewhere,
+and may return at any moment. If she has simply wandered out of her
+way, and taken shelter for the night, she would return early, of
+course. I made a good many inquiries of policemen and in shops, all to
+no purpose. Nobody appears to have noticed her. And in London, how can
+one expect that any one should—such a day as yesterday?"
+
+"I hope she hasn't been run down in the fog," Mrs. Burrell said, with a
+lugubrious expression.
+
+"I hope not, but it is by no means unlikely. Mrs. Howard showed
+feeling. I told her she ought to have sent the poor thing back before
+luncheon, or else have kept her altogether—and she wishes now that she
+had done so. No good blaming folks after the event, however. A good
+deal seems to hinge upon that unfortunate dropping of the pocket-book.
+If it had been in her pocket, the news of an accident would have
+reached us before this. As things are, if she were knocked down and
+stunned, they would not know where to send word, until she came to her
+senses again."
+
+The Colonel went slowly upstairs, heralding his approach by creaking
+boots.
+
+Mrs. Burrell remained behind, and might perhaps be excused for a wonder
+how the rent of Mrs. Mordaunt's room was to be paid, if Mrs. Mordaunt
+did not return.
+
+"There could be nothing for that poor child but the workhouse," she
+said.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+IN THE FOG.
+
+AS stated by Mrs. Howard, the young widow had left her house at two
+o'clock in the afternoon. It was very foggy even then, though not so
+dense as a little later.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt hardly knew how she had dragged through the weary hours
+of that long morning. It had been hard to keep her attention in any
+degree fixed upon the children's lessons.
+
+Julia, the eldest girl, remarked more than once, "I am sure you are not
+well, Mrs. Mordaunt."
+
+And she answered, with a faint smile, "Only a bad headache, dear. I
+shall be better by-and-by."
+
+But the headache grew worse, as time went on.
+
+At luncheon, she could eat nothing. And even Mrs. Howard, usually a
+most unobservant person, noticed her extreme paleness.
+
+"I should advise you to get home early," she said, with unwonted
+kindness. "The children cannot, of course, walk out, and if the fog
+were to increase, you might have difficulty in finding your way."
+
+"It is bad enough now," Julia said, as they rose from table.
+
+"Yes. I really think you would be wise to take an omnibus for once,
+Mrs. Mordant, rather than to trust to your own powers," said Mrs.
+Howard.
+
+"It would be the best plan—perhaps," replied Mrs. Mordaunt, with the
+same effort after attention, which even the children had observed over
+their lessons. She had repeatedly failed to answer questions, until
+twice or three times addressed.
+
+Now she went back mechanically into the school-room. But instead of
+putting on bonnet and cloak, she sat down at the table, and rested her
+forehead on her hand.
+
+The children cast wondering glances.
+
+"I'm sure the fog gets more yellow every minute," Julia said at length.
+"Mamma advised you to make haste."
+
+"Certainly—thank you—I am forgetting," Mrs. Mordaunt exclaimed, and she
+started up nervously, as in the morning with Rhona. "How strange! I
+fancied I was at home. I thought—"
+
+She stopped and gazed round, as if in perplexity.
+
+"Did you? How funny!" said Julia. "Here is your bonnet, Mrs. Mordaunt.
+Can't you find your gloves?"
+
+"My gloves! Oh yes; I knew there was something," said Mrs. Mordaunt
+faintly.
+
+"Annie has them. Look,—here they are. I do think you are dreadfully
+tired to-day; aren't you?"
+
+"Yes. I must try to get rested before to-morrow," said Mrs. Mordaunt,
+speaking in a more natural voice. "Good-bye, dear."
+
+The children kissed her as usual, and then from the window watched her
+leaving the front door, and passing away into the fog.
+
+"Poor Mrs. Mordaunt! She looks as if she could hardly walk," Julia said
+pityingly.
+
+Some little distance had to be traversed before an omnibus could be met
+with. Once at the right spot, she might be carried to the very corner
+of Mrs. Burrell's street, within a few yards of the house-door.
+
+As yet, Mrs. Mordaunt had not discovered the loss of her purse.
+Generally she would have done so in a very short time. But this day,
+she was so oppressed and confused that much might pass unnoticed.
+
+A crossing lay before her, easy enough to an experienced Londoner, but
+presenting serious difficulties to one so timid and so little used to
+London streets. Mrs. Mordaunt often waited at this spot fifteen or
+twenty minutes, before venturing to trust herself among the throng of
+vehicles. Sometimes she found a friendly policeman to escort her over.
+
+To-day, no policeman came within sight, and the fog made matters worse
+than usual. She had a sensation of being suffocated by the thick air;
+while the incessant noise brought on such dizziness and confusion of
+brain that she scarcely knew what she was about. Twice in desperation
+she started, and twice rushed back, barely in time, as a heavily-laden
+omnibus loomed suddenly through the mist, almost upon her.
+
+Trembling from head to foot, with wildly beating heart, she
+waited,—still on the wrong side of the road,—noting how every omnibus
+seemed full, and wondering whether she should obtain a seat, even if
+she could get across. An easy matter usually, at that time of the day,
+but people evidently preferred trusting to others' sagacity, rather
+than to their own.
+
+Each moment the fog was thickening. Should she try again to cross, or
+should she walk towards home, and seek a less crowded spot farther on?
+By so doing, she would lose the possibility of a certain short cut,
+which might prove desirable, in case the omnibus plan was a failure.
+
+A sudden doubt swept through her mind. Had she crossed already, or had
+she not? On which side of the road was she really standing? Where lay
+her home?
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt staggered back against the wall, unnoticed and panting
+for breath, as she strove to regain her self-command. But the confusion
+of memory would not right itself. She found herself in a state of utter
+bewilderment. If only the ceaseless rush of sound would stop for one
+moment, that she might think. All clearness of recollection was gone.
+How weird and unnatural seemed this world of yellow fog, with dim
+lights and figures looming past, ever coming and vanishing! Who cared
+what became of her? A terrible wave of desolation passed over the poor
+young thing; and still she could hear the throbbing of her own heart,
+above all outer noises, and still she vainly sought to disentangle the
+confusion of brain.
+
+What was it she had to do? Where should she go? In which direction lay
+her home? "Had" she a home?
+
+It was at this moment that she put her hand into her pocket to feel for
+the purse which always lay there. The movement was a purely instinctive
+one, connected with her wish to get into an omnibus. The loss of her
+purse became, however, at once apparent.
+
+A deadly coldness crept over her from head to foot. In that purse was
+all the money on which she could count, to support herself and Rhona
+for a month to come. Doubtless she had been very imprudent to carry so
+much in her pocket. But the danger of leaving money in lodgings had
+seemed to her inexperience the greater of the two.
+
+"I must have dropped it somewhere on my way," she muttered.
+"Perhaps—perhaps at Mrs. Howard's. I must go back at once." That it
+could have been absent from her pocket all day, did not occur as a
+possibility.
+
+Momentarily aroused by the shock, and forgetting her bewilderment about
+the crossing, she retraced her steps, earnestly scanning the footpath
+as she went. It would have been an almost hopeless search, in such a
+fog, even had the purse been really dropped thereabouts.
+
+After walking the length of a street, she was seized with dread lest
+she might have passed it by; and she went slowly a second time over the
+same ground. Then she resolved to return straight to Mrs. Howard's. But
+confusion and faintness were resuming their sway, and unconsciously,
+her next turn was a wrong one.
+
+With the lost purse prominent in her mind, she pressed forward,
+persistently searching right and left, often turning back to hunt anew,
+and becoming entangled in a labyrinth of strange streets.
+
+Gradually, it dawned upon her mind that she ought by this time to have
+reached Mrs. Howard's. Before she had time to feel alarmed, she struck
+upon a thoroughfare which in the fog seemed to her identical with the
+one she had already tried to cross. To recognise surroundings was not
+possible, but she had dim glimpses of cabs and omnibuses proceeding
+cautiously past.
+
+"Singular," she murmured, "I thought I was going just the other way.
+But this fog is so confusing. Well, I cannot get into an omnibus now,
+and I am so tired, I must go straight home. Perhaps I shall find the
+purse to-morrow at Mrs. Howard's."
+
+That suggestion came soothingly, but it did not remain in her mind. No
+longer troubled by a doubt as to which side of the road she was on,
+she resolved not to attempt crossing till later, and started without
+delay in what she believed to be the direction of Mrs. Burrell's house,
+little dreaming that each step was carrying her farther away.
+
+Fog and darkness closed her in, yet still she pressed forward, though
+with faltering limbs. There were certain landmarks by which she felt
+sure of recognising, even in such fog and darkness, the nearness of
+the right street. But somehow, as minutes passed, she forgot to look
+for them. The recollection of her lost purse was again uppermost in
+her thoughts. A vague feeling that something had to be found before
+she might go home, urged on her weary feet. And for once, the poor
+young mother had no remembrance of Rhona. She knew nothing of the lapse
+of time, nothing of the distance traversed. For a while she was only
+conscious of her loss, and of the ceaseless impulse to press forward;
+but these were slowly merged into a sense of terrible heart-sinking, of
+a dragging weight at every limb, of an irresistible longing for rest.
+
+Only to be at home! Only to be able to lie down somewhere! That at last
+was the one desire. Mrs. Mordaunt had forgotten her purse, forgotten
+Rhona, forgotten everything except just the agonising need for repose.
+Each step taken, it seemed to her that she could not possibly take
+another. Where she was going or wished to go, she had no power to
+think. The outer fog seemed to be stifling her very breath; and the fog
+within her brain had deadened all consciousness except of exhaustion.
+
+She walked on still, but moaned faintly from time to time, and
+staggered often. Oh for some quiet corner, wherein to be alone and
+still!
+
+"Cab, ma'am?"
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt had passed beyond the busy neighbourhood of shops,
+unknowingly, and was among private houses, where foot-passengers were
+few. She had come a long way, longer than would have been possible
+under ordinary circumstances, and the feverish excitement which had
+borne her on was all but at an end.
+
+A "four-wheeler" had stopped, and the man bent over inquiringly from
+his box. "Cab, ma'am?"
+
+"Yes," she said, and he descended.
+
+The cab would be a place to rest in, and further than this, her
+thoughts could not go. Lost purse and lack of means to pay were
+forgotten. She stumbled feebly, stepping in, and the man gave a helping
+hand.
+
+"Awful day, mum," he said, with a look at the white face. "Where to,
+please?"
+
+"Where to?" repeated Mrs. Mordaunt. "To—"
+
+There was a pause, and the man waited. All power of thought had passed
+from her.
+
+"To—to—Number Three—" and again a pause. "Number Three, Winifred
+Place," she said, speaking mechanically, yet in a clear and natural
+voice.
+
+But that was not Mrs. Burrell's address. Only the number was right.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+THE THREE AUNTS.
+
+WHILE Rhona watched and waited through that foggy afternoon, and while
+Mrs. Mordaunt was wandering about, no one knew whither, three ladies
+sat over their tea at No. 3, Winifred Place, close to Burton Square.
+
+These were "the aunts" of whom Rhona had spoken confidentially to
+the Colonel. For over thirty years, they had lived in this prettily
+furnished West-End abode. It had been purchased in more prosperous
+days, when the Miss Mordaunts had a father living, and plenty of money
+at command. Much less money lay now within their reach; yet they
+preferred exercising any amount of economy in small things, to the
+giving up of their London home.
+
+Whatever form this necessary economy took, it did not appear to touch
+the comfort of their outward condition. There was about them a general
+air of cosiness and satisfaction, as they sat round a little basket
+table, dallying with tea and cake, after the fashion of dames who have
+plenty of leisure at command.
+
+Miss Mordaunt, a well-dressed woman, fifty-five in age, occupied the
+principal arm-chair, holding herself with the pose of one who knew or
+believed that her personality was of some consequence in the world. She
+wore an elaborate cap and rich ruffles, and her slender arched nose
+suffered from the incongruity of a low and narrow forehead. Barbara
+Mordaunt, the eldest of nine sisters, only three of whom were still
+living, had always been reckoned good-looking, though her good looks
+were not enhanced by the expression of self-complacency.
+
+Miss Susanna Mordaunt, known in familiar circles as "poor Susie," or
+"poor dear Sue," lacked only three of Barbara's years, but lacked
+altogether her imposing presence. "Poor Susie" was, and ever had been,
+small, plain, and afflicted with painful shyness. She rarely ventured
+to hold an opinion of her own, contrary to Miss Mordaunt's; or if she
+held one, she rarely ventured to let it appear. Susie Mordaunt had been
+the snubbed member of the family; nevertheless, she bore an expression
+of content, unmixed in her case with self-satisfaction.
+
+Between Susanna and the youngest sister, Clara, lay a gap of nearly
+twenty years, bridged over by the six remaining sisters, none of whom
+now survived. Two of the six had been married, one to an Irishman, one
+to a Scotchman, and they had left two widowed husbands—Mr. Malony in
+Ireland with ten children, and Mr. Macpherson in Scotland with nine
+children; the large family being in each case accompanied by scanty
+means.
+
+Clara Mordaunt, though on the wrong side of thirty, looked young still,
+being tall, slender, and almost pretty, with a repetition of Barbara's
+marked yet delicate features, and with a better forehead.
+
+In addition to the nine Mordaunt daughters, there had been two sons,
+one a little older than Barbara, still living, one a little younger
+than Barbara, many years dead.
+
+Henry, the eldest, the greater part of whose life had been passed in
+India, was a somewhat singular man. As a boy, he had been unpopular in
+his own home; and later on, a severe disappointment had affected his
+character unfavourably. He had never married; he wrote home seldom; and
+for eighteen or nineteen years, his face had not been seen in England.
+Sometimes, in one of his brief and rare epistles, he spoke of retiring.
+But again, if pressed to do so, he would ask, what was the use? All his
+interests were in connection with India and the army; and in England,
+he would have nothing to do.
+
+William Mordaunt, the second brother, gentle and yielding in nature,
+had been the idol of his nine sisters. And when he died, the general
+devotion was transferred to his only son, Arthur Mordaunt,—that same
+Arthur whose widow and child were now residing at Mrs. Burrell's.
+
+But Arthur Mordaunt was of a different stamp from his father. The
+devotion of his numerous aunts implied also their management of him,
+and he had no notion of being so managed. When they wished him to
+become a lawyer, he wished to become a clergyman; and his will carried
+the day. When they desired him to settle down in England, he desired
+to go abroad; and his determination proved the strongest. When they
+would fain have had him marry a "sweet girl" of their own selection, he
+preferred to choose for himself; and choose for himself he did, despite
+all advice and opposition.
+
+There came slowly between him and them a widening gap of separation,
+the result of all these pullings in opposite directions. "The aunts,"
+headed and represented by Barbara, could not get over his disdain of
+their "sweet Lucy," could not believe that his Mary was a desirable
+wife for him.
+
+Gradually the correspondence between him and them languished and
+ceased. His whole heart was wrapped up in his Mary, and they almost
+ignored her existence. No actual quarrel took place, but there was a
+falling apart.
+
+When Arthur Mordaunt was suddenly taken, more than two years had
+elapsed since the last letters exchanged between him and the Miss
+Mordaunts. Even the news of his death failed for a considerable time
+to reach them. This fact was less strange than it might seem; for Miss
+Mordaunt had an aversion to daily papers, and the small "weekly," in
+which alone she indulged, gave scant information. Mary Mordaunt ought
+doubtless to have written, but she did not.
+
+The unexpected arrival of Arthur's young widow and child in London
+was a severe shock to the three aunts, who once had so dearly loved
+their nephew. Sorely as he had afterwards disappointed them, they
+had not ceased to love him. But none of the three—except perhaps
+"poor Susie,"—felt the slightest disposition to welcome Mrs. Mordaunt
+with cordiality. Things could not now be helped, it was true; yet
+undoubtedly she had been the main cause of Arthur's indifference
+to "that dear Lucy Miles" in the past, and of his subsequent long
+expatriation. Mary Mordaunt's beauty and grace did not incline the
+heart of Barbara any more favourably towards her, but rather the
+reverse. There were associations in connection with her very charms,
+which turned their sweetness into acidity.
+
+The child, however, was Arthur's child, and William's grandchild;
+consequently, the affections of all three aunts went warmly out towards
+Rhona. Not that the warmth appeared in manner. Miss Mordaunt prided
+herself on a calm and passionless demeanour; and Miss Mordaunt had ever
+been Clara's model, while Susie's natural disposition had been, with
+much perseverance, snubbed into something of the same outward shape.
+But though little was said, much was felt.
+
+Rhona Mordaunt might have no doubt whatever in her little heart that
+the conduct of "the aunts" was purely and simply unkind. Rhona,
+however, knew nothing of their real motives. She could not penetrate
+the workings of Barbara Mordaunt's mind, or see how much of a real wish
+to do right existed there, side by side with much self-deception as to
+what was right.
+
+Those who knew the Miss Mordaunts well were often struck by a certain
+peculiarity in their modes of action. It was observable that they
+never seemed able to take any view of a subject except from their own
+particular standpoint. It was observable also that they never deemed
+it necessary to explain to others their reasons for action. Susanna
+Mordaunt might have been an exception, but she was in chains to her
+sisters' opinion on all points. Where Barbara went, there Clara went,
+and there Susanna was dragged meekly in their rear.
+
+They were "a very united trio," friends said, not disapprovingly, but
+sometimes with a smile.
+
+It was of course right that they should be "united;" yet strong
+affection is by no means inconsistent with freedom of thought. Barbara
+and Clara Mordaunt, so far as was in their power, checked all freedom
+of thought in Susanna.
+
+It had appeared to Barbara a thing desirable that their home should
+become the home of little Rhona Mordaunt. Several arguments helped to
+this conclusion. She wished it for her own sake; she wished it for the
+sake of her dead brother and nephew; she wished it for the child's
+sake; she wished it above all for Clara's sake. The elder sister was
+often troubled by Clara's listlessness and want of regular occupation.
+It seemed to her that a bright intelligent child in the house, to be
+petted and cared for, might supply the lacking occupation, and might
+arouse Clara from her growing habits of indolence and inertia.
+
+Clara, without fathoming all her elder sister's motives, fell in
+cordially with the idea; and Susanna not only fully agreed, but would
+have liked to give a home to Rhona's mother as well.
+
+In this desire, Susanna outstripped the others. Barbara had not the
+slightest intention of offering an asylum to the friendless Mary
+Mordaunt.
+
+"For a few days, it would be all very well," she said, "but for a
+permanency, never!" She counted such a step impossible, seen from a
+pecuniary point of view; and she counted it undesirable, seen from
+every other point of view.
+
+With the young mother in the house, Rhona could in no sense become
+their child, and the required occupation for Clara would still be
+wanting. There would be inevitable clashings of authority, and the
+peace of their home might be lastingly broken up.
+
+Moreover, Mary Mordaunt had no particular claim upon them. She must,
+of course, expect to work for her own living. And to support herself
+alone would be a far easier matter than to support herself and Rhona.
+So reasoned Barbara, coveting the possession of the lovely and
+thoughtful child. It really did appear to her, seen purely from her own
+standpoint, the kindest and most natural step, under the circumstances,
+that she should offer a permanent home to her nephew's child, thus
+setting the young mother free, not merely to toil under the drudgery of
+a daily teacher's life, but to accept a situation of resident finishing
+governess, such as she was well qualified to undertake.
+
+"Why, she might make at least a hundred guineas a year," Barbara said.
+
+This being Miss Mordaunt's view of the question, she made her proposal
+in straightforward terms, under the pleasant conviction that she was
+doing a generous deed. It scarcely even occurred to her, when she
+thought with secret pleasure of the child's presence in the house, how
+keen must be the opposite feeling of Rhona's mother at the bare idea of
+losing that presence. She only saw the matter from her own side.
+
+Mrs. Mordaunt's startled and unqualified refusal came to the sisters
+with something of a shock, and roused feelings nearly allied to anger.
+Mrs. Mordaunt, though never ungentle, was greatly agitated; and Miss
+Mordaunt was betrayed into some strong expressions of displeasure.
+
+"You are acting very foolishly, Mary, in refusing what is so plainly
+for the child's benefit," she said, as she took her departure at the
+close of a long and emotional interview.
+
+Mary Mordaunt was palpitating and quivering like an aspen leaf;
+while Miss Mordaunt had a flushed appearance, and reined up her head
+frequently, with an air of injured dignity.
+
+"I think you ought at least to be grateful for what is so kindly
+intended, and not be betrayed into such a show of temper. However, I
+shall not yet look upon the matter as settled. You are speaking hastily
+now, and it is better that you should have time to weigh it quietly.
+After a few hours' consideration, you will probably see things as I
+do myself. To-morrow morning, I will come again, at this time, for a
+little more conversation on the same subject. I shall not see you again
+to-day."
+
+Barbara had little doubt that, by means of continued pressure, she
+should in time be able to bend Mary Mordaunt to her will. She left her
+sister-in-law alone for the remainder of the day, restraining Susanna
+and Clara also from going to the lodgings. Nothing was farther from
+the thoughts of any one of them, than that the young widow should
+take sudden flight before nightfall, leaving no clue by which her
+whereabouts and that of the child might be traced. But so it was.
+
+When Barbara Mordaunt made her call next morning, as appointed, soon
+after half-past ten, she found the small sitting-room and bedroom
+empty. Mrs. Mordaunt had "paid up her week," the landlady said, and
+had settled all her little bills. But she had offered no word of
+explanation as to the unexpected move. For Barbara there was not a note
+or even a message.
+
+"One would suppose the silly young thing was running away from a set of
+vipers," Miss Mordaunt said indignantly to her sisters, an hour later,
+for once excited and upset. "I never heard of such a thing in my life!
+To treat her best friends in such a way! But it just shows her to be
+unworthy of our kindness. Did she suppose we were going to steal the
+child without her consent? Foolish woman! She ought to know better what
+is for Rhona's interest."
+
+
+So strong indeed was Miss Mordaunt's displeasure at poor Mary's unwise
+flight, that her sisters seldom ventured to allude to the subject. As
+weeks passed by, the very names of "Mary Mordaunt" and "little Rhona"
+were unheard among them.
+
+But on this foggy afternoon, the absent ones were much in the mind of
+Susanna; she could not have told why.
+
+And as they sat long over their tea, she broke out—"I do wonder what
+has become of poor Arthur's wife and child,"—the next moment growing
+alarmed at her own temerity.
+
+"I suppose they are where they have chosen to go," said Miss Mordaunt,
+with a composure which might have been taken for hardness. "We have
+no responsibility in the matter. Mary is not a girl, to be under our
+control."
+
+"Only she is so young,—hardly more than a girl in age. It does seem to
+be our duty to find her again, if possible."
+
+"I do not see any question of duty in the matter," rejoined Miss
+Mordaunt. "If Mary chooses to write, she is at liberty to do so.
+Otherwise, we are not bound to trouble ourselves."
+
+Certain words darted into Susie's mind,—"Am I my brother's keeper?" But
+it was an understood family axiom that "Barbara always knew best." And
+Susie put the words aside, yet found herself continuing, with a meek
+persistency—
+
+"Sometimes I can't help wondering—if we were just to advertise—"
+
+"Advertise!" Miss Mordaunt's eyebrows took a journey more than half-way
+up her low forehead. "My dear Susie! What will you propose next? This
+is capital tea, Clara, though I do not like the Assam flavour."
+
+"But they might be in want," said Susie.
+
+"They might, of course,—and that might bring Mary to her senses. I
+doubt if anything else is likely to do so. When people are thoroughly
+wilful, they commonly have to pay for it. However, Mary has something
+to depend upon, and no doubt she has friends in London. When she
+requires our aid, she will come and ask it."
+
+"You would not send her away, sister?" Susie spoke beseechingly.
+
+Miss Mordaunt's eyebrows repeated their former movement. "I should be
+sorry to make any promises beforehand. Mary has treated us so far with
+scant civility. If she were willing to apologise—"
+
+"O Barbara! It was only the thought of losing her child. She is so
+sweet—so gentle—"
+
+"Yes, as long as she can have everything her own way. I am not hard
+upon her, Susie, but you must not expect unreasonable things. What has
+put this into your head to-day?"
+
+Susanna looked ashamed, and murmured something about "the fog."
+
+"Sue would have taken in Mary as well as Rhona," remarked Clara
+carelessly. "Fancy! Having her always about—never a moment to
+ourselves."
+
+"Susie knows better," said Miss Mordaunt. "She is as well aware as I am
+that we could not possibly afford the additional expense. Rhona alone
+would have involved considerable need for increased economy."
+
+"Oh yes, of course," Susie said hurriedly. "Only if it 'had' been
+possible—"
+
+"Which it was not," Clara said decisively. "Why, we can't now afford
+more than three shillings a pound for our tea, and when dear papa was
+alive, we always gave six shillings."
+
+"Which it was not," added Miss Mordaunt, almost simultaneously with
+Clara. "Why, Susie, I explained the whole matter to you one day lately,
+and made it perfectly clear."
+
+Explaining is not always making clear, and so Susie might have
+answered. Anything connected with figures or prices fell always to a
+jumble in her brain. She only ventured, however, to remark, "Of course
+you know much best,—only I cannot help being sorry for poor Mary. She
+has such a sweet face; and Rhona too."
+
+"Sweet faces are often deceptive—as we know," said Miss Mordaunt. "Mary
+has evidently been made too much of, and is in fact thoroughly spoilt.
+The child is very pretty, I grant, though I could wish she were more
+like Arthur,—less of a Willis. If we had her to ourselves, we could
+train her into our ways, but I should be sorry indeed to undertake
+her, with the mother at hand to counteract all our efforts. However, I
+really see no use in all this talk. If Mary chooses to let us know her
+address, she can do so any day. Till then, we have nothing to do but to
+let her alone. Can you tell me, Clara, how long it is since our last
+letter from Henry? It seems to me that he is keeping us this time even
+longer than usual."
+
+Clara shrugged her shoulders. "Henry is a sort of outside-the-world
+being to me," she said. "I sometimes wonder if he really is my brother."
+
+"You don't mean that, and I do not like to hear you say it," responded
+Miss Mordaunt. "Remember Keble—
+
+   "'No distance breaks the tie of blood,
+     Brothers are brothers evermore.'"
+
+"Oh yes, of course," said Clara, to whom the couplet had been so often
+quoted as to have lost its force. "I don't suppose distance does affect
+the tie,—but coldness and silence do."
+
+"It is Henry's way. He was always so different from our dear William."
+
+The three faces had a saddened look of recollection for a moment.
+
+"Well,—but about Henry's letters," said Clara. "We have heard
+absolutely nothing since last March; and then only a scrap of paper,
+scrawled over. And before that, we had a letter,—nine months earlier.
+And before that, a gap of two years."
+
+"But Henry promised not to treat us so badly again," said Barbara, who
+always felt herself bound to make excuses for the oldest member of the
+family. "And in his last, he seemed to hold out hope of coming home
+before long. I feel sometimes that we really ought to meet."
+
+"He ought to retire and live with us," said Clara decisively. "It is
+not as if there were any money-difficulty. Most unmarried brothers as
+well off as Henry is, would be delighted to share what they have with
+their sisters. But he never seems to dream of such a thing."
+
+"We must not blame him. He may have reasons—difficulties—unknown to
+us," said Barbara.
+
+Clara started suddenly up, and went to the window. "A cab stopping
+here! How black and thick it is! I can see nothing. But I am sure I
+heard wheels. Yes, and there is the bell."
+
+A long parley appeared to take place at the front door. "What can Janet
+be about?" Miss Mordaunt asked once or twice. "We shall have the house
+full of fog."
+
+Clara had left the window and returned to her seat near the fire. "A
+mistake probably," she said. "Anybody might go wrong, such an evening."
+
+The maid-servant at length appeared, wearing a bewildered look.
+
+"If you please, ma'am, there's a cab come, and the man says he has
+brought the lady home."
+
+"Brought the lady home!" echoed three voices, in varied pitches of
+astonishment.
+
+"Yes, ma'am. I told him we didn't expect any lady, but he wouldn't go.
+He says she told him '3, Winifred Place' as plain as could be. And he
+wants his fare."
+
+"The lady had better give it him," said Clara. "What nonsense!"
+
+"The man must be drunk," said Miss Mordaunt.
+
+"I don't think he is, ma'am. He speaks quite quiet and sensible."
+
+"Then it is a mistake. You had better ask the lady's name."
+
+"If you please, ma'am, he did go and speak to the lady, and he couldn't
+get no answer. And he said he didn't mean to go away without I or
+somebody would look at her. He didn't know if it was a swoon or death,
+he said."
+
+"Poor thing! Some stranger taken ill," said Miss Mordaunt. "The wisest
+thing he can do is to carry her to the nearest hospital. You did not go
+outside in the fog, I hope, Janet."
+
+"I went to the cab-door, ma'am, and he held the lantern," said Janet,
+shivering at the recollection, yet gratified with her own cautious
+manner of breaking the news. "And please, ma'am,—it is Mrs. Mordaunt."
+
+Barbara, Susanna, and Clara were on their feet simultaneously.
+
+"Mrs. Mordaunt! Why did you not tell me at once?"
+
+"Please, ma'am, I thought you would be startled. It frightened me like,
+to see her."
+
+Janet was a confidential servant, of long standing, and she pretty well
+understood the condition of family affairs.
+
+"Mrs. Mordaunt!" repeated Barbara. "And the child?"
+
+"She's alone, ma'am. Miss Rhona nor nobody isn't with her. And she do
+look bad."
+
+Miss Mordaunt for once forgot to be dignified. She hurried into the
+passage, fluttered and agitated, and stood at the open door, regardless
+of the rush of fog, inquiring where the cabman had found his "fare."
+He gave particulars briefly, as to time and place, volunteering the
+information that the lady had appeared to him, when first he addressed
+her, to be ill. Since telling him where to go, she had not spoken, and
+seemed to be unconscious.
+
+"Sister, I hope it isn't anything infectious," whispered Susie, in a
+timid voice, edging up behind. "Don't you think—perhaps—the hospital—?"
+
+"Certainly not," said Barbara. "That would not be returning good for
+evil. She has come to us in distress, and for to-night at least, she
+shall stay. You need not go near her, if you are afraid. Cabman,—"
+Barbara raised her voice,—"can you bring the lady in?"
+
+The task proved not an easy one, but he accomplished it.
+
+Barbara went before into the study, and signed him towards the sofa.
+
+Mary Mordaunt lay there, as he placed her—silent, lifeless, deathly
+pale.
+
+Clara had grown almost as colourless.
+
+"What does it mean? Where can the child be?"
+
+"I cannot tell. Clara, do not come in if it alarms you." Barbara spoke
+gently this time, not as she had spoken to Susie, for then there had
+been a grain of contempt. "I think Mary must have fainted. It may be
+nothing worse than a faint. When she comes to herself, she will tell us
+about Rhona. But we must have the doctor to see her, and he will say
+what is the matter. You had better pay the cabman, and ask him to leave
+a message at Dr. Wynne's. I am sure Dr. Wynne will come at once, if
+possible."
+
+"In this fog?"
+
+"Doctors never think about weather," Barbara answered quite sincerely.
+"I should not like any needless delay."
+
+Every remedy that she could suggest was tried, and tried in vain.
+
+More than an hour passed, and then the doctor arrived,—an elderly man,
+of strong bodily and mental build, with silver-grey hair, and quiet
+eyes. He had been a friend of the Mordaunt family for over forty years.
+
+Under his superintendence, stronger means were employed for the
+restoration of the poor wanderer. And by-and-by, the watchers were
+rewarded by seeing the soft dark eyes unclose.
+
+"She does not know us," Barbara said, in disappointment.
+
+"Speak to her," said Dr. Wynne.
+
+"Mary!" Barbara's voice was rarely to be heard in so tender an
+utterance. "Mary dear,—don't you know me? Mary, where is your little
+Rhona?"
+
+But the question passed unheeded, and there came no sign of recognition.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+STILL ABSENT.
+
+"ALWAYS wasting your time up in that room! I tell you what it is,
+Bertha,—I won't have you go on so any longer, and that's a fact. I
+don't mean to have everything in the house go to wrack and ruin for
+want of proper care, just because you haven't eyes nor ears for anybody
+except that child. It is all very well to pay proper attention, and
+I'm as sorry for her as the rest of you, but I just 'won't' have you
+running in every half-hour to dawdle and gossip. You've got your work
+to do, and I expect to have it done,—if not, you'd best look out for
+a home elsewhere, and the sooner the better. Look at the dirt left in
+this corner. I never knew anybody so careless before. There's no manner
+of dependence to be put upon you."
+
+Mrs. Burrell was, as she would herself have described it, "out
+of sorts" that morning; and she found some relief in venting her
+uncomfortable sensations thus. The present condition of things affected
+her peace of mind; and since no one could be lawfully blamed for their
+said condition, she took refuge in blaming Bertha with undue severity
+for certain unwonted, touches of neglect.
+
+There could be no doubt that Bertha was a little infatuated about the
+fair child upstairs. She was ready—metaphorically—to kiss the ground
+on which Rhona trod, and for Rhona's sake, she could even slur over
+certain duties. The blame, though disproportioned to the offence, was
+not altogether undeserved.
+
+"So you mind!" continued Mrs. Burrell. "Mind!—You don't go to Mrs.
+Mordaunt's room again in a hurry, without I send you."
+
+"Good-morning, Mrs. Burrell. Anything gone wrong?"
+
+Mrs. Burrell's wrathful look changed suddenly, as she found herself
+face to face with the Colonel.
+
+Bertha passed on silently, and the landlady said in aggrieved
+explanation,—"Only that girl, sir. But young things will be young, and
+one can't look to have them different."
+
+"Scolding won't make them old before their time," said the Colonel, and
+he too left Mrs. Burrell to her own reflections.
+
+
+A whole week had gone by, and still Mrs. Mordaunt remained absent.
+Not a word from her or about her reached any one. Colonel Smyth had
+inquired and advertised in vain. Possibly the advertisements might
+have been successful; for though the Miss Mordaunts read few papers,
+they had relatives and friends not so self-denying. But Colonel Smyth
+perhaps did not feel himself at liberty to reveal Mrs. Mordaunt's abode
+to her husband's relatives, if the doing so could be avoided; and he
+couched the advertisements in vague language.
+
+Though Mrs. Mordaunt had not returned, the child was still at Mrs.
+Burrell's, living in the back bedroom. Thus far, she had not needed to
+appeal to anybody's generosity. Mrs. Burrell supplied all her wants,
+conjecturing that the contents of the purse would be amply sufficient
+to meet this week's expenses, and possibly the expenses of a week or
+two beyond. But afterwards?
+
+That was the question which fretted the landlady's mind. Suppose Mrs.
+Mordaunt did not return, what was to be done with the child? It was
+not of course to be supposed that she—Mrs. Burrell—could keep on Rhona
+Mordaunt indefinitely, without remuneration. The idea was absurd. No
+one could expect it of her. But she did greatly wish that other people
+would allude to the necessity for some early change, instead of leaving
+the suggestion to spring from herself.
+
+A whole week! What could have become of the poor young widow? Everybody
+was asking this question, though nobody seemed to trouble his brains as
+to its effects, possible or probable, upon Mrs. Burrell's pocket.
+
+In the Colonel's mind, little doubt existed that Mrs. Mordaunt had
+been run down in some crowded thoroughfare, and killed on the spot,
+thus finding in the great metropolis a nameless grave. Almost the only
+alternative, according to his view of the case, was that she might have
+wandered away in the bewildering fog to the brink of a certain canal,
+not so very far distant, and there, with one sudden splash and one
+brief struggle, have ended her sad short life. Mr. Powis held much the
+same opinion. But nobody had ventured to suggest such ideas to Rhona.
+She was daily and hourly watching still, with unshaken hope, for her
+mother's return.
+
+"I should think it can't be very much longer," she had said that
+morning to Bertha, while taking her simple breakfast. The child looked
+sadly pale and thin, and her dark eyes wore a touchingly wistful
+expression. "It can't be very much longer, Bertha. Colonel Smyth
+thinks she must have been knocked down and stunned in the fog." Rhona
+was always recurring to this idea, as if to reassure herself. "Just
+stunned, and that might not mean she was so very very much hurt. He
+says she might be carried to a hospital, or taken into somebody's
+house,—and if she were stunned, she couldn't tell them her name or
+where she lived."
+
+"Colonel Smyth has asked at some of the hospitals, has he not, dear?"
+asked Bertha.
+
+"Yes, and he can't hear anything. But you see, they would not know her
+name, so she might be somewhere without their finding her. O Bertha! If
+only she had not dropped her purse."
+
+"God will take care of her," said Bertha in a low voice.
+
+"Yes,—I try not to forget that. Of course He knows all—everything.
+Mother says we must trust Him. Bertha, don't you think it must be just
+as Colonel Smyth says? He understands better than we do."
+
+"I dare say he does, dear." Bertha found it hard to meet the child's
+gaze.
+
+"So it can't be a very great deal longer, before she comes," continued
+Rhona. "When people are stunned, it doesn't generally last longer
+than a week, does it? I asked Colonel Smyth, and he said there was no
+knowing."
+
+"I shouldn't think it did—often," faltered Bertha.
+
+"And every single day is nearer her coming back," said Rhona. "I
+don't think I ever had such a week,—oh, so long. The minutes seem to
+creep—creep. And I am always thinking I hear mother's step,—and yet she
+never comes. If only I just knew where she is, I could bear it better.
+I 'could,'" repeated the child, with an indescribably pitiful look.
+
+"I am sure you do bear it all wonderfully, dear," said Bertha. "But you
+must eat some breakfast now."
+
+"I could eat, if mother came back. It doesn't seem as if I could
+now," the child said wearily; and then heavy tears fell, not with a
+burst of weeping, but in slow large drops, like the beginning of a
+thunder-shower.
+
+Bertha could not but stay to comfort the lonely child; and that was how
+she came in for a scolding from Mrs. Burrell.
+
+All this time, the Colonel continued to pay frequent visits to Rhona,
+showing great interest in her well-being. He entered her room at least
+three times a day, and he sent her many little delicacies from his own
+table, but he did not ask her to take meals with him. Thus far—with
+the caution, perhaps, of an old bachelor—he seemed desirous to avoid
+committing himself, and anxious to eschew responsibilities. But the
+question of Rhona's future haunted the Colonel at least as much as it
+haunted Mrs. Burrell. Something would have to be done soon, and he knew
+it.
+
+
+Three more days of waiting exhausted Mrs. Burrell's patience. She found
+her way into the back bedroom, soon after breakfast, and stood uneasily
+within the door, one hand fidgeting the antimacassar over a chair-back.
+
+Rhona was seated at the table, writing a French translation. There
+was a singular fortitude about this frail child. She seemed bent upon
+keeping on exactly in the same lines of conduct and occupation which
+her mother, if present, would have had her pursue. The opening door
+caused a tremulous start as if from an electric shock, followed by a
+look of bitter disappointment. It was so a dozen times a day.
+
+Mrs. Burrell meant to be very kind. She began by asking how Rhona was,
+hardly prepared for the reply,—
+
+"I shall be quite well when mother comes back."
+
+"But, Miss Rhona—" said Mrs. Burrell
+
+"I can't till then. Of course I can't. It makes me 'ache' so, to have
+her away all this time," the child said sadly. "But she is sure to come
+soon. Don't you think so?"
+
+Mrs. Burrell was at a loss. She could say neither "yes" nor "no," with
+those eyes upon her,—eyes which seemed to have gained in size and
+brightness, the last few days, and in a kind of intense watchfulness.
+
+"Miss Rhona, I don't want to trouble you," the landlady remarked, after
+a pause. "But your poor mamma always settled with me every week for the
+week's expenses. And it is two days after the usual time,—two days and
+more."
+
+"Oh yes, yes,—I oughtn't to have forgotten," said Rhona hurriedly, her
+face working. The long strain of suspense was telling greatly upon the
+child. "I have enough, in mother's purse,—quite enough for this week,
+and next week, and more. Mother would want me to pay, I am sure." She
+drew the large purse with some difficulty out of her pocket.
+
+"It don't matter just this moment," said Mrs. Burrell, feeling
+uncomfortable. "I'll bring the bill to-morrow. You see I'm only a widow
+myself, and obliged to work for my livelihood. If I could afford to
+keep you without pay, I'm sure I should be glad enough. But that is
+just what I can't do."
+
+"Oh no, and there is no need," said Rhona. "Mother will be back in a
+day or two. She is sure to come very soon now."
+
+"But if she didn't, Miss Rhona?"
+
+"If she didn't!"
+
+The dark eyes turned an appalled look upon the landlady.
+
+"Well, Miss Rhona, you needn't be vexed," said Mrs. Burrell,
+misunderstanding the expression. "Of course nobody can tell what has
+become of your poor mamma,—if we could, there 'd be no need to wonder.
+And if she don't come back soon, I don't see what you're to do."
+
+"I can't do anything. I can only just wait," Rhona answered, her face
+taking its most unchildlike expression. "I must wait till God brings
+mother back to me."
+
+"Yes, of course, Miss Rhona." Mrs. Burrell spoke rather pettishly.
+"Yes, of course,—that's all very proper and nice, I don't doubt,—but
+people can't live upon waiting, nor upon hopes. I suppose you haven't
+got enough in your poor mamma's purse to keep you for very long. I've
+been thinking whether there aren't any friends or uncles or aunts of
+yours, who would take you in and give you a home, so that I should have
+my room free to let to somebody else, if it was to happen that your
+mamma 'didn't' come back;—for a good long while."
+
+The appalled look returned as a flash; and in deference to it, Mrs.
+Burrell added the last five words after a break, originally intended
+to be a full stop. But the break was too long, the first intention too
+distinct. Rhona read her real meaning.
+
+A pause followed. Mrs. Burrell was uneasy at the effect of her own
+words. Rhona sat still, with her little hands loosely folded, uttering
+not a sound, but staring fixedly at the landlady, while a grey hue
+overspread her face.
+
+"I don't mean anything particular, so you needn't be frightened," Mrs.
+Burrell was constrained to add. "You see you're only a child, Miss
+Rhona, and you don't understand. But people must look forward and
+arrange things, or, dear me, how ever could the world get along?"
+
+Rhona neither stirred nor spoke, and her fascinated gaze remained
+unchanged.
+
+Mrs. Burrell winced under it. She thought Rhona was trying haughtily to
+stare her out of countenance.
+
+"I don't see that you've any call to look at me like that,—I don't
+really, Miss Rhona. It isn't like a young lady. I'm sure I have been a
+good friend to you, and anybody would say so. I'd do more if I could,
+but the fact is I'm not well off, and I don't mind saying it. I have
+got myself and my own girl to consider, not to speak of a niece put
+upon me as it was. And it's no use to say I'm not enough burdened
+already, for I am.
+
+"I didn't mean to put it into your head about your poor mamma never
+coming back,—though to be sure everybody is saying it, and the Colonel
+most of all—but I don't see how you are to go on week after week and
+nothing settled. I thought maybe the Colonel might do something, but
+he don't seem disposed. And if there's relations they ought to be
+told,—that's 'my' opinion. Your poor mamma said one day that there was
+some she didn't want to have to do with. But if there's no other home
+for you, and they are willing to take you in, I don't really see as
+you've got much choice. That's all I have to say, and it's my duty to
+say it. But I didn't mean to startle you, of course, Miss Rhona. Do
+wake up, and look natural, and stop staring,—it's enough to give one
+the creeps, I declare, to see you."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+THE COLONEL AND RHONA.
+
+COLONEL SMYTH tapped thrice during the delivery of Mrs. Burrell's
+speech, and receiving no answer, he peeped in and entered.
+
+"Nobody spoke, so I thought nobody was here," he said. "How is the
+little maid this morning? Why, Rhona! Hallo!"
+
+"I'm sure I didn't mean any harm," began the now alarmed landlady.
+
+The Colonel cut Mrs. Burrell short. He strode past, caught up the
+stony-faced child, carried her to the window, and flung it open.
+
+"Water!" he said in a loud peremptory voice.
+
+And Mrs. Burrell brought a tumbler, "all of a tremble" herself, as she
+afterwards declared.
+
+Colonel Smyth forced a few drops through the clenched teeth, and dashed
+some lavishly into the rigid features.
+
+"What is the meaning of this?" he asked fiercely.
+
+"I'm sure, sir, I hadn't any idea of making Miss Rhona ill," Mrs.
+Burrell said, in a voice half-aggrieved, half-apologetic. "I'm sure I
+didn't say anything much. It wasn't to be expected I could go on day
+after day, and not a word said,—keeping a child without pay that has
+nobody belonging to her."
+
+"Pay!" said the Colonel, with flashing eyes. "Bring your bill to me
+to-morrow morning. You hear?"
+
+"Yes, sir," Mrs. Burrell answered, pallid between contending emotions,
+as indignation fought with prudence.
+
+"And if you say one word more to this child about the matter—I leave
+that day week. You understand?"
+
+"Yes, sir," repeated Mrs. Burrell, trembling with anger, yet by no
+means forgetful that the Colonel was a lodger worth retaining. "I'm
+sure I hadn't the least wish to say what I oughtn't to Miss Rhona. I
+only just said her poor mamma had always settled with me every week,
+and so she did,—and I only just asked her what she meant to do if Mrs.
+Mordaunt wasn't to come back soon—as I've heard you say you didn't
+think she was like to do, poor thing."
+
+"Hold your tongue!" commanded the Colonel. "The child is coming to."
+
+A gasping cry told of returning life; and then there was a burst of
+agonised sobs and hysteric laughter.
+
+Colonel Smyth would not have believed this ordinarily quiet and gentle
+child to be capable of so wild an outbreak. The pent-up billows of
+the last ten days had their way at last. Once and again, the paroxysm
+seemed dying away, only to return with renewed violence. Rhona was
+evidently conscious, for she shrank and shuddered at Mrs. Burrell's
+touch, and clung to the Colonel as if for protection.
+
+Some measure of embarrassment might under the circumstances have been
+natural to an elderly bachelor, whose acquaintance with childish
+tears had been hitherto of the slightest. But the embarrassment, if
+felt, did not appear. Those little clinging fingers sent a curious
+thrill of pleasure through the Colonel's hardy frame. He would not
+have her out of his arms. And when the landlady suggested and brought
+eau-de-Cologne, he applied it himself, clumsily yet tenderly. Then as
+the rending sobs of distress changed into moans of sharp bodily pain,
+always more or less the accompaniment of tears with Rhona, he paced the
+room, bearing the slight creature in his arms, now and then touching
+her forehead with his moustached lips, till the moans too died away,
+and Rhona was asleep.
+
+"Best thing for her, poor mite!" the Colonel muttered.
+
+He allowed the much-exercised landlady to depart, and carried Rhona
+into his own sitting-room. There, laid on a comfortable sofa, with a
+shawl spread over her, she spent many hours in unconsciousness. The
+Colonel had his own luncheon, without disturbing the sleeper; and his
+usual walks were foregone that he might keep watch beside the couch.
+He had a book in hand, but he read little. Ever and anon his glances
+wandered to the small delicate face, with its broad saddened brow, and
+long lashes lying on white cheeks.
+
+From time to time, Rhona stirred uneasily, and more than once she
+clasped her hands with a muttered—"Mother!" But still she did not wake.
+
+The Colonel put down his book, and gazed steadily at Rhona. A curious
+far-away look came into his own eyes, as he did so,—a look of sorrowful
+recollection. The Colonel's rugged features were strangely softened by
+it.
+
+"Wonderful likeness!" he murmured. "Why didn't I let myself see Mary
+Mordaunt sooner? Folly, to put off. As if I ever meant her to go on so
+any length of time! Poor thing!—And she might have been spared this.
+I shall never forgive myself. A young lonely thing like that, with a
+double claim on me. Why should it be worse to see Margaret's child than
+Margaret's grandchild? And I was thirsting for it all the while. If the
+look in her eyes had been like this child's, I couldn't have resisted
+it. Well, well, well,—no use to worry myself now. There's only this
+poor little one to see after."
+
+The Colonel actually gave vent to a heavy sigh. He went slowly to a
+drawer, unlocked it, and drew out a small morocco case, containing
+a miniature likeness. Then for two minutes he stood at the foot of
+the couch, comparing in a succession of glances the girl-face in the
+picture and the child-face on the pillow.
+
+"I believe it will almost serve for a likeness of Rhona herself a few
+years hence," he said, as he locked up the little case.
+
+"Rhona."
+
+He bent low, and spoke the word gently. Colonel Smyth was not commonly
+counted gentle, but all the dormant tenderness in his nature was drawn
+out towards this child.
+
+She started instantly into full consciousness, almost instantly into
+full recollection. One "Mother!" burst from her lips at the moment of
+awaking, and then, with a low, "Oh, I forgot!" she hid her face.
+
+"Come, my dear, you are to take this," said the Colonel. "I thought you
+would like sandwiches better than anything else,—not so much trouble
+to get through. Don't feel hungry, do you? But you are going to eat to
+please me."
+
+Rhona silently submitted, so far as making the attempt was concerned,
+though success was small. He had soon to take away the plate. She gave
+him one soft grateful look, and then lay again with closed eyes, and
+a look of patient suffering. The Colonel was very much at a loss how
+to deal with the child. He drew a chair to her side at length, and sat
+down.
+
+"Rhona, can you bear a few words?" he asked. "I am afraid Mrs. Burrell
+has been bothering you, and I want to set matters right. Try not to
+cry, my dear—" as two heavy drops fell.
+
+"I wouldn't if I could help," said Rhona gently.
+
+"Mrs. Burrell said something about bills, didn't she? I have told her
+she is to bring the bills to me, and not to say another word to you."
+
+Rhona looked at him anxiously, and tried to raise herself.
+
+"Don't move, my dear,—what do you want?" asked the Colonel, as she fell
+back.
+
+"I can't sit up," said Rhona. "I wanted to get out mother's purse."
+
+"If you like to put the purse in my charge, I will keep it for you
+safely, and not spend a penny in it till—" the Colonel paused. "Till
+your mother comes home," he had been about to say. But he did not
+believe Mrs. Mordaunt ever would come home. Was it true or false
+kindness to buoy up the child with hopes which would probably never be
+realised?
+
+He knew how she was looking at him, waiting for more; but the sentence
+remained unfinished.
+
+"I should like to give it to you, please," Rhona said at length, in a
+tone of indescribable sorrow, which went to the Colonel's heart. Not
+for years had his sympathies been so stirred.
+
+"Remember, Rhona," he said, as he helped her to get out the
+purse—"nobody really knows. Your mother may come back yet. We must not
+make up our minds too hastily."
+
+"But you don't think—you don't 'think'—" the child said in a low voice
+of agony, tears running down her cheeks.
+
+Colonel Smyth hesitated again. He could not say "Yes." He would not say
+"No." Something else was in his mind to be said; only he had not meant
+to commit himself so soon. But Rhona's face was too much for him, and
+prudent considerations went to the winds. What he did was to lift her
+again on his knee, folding her round with his strong arms, and letting
+her head lie on his shoulder, while he asked in a tone husky with
+strong feeling,—
+
+"Will you be my own little girl, just till mother comes back? Perhaps
+she will yet,—nobody knows. Shall I take care of you till then?"
+
+Rhona clung to him silently, weeping still, yet with a lessened sense
+of forlornness.
+
+"You don't want to go to those aunts of yours, do you?—The Miss
+Mordaunts that you told me about."
+
+"Oh no, no, no," sobbed Rhona, with sufficient childish energy. "Oh no,
+no,—they were so unkind to my sweet mother."
+
+"Then you shall not. We will keep out of way for the present. And you
+will be my little girl now,—just till mother comes back. Do you think
+you can manage to call me 'uncle,' instead of 'Colonel Smith?'"
+
+"I don't mind," Rhona whispered. "I mean, I'll try,—if you like."
+
+"I should like it much best."
+
+"I'll try," repeated the child. "Only you are not my uncle."
+
+"Never mind that. Perhaps some day you will wake up and find that I am.
+Queerer things do happen."
+
+"I don't see how I could, because I haven't got any uncles," said Rhona
+soberly. "Father had no brothers, or mother—mother—either."
+
+"Never mind, my poor little one," the Colonel said soothingly. "You
+will not object to having a new uncle now, at all events. And mind,—you
+have to tell me everything you want, just as if you really belonged to
+me. You understand?"
+
+
+"So Miss Rhona is to take her meals with the Colonel," said Mrs.
+Burrell, having received orders to that effect, later in the day.
+"Going to see after her till Mrs. Mordaunt comes back, he says! Well,
+of course it's no business of mine, so long as my bills are paid. But
+Mrs. Mordaunt won't come back, and he'll be tired of her before a month
+is over. 'I' know what gentlemen are. 'I' should have said she ought
+to have gone to her own relations, and not be put upon a stranger. Of
+course it isn't my business. And the Colonel will manage things his own
+way. The way he spoke to me this morning, I shan't soon forget." Mrs.
+Burrell was sore still, and disposed to view the Colonel's actions with
+jaundiced eyes.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+AN EVENTFUL EVENING.
+
+THE Colonel found himself in for a month of nursing, or of something
+nearly approaching thereto. It was a novel position for him. He
+had always abhorred invalids and eschewed sick-rooms, with the
+self-indulgence of a man whose own comfort is his prime consideration.
+
+And here he was suddenly, not far from his sixtieth year, after a
+long and undisturbed bachelor-life, with a frail little creature on
+his hands, broken-hearted at losing her mother, positively ill from
+mental stress, entirely dependent on the Colonel's generosity, and
+unconsciously able to turn him to right and to left with one glance of
+her sweet sad eyes.
+
+The Colonel succumbed to the new condition of things, once and for all;
+and Mrs. Burrell had no choice but to follow suit. She was privately
+wrathful at times, declaring to her daughter and niece that "everything
+in the house had to give way to that child, whether or no!" meaning,
+doubtless, "whether or no she herself approved."
+
+But she attempted no open resistance; not even when Colonel Smyth
+desired that Bertha should sleep in the back bedroom with Rhona, and be
+considered her special attendant. He offered additional remuneration
+for the same; and Mrs. Burrell liked the remuneration though not the
+arrangement. Bertha undertook her share of the matter with silent
+rapture, and a warm affection sprang up between her and the child.
+
+"You nice Bertha!" Rhona would call her often, in grateful tones.
+
+Of course the Colonel was direfully ignorant as to children's needs and
+sick people's ways. Hothouse grapes in profusion were all very well,
+but he was impressed with the necessity for lollypops and bulls-eyes
+for infant delectation. And his anxiety to "feed up" Rhona upon the
+rich soups, stews and curries, in which he himself delighted, was only
+equalled by his astonishment at finding them rejected.
+
+"Mother wouldn't let me," in the child's languid voice, always put an
+end to persuasions.
+
+But he gave way reluctantly, and found her tastes enigmatical.
+
+Rhona had no appetite and no spirit. She lay day after day upon the
+sofa, sometimes in her own bedroom, more often in the Colonel's
+sitting-room, always greeting him with a smile, but unable to employ
+herself. She had evidently accepted the thought that her mother would
+not return; and with this acceptance, all interest in life seemed to
+have died away.
+
+After the first storm of sorrow, there were no more outbreaks; only she
+would often lie with closed eyes, slow tears stealing from beneath her
+lashes, while the broad brow was dented with pain. French exercises
+were no longer attempted; and even story-books, though gratefully
+received, were not read.
+
+Mrs. Burrell recommended calling in a doctor, but the Colonel was
+averse to this.
+
+"There was nothing the matter with the child, only fretting," he said.
+"She would get over it in time."
+
+He did not realise that persistent fretting might at last end in
+positive illness; and he had an odd feeling that to summon a doctor
+would imply a need for anxiety. Colonel Smyth did not wish to be made
+anxious about Rhona, for she was twining herself round his heart. It
+was curious to see how he shortened his daily walks, and absented
+himself from his usual outdoor resorts that he might spend hours beside
+the child.
+
+Mr. Powis came in now and then to visit her, though not greatly
+encouraged by the Colonel. But as yet, Rhona could say little to either
+of them. She seemed to want only to lie still.
+
+It came to the Colonel's hearing one day, as a result of his inquiries,
+that just about the date of Mrs. Mordaunt's disappearance, the body of
+a woman had been found in a certain canal,—a young woman, dark-haired,
+slender, dressed in mourning, apparently most respectable, perhaps
+even a lady, but having about her no name or address. The place was at
+a considerable distance where the body was discovered, but higher up
+in its course that same canal passed within a mile and a half of Mrs.
+Howard's house. The poor young woman had received Parish burial; and
+beyond these facts the Colonel could find out little. He had, however,
+small doubt from that hour that his conjecture as to drowning in the
+fog was correct, and thenceforth, he began to count little Rhona indeed
+his own.
+
+It was not his intention that Rhona should ever hear this sad tale. But
+his resolution to keep silence was shaken.
+
+"Rhona, I wish I knew what would do you good," he said one afternoon.
+
+He had taken her on his knee, and she was lying in his arms, sadly
+silent as usual. The stir of her eyelashes showed that she was not
+sleeping. Colonel Smyth had a strange sense of pleasure in the feeling
+of the little head resting on his shoulder. He began to wonder how he
+had managed to live alone so many years.
+
+"I wish I knew what would do you good," he repeated. "I don't like to
+see my little girl always so white and tired."
+
+"I shan't be tired—some day—perhaps," murmured the child.
+
+"But I want to know of something that will make you less tired now," he
+said.
+
+"There isn't anything—except—" Rhona said.
+
+He felt the sigh which finished her broken utterance.
+
+"My little pet, I should like to see you happier," said the Colonel.
+
+"I don't think I am exactly unhappy," said Rhona, with a singular
+sedateness. "I think I am happy."
+
+Colonel Smyth lifted her up, and looked earnestly into the pale face,
+with its large wistful eyes.
+
+"No, no, no," he said. "That is not happiness. I want to see you merry
+and gay like other children—able to jump, and laugh, and play. But
+it is too soon yet, isn't it? Now, now, don't cry—" as two or three
+glittering drops fell. "Crying always brings on the pain in this poor
+little head, and that makes you feel so dull."
+
+"I can't help it when I think of mother," whispered Rhona, with an
+evident struggle to speak. "It is so—'so' dreadful not to know. If only
+I just knew! If only I just knew!" And she wrung her hands together.
+
+"Just knew?" repeated the Colonel.
+
+"Where she is!" Rhona answered, with bitter tears. "If only I could
+know!"
+
+"It is worse being uncertain than not knowing,—even if you had to be
+sure of the very worst?" the Colonel said questioningly.
+
+"Yes,—oh yes," sobbed the poor child. "I can't bear not to know. I do
+so want to go to her—and take care of her—if she is ill."
+
+"You poor little mite, you want taking care of yourself," said the
+Colonel.
+
+And then he debated the matter silently, plunging at length into a
+sentence, without much idea of how it was to end—
+
+"Rhona, your mother was a good woman, very good,—and she was lonely and
+had a great many troubles, I suspect. Suppose it was as we fear, that
+some accident had happened in that fog, and so she never could come
+back. I don't say it is so, but suppose it were? Mother would be safe
+in heaven then, wouldn't she? Don't you think she would be very happy
+there, much happier than she was here?"
+
+The Colonel felt uncomfortable at his own words; for certainly the very
+last happiness he desired for himself was the happiness of heaven.
+But he guessed rightly that no other line of argument would avail to
+comfort Rhona.
+
+"She wouldn't be glad to leave me," the poor little lips faltered.
+
+"But she would be happy there, Rhona—I suppose—with your father, you
+know. People are always happy in heaven," said the Colonel, vaguely
+trying to administer the right sort of spiritual consolation.
+
+"Oh yes,—yes," Rhona answered. "If only I knew!"
+
+"It would make you feel easier in mind to picture your mother as in
+heaven, instead of perhaps suffering among strangers," suggested the
+Colonel. "Then I can tell you more than you know yet. Can you bear to
+hear the worst, my little girl? There was somebody found drowned in a
+canal, soon after that foggy day, and she was dressed in black and had
+no name upon her. I think it must have been your mother, Rhona. I think
+she must have lost her way in the fog, and have wandered to the canal
+and fallen in. They say that drowning is a very painless death,—much
+more painless than being run over, for instance. And now she will never
+have any more troubles, you know."
+
+The child heard in absolute silence. He could not detect even a quiver
+of her eyelids. The Colonel waited silently the space of two minutes,
+and then grew alarmed. Had she fainted?
+
+"Rhona, my dear! Rhona!" he said. "You are not asleep, my dear?"
+
+"Oh no. I am so glad you have told me," Rhona answered in a low
+unchildlike voice, full of sorrow, and joy. "I am so glad I know,—so
+glad I know."
+
+"And you will not fret so much, my little girl," said the Colonel. "You
+are going to belong to me now, and I am going to take care of you for
+mother's sake. You will try to love me, Rhona."
+
+"Oh yes, I do love you," Rhona answered in same strange voice, and she
+sat upright on his knee, deathly pale. "I am so glad."
+
+"Not glad of what I have told you! Impossible, my dear," expostulated
+the Colonel, not liking the unnatural light in her eyes.
+
+"Oh no!"
+
+He did not know what to make of the child. "Put your head down here,
+and try to go to sleep," he said coaxingly.
+
+She went back to her former position in obedient fashion, but presently
+he heard her murmur,—"God's will—"
+
+"Yes,—" said Colonel Smyth uneasily.
+
+"Mother said I must love His will,—every bit of it. I couldn't till
+now."
+
+"People are not expected to like trouble, Rhona."
+
+"No, not trouble," Rhona replied in sweet grave tones. "But God's will."
+
+"I suppose that sometimes comes to the same thing," said the Colonel.
+
+Rhona did not attempt to disentangle the matter for him; perhaps
+she did not even see his difficulty. Her next remark startled him
+considerably.
+
+"I wish it was time for me to go too!"
+
+"To go to bed?"
+
+She fairly smiled. "Oh no. I meant, to go to heaven."
+
+"My dear, you must not talk like that. It is positively wrong," said
+the Colonel. "I never heard of such a thing! A little girl of your age
+wanting to be dead! It is quite wicked."
+
+"Is it? Mother didn't tell me so," soberly answered Rhona, less
+affected by the Colonel's energetic protest than he had intended her to
+be.
+
+A happy thought struck the Colonel. "I am sure your friend, Mr. Powis,
+would say the same. You talk of liking God's will, and then you want
+to die in a hurry before your right time. Why, the two things are
+incompatible. Of course it is not the Divine Will that everybody should
+die directly trouble comes. People must show submission and bear up
+courageously, or the world would come to a standstill. You ought to
+wish to live, and to do your duty in your station, and to be—ahem—a
+useful member of society," concluded the Colonel, looking down with a
+rather odd feeling upon the pure and peaceful little face.
+
+"Yes," answered Rhona meekly. "I suppose I didn't think of all that.
+I only wanted so much to be with mother. But I should like to be a
+'useful member' very much,—only I don't exactly know what it means."
+
+The Colonel's lips twitched under his moustache.
+
+Rhona had her most thoughtful look.
+
+"Oh, I know—" she said after a pause. "There's a chapter in the Bible,
+with ever so much about members, and one member feeling with the rest.
+Mother talked about that sometimes. She said all the members might be
+useful in their own ways."
+
+The Colonel grunted a monosyllabic answer.
+
+"But I don't see how I can be useful to you," said Rhona gently.
+
+"You shall mend my gloves for me, some day,—when you are well. I have
+never had anybody to do that for me since—"
+
+"Since you were at home and your own sisters did it?" suggested Rhona.
+
+"No, not my sisters. I meant somebody else," said the Colonel, in a
+constrained voice.
+
+"Was it a great friend? Somebody that you loved very much?" asked
+Rhona, deeply interested.
+
+The Colonel's sunburnt face changed a little. "Yes," he said. "But that
+is a long while ago."
+
+"And was she very fond of you?" asked Rhona.
+
+"I thought so—at one time," muttered the Colonel.
+
+"And did she always go on mending your gloves as long as she lived?"
+pursued the child.
+
+"Oh dear, no,—not nearly so long. She grew tired of me," said the
+Colonel, with a thin disguise of outside indifference, penetrated at
+once by Rhona.
+
+She gave him one sorrowful look, and then clasped his arm.
+
+"I don't like her at all. She ought not to have got tired. You are so
+good and so kind. But I shall always, always like to mend your gloves,
+uncle. And I shall always love you."
+
+"You are my own dear little girl!" whispered the Colonel.
+
+
+He sat up late that evening, alone in the drawing-room, with a book
+on his knees which he could not read. Memories of olden days were
+stirred,—memories of one, once dear to him, nay always dear, though
+the love which still lived in his heart was mingled with bitterness.
+Colonel Smyth was one of those rare specimens of mankind, with whom to
+be once deceived is to be always deceived, once disappointed always
+disappointed. Not that his had been an unhappy life. He had found
+other interests, had made other friends. But no second woman could
+fill the place once held in his heart by a certain Margaret Willis;
+no later love could usurp the place of his first love. His brother
+officers had found him brave and true; not a religious man, even in
+profession, but morally irreproachable; and among them he had been
+as a rule popular. Towards women, however, his ordinary manners had
+been marked by a brusquerie which in the opinion of some amounted even
+to bearishness,—until little Rhona won her way into his affections,
+putting aside all barriers.
+
+"Would she be like the rest of them?" he sometimes inquired mentally,
+jumbling "the rest of them" dismally together in the grey light of his
+own early disappointment. Would she ever become fickle and uncertain,
+ever learn to rejoice in her womanly power to wound? He put this
+question to himself now, sitting alone in the lamplight, and his own
+answer was an emphatic negative. A vision rose in his mind of a fair
+and brilliant face, side by side with Rhona's placid brow and sweet
+eyes.
+
+"No, no, no,—wonderfully alike, but not the same. And Rhona has had a
+different training. Too much religious talk of course; but something
+genuine below."
+
+From memories of Margaret Willis, he passed by an easy transition to
+yet earlier recollections. He felt himself once again a little boy at
+his mother's knee,—a peculiar and wilful child understood by no one
+except that mother, so early taken away. His life after her death had
+been a continuous knocking of his own hard corners against those of
+other people, more especially in the home-circle.
+
+He could hardly have told at first what had called up these pictures,
+till he seemed suddenly to hear his mother's soft voice asking,—"Does
+my Harry love Jesus?" That was the association; Rhona's reverent
+utterance of the holy Name.
+
+Everybody else in the house had gone to bed; and still the Colonel sat
+on, plunged in deep reverie. The reverie unexpectedly became slumber.
+
+Had Colonel Smyth not been thus stirred and roused, so as to break
+through his usual habits, they might have all been burnt to death
+in their beds that night. It was one of those merciful mysterious
+Providences, which we may note but cannot explain, except by ascribing
+them to Divine watchfulness and Fatherly care.
+
+The Colonel slept long and soundly, leaning back in his comfortable
+easy-chair. But by-and-by a dream began to trouble him.
+
+He thought himself sailing on the high seas, going out to India, young
+again in years, with hopes for the future bright and strong within him.
+He was not alone, for two women stood, one on either side of him; on
+the right his mother, as he dimly remembered her, soft and tender and
+shadowy; on the left a young girl, brilliantly fair and beautiful, so
+like little Rhona in feature that she might be Rhona grown up, only
+'not' Rhona.
+
+"She is mine now,—my own," Colonel Smyth murmured. "Mine always. No one
+can ever take her from me."
+
+He would have clasped her hand, but the fingers round which his own
+closed were cold as ice, and seemed to shrink out of his grasp. Then as
+he looked at her, she slowly faded and changed, till Margaret was gone,
+and little Rhona stood there in her stead, looking up with wistful
+eyes, and saying, "I shall always love you, uncle."
+
+Even in his sleep, Colonel Smyth sighed bitterly, though he laid a kind
+hand on the child's head.
+
+Then suddenly, he saw red flames springing from the deck, in front and
+on either side, and the air was thick with smoke. None but himself
+seemed to see the peril they were in. Captain and crew went quietly
+about their occupations, while those red flames curled upwards, and a
+strange sense of nightmare withheld the Colonel from uttering a sound.
+Rhona stood by him still, but his mother's form was changing.
+
+"Must I lose all again?" he vainly strove to say.
+
+And she answered the unspoken question in soft far-off tones,
+"Yes,—all,—until my Harry learns to know and to serve JESUS."
+
+She seemed to pass away like a mist-wreath into the flames, with a
+smile upon her lips.
+
+Then at length, the cry of "Fire! Fire!" burst from the Colonel, but
+nobody paid attention.
+
+He called aloud in vain, while the flames drew nearer, and he was
+rooted to the spot. He struggled fiercely in his sleep, under the
+sense of helplessness. And as he strove, Rhona turned to him with an
+ineffable smile, and the Name upon her lips which she so loved to
+utter. Then she too passed upwards, and the Colonel was left alone,
+feeling himself cut off from her for ever.
+
+"Rhona! Rhona! Come back!" he cried, and there the dream ended.
+
+Colonel Smyth awoke, absolutely trembling, and covered with cold
+perspiration. "Pshaw!" he exclaimed. "How utterly absurd! I never
+dreamt such nonsense in my life."
+
+He pulled out his watch mechanically. "Half-past one! Unearthly hours!
+No wonder I took to dreaming. Something at dinner must have disagreed
+with me. Well,—I must go to bed at once."
+
+Ha! What was this strange odour, and the thick mistiness filling
+the air, both of which the Colonel had at the first moment been too
+bewildered to perceive?
+
+"Smoke! That's not right!" He started immediately into full wakefulness.
+
+Three strides took him to the door, but when he flung it open, eddying
+wreaths came rolling in. The Colonel recoiled, aghast. A strong smell
+of burning pervaded the atmosphere, and distant crackling with a
+continuous low roar struck upon his ear.
+
+The house was on fire,—and not a soul among the sleepers aware of the
+fact. Standing there,—as for one half-second he did stand,—he could
+distinctly hear the landlady's nasal utterances upstairs.
+
+"Fire! Fire! Fire!" Shouts from the street now reached him. Had the
+outer world only just become aware of the terrible fact?
+
+"Fire! Fire! Wake up! The house is on fire!" rang through the passages
+in the Colonel's stentorian tones.
+
+An answering shriek from above showed that he was heard. Disregarding
+all else, he rushed into Rhona's room.
+
+A fierce glow from beneath cast sufficient light through the striped
+blind to guide his steps. But the heat was intense, and the smoke
+stifling. The fire seemed to have originated on this side of the house.
+
+A sharp shake aroused Bertha, and she sprang up, stupefied yet
+conscious. Five minutes later, she would have been past easy awakening.
+
+"Quick, not a minute to spare," the Colonel said, as he passed on, and
+caught up the sleeping child, wrapping a large woollen shawl around her.
+
+"Throw on anything—dressing-gown and blanket. Ha!" as the contact of
+her bare feet with the floor caused an exclamation. "Yes, your shoes.
+Quick, my good girl."
+
+Rhona lay heavily in his arms, uttering not a sound. The Colonel paused
+an instant to snatch up a long towel, plunge it in water, and twist it
+round the lower part of his face, letting one end drop protectingly
+over Rhona's mouth and nose. He dipped a second, and flung it to Bertha.
+
+"Do as I do," he said briefly. "Now come."
+
+Opening the door, he went straight to the stairs, followed closely by
+Bertha. What had become of the two upstairs, he could not pause to
+think. His whole energies were bent on saving little Rhona first from
+the terrible death with which she was threatened.
+
+Thick waves of smoke met them, stinging and choking. But for the
+protecting towels, they could not have advanced a dozen steps.
+
+Descent by the staircase was impossible. That soon became evident. The
+roar of flames and the rush of burning smoke increased each instant.
+
+Colonel Smyth grasped Bertha's arm, feeling her stagger. "Back! Back!"
+he said. "Upstairs at once! To my bedroom! This way is hopeless."
+
+How they managed the ascent, he never afterwards knew. Supporting the
+child on one arm, upholding and urging Bertha with the other, he seemed
+possessed of almost superhuman strength. Leaving the drawing-room floor
+behind, they pressed upwards, guided by the glare of light from below,
+and by screams from above.
+
+Mrs. Burrell and Hope had quitted their own bedroom at the back of
+the house, for a glance downstairs, being at once beaten back by the
+sights and sounds encountered. They had rushed into the Colonel's front
+bedroom, to find no Colonel there. Hope was leaning out of one window
+in her nightdress, shrieking continuously; and Mrs. Burrell, in a red
+shawl, stood by her, wearing a look of utter despair.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+FIRE!
+
+SHUTTING the door behind him, Colonel Smyth went swiftly to the
+second window, bearing still the unconscious child, and dragging the
+half-stupefied Bertha. He flung it open, and a cry of horror broke
+from the gathering crowd below, at the sight of three more threatened
+victims.
+
+"No way out, I suppose, along the leads, either front or back?" Colonel
+Smyth inquired of Bertha.
+
+As yet, Mrs. Burrell and Hope, in their absorption of terror, had not
+become aware of the Colonel's entrance.
+
+Bertha's "No, sir," was bewildered.
+
+He saw that she hardly knew what she said.
+
+"Take the child for a moment!" And he laid Rhona in the girl's arms.
+
+Then he was gone from the room, but only for a few seconds. Almost
+before Bertha had time to conjecture his purpose, he returned. And as
+he reached the window, Rhona opened her eyes, revived by a breath of
+fresher air.
+
+"No hope there," he said gloomily. "I had thoughts of a descent at the
+back, making use of the cistern,—but the flames are all over it. Why is
+there no fire-escape?"
+
+The Colonel was a brave man, but the threatening peril was very
+terrible, rendered still more terrible by his utter helplessness; and
+his cheeks blanched as he gazed.
+
+To meet death on the battle-field would have been far easier.
+
+"What are they about?" he groaned inaudibly. "The fire has made fearful
+way."
+
+"Can't we get out?" Rhona asked, her clear voice sounding distinctly
+through the roar of the fire and the shouts of the crowd.
+
+She seemed to have wakened quietly to a full sense of the position,
+and her large eyes were dilated with fear. She had slid partly out of
+Bertha's arms, which indeed were hardly able to bear her up, and stood
+leaning against her kind attendant, swathed still in the blanket from
+head to foot.
+
+"I hope so,—very soon," the Colonel answered gravely. "I expect a
+fire-escape every moment. You have no ropes here, my good girl?" he
+asked of Bertha in a lower tone.
+
+She shook her head mutely.
+
+"The sheets—" said the Colonel.
+
+Mrs. Burrell and Hope, becoming suddenly aware of their presence,
+rushed to the same window. Mrs. Burrell passionately implored aid,
+and Hope fairly flung herself at Colonel Smyth's feet, with sobs and
+incoherent shrieks.
+
+"Hush! Be quiet," he said sternly. "Don't you see that we are all in
+the same condition? Here! You had better help me fasten the sheets
+together. Not you, Bertha,—don't leave Miss Rhona."
+
+Hope was limp and helpless, but Mrs. Burrell, though refusing to move
+far from the window, gave some assistance. The Colonel worked as a man
+works for his life; and, in an incredibly short space of time, the
+improvised rope of sheets and blankets was ready for use. He brought it
+to the window, and there paused. The descent thus would be a passage
+through smoke and flame.
+
+"Will any one make the trial?" asked the Colonel, looking round.
+
+Hope hid her face.
+
+Bertha said steadily, "I will take Miss Rhona down, if you wish, sir."
+
+He looked at her and at the child, and shuddered.
+
+"It would be a bare chance," he muttered. "Hardly a hope. Hanging so
+close to the windows, the sheets would certainly take fire. Wait a few
+more seconds," he said aloud. "The escape, if it comes soon, will be
+better."
+
+Hope flung herself wildly on the knotted bedding. "Oh let me down,
+let me down," she cried piercingly; "I can't stay here. Oh let me
+down—quick—"
+
+Colonel Smyth made no fresh protest. He was indeed unable to decide
+whether the peril of going or of delaying were the greatest. With
+compressed lips, he attached the end blanket to her waist, folding her
+up in it as much as possible, and helped her to mount the sill. But a
+glance over proved too much for her fortitude, and with a scream she
+fell back into the room.
+
+"Don't you mean to go, Hope?" asked her mother in a voice of sullen
+misery.
+
+"Oh, I don't know," gasped Hope. "Oh, I don't know. It looks so
+frightful. Oh, what shall I do?"
+
+"The floor burns my feet," murmured Rhona patiently, and Colonel Smyth
+caught her up in his arms.
+
+"What can they be about? Why don't they come?" he groaned, as she clung
+to him.
+
+"I don't think we shall be burnt. God will take care of us," said Rhona.
+
+"Pray to Him, my dear,—you know how. Pray for all of us," whispered the
+Colonel.
+
+"I am praying all the time. God will take care of us," Rhona said
+again. But after a moment she added softly, "Only He might want to take
+me to mother that way. Would it hurt very much?"
+
+Colonel Smyth could not answer, and again Hope sprang up wildly. "Oh,
+it burns, it burns," she screamed. "Oh, let me go down. I can't stay
+here."
+
+"You must choose for yourself," Colonel Smyth answered gravely. "I
+don't know that this is long enough, and—"
+
+"Oh, but it is worse waiting here. It is frightful," shrieked Hope.
+"Let me down,—quick—quick."
+
+Bertha again received Rhona, supporting her with difficulty. And in
+another instant, Hope was hanging over the depth. Her shrill cries
+of terror rang piercingly through the night-air, and the crowd below
+seemed to watch with suspended breath. Colonel Smyth paid out the
+improvised rope rapidly yet cautiously. But that which he had dreaded
+came to pass. It proved too short; and as she hung some little way from
+the ground, for two short seconds of agony, a leaping tongue of fire
+set light to the sheets by which she was suspended.
+
+Those above could not distinguish what went on so close underneath, but
+Hope's screams ceased, and the weight which depended on the Colonel's
+hands was suddenly lightened. Whether the change meant life or death to
+Hope, they could not tell. A flame was running up the twisted sheeting,
+which Colonel Smyth held, and he flung it down as useless.
+
+"No hope now—that way," he muttered.
+
+Then a loud cry rose from the people, resolving itself into joyful
+words. "Ha! The escape at last!" echoed Colonel Smyth, with relief
+unutterable.
+
+At last, and not too soon. Was it even in time! A dull crash told of
+the first floor falling in, and flames rushed wildly out from the lower
+windows, fanned by the strong breeze.
+
+Another minute found the ladders in position, and a brave man rapidly
+mounted through whirling smoke.
+
+Their rescuer appeared suddenly close to the window, a helmeted figure,
+framed in coils of smoke, steadying himself in his perilous position.
+What had to be done needed to be done quickly. For a man to remain
+outside there any length of time was an impossibility. Colonel Smyth
+would fain have sent the child down first, but Mrs. Burrell pushed
+resolutely to the front, and no time could be wasted in parleying. As
+she flung herself over the windowsill, the man grasped her. And almost
+before she knew what would happen next, she was performing a swift
+descent down the canvas trough, to be safely caught by expectant hands
+below.
+
+Another rush of flame, this time from the drawing-room windows,
+compelled the fireman to beat a retreat. He held out his arms, and
+Rhona was dropped into them.
+
+"Come at once, sir," he said, seeing only the figure of the Colonel in
+that fire-illuminated window. For Bertha had sunk to the floor.
+
+Those in the street saw the fireman reappear, descending through the
+smoke, saw him pause and falter while still some way from the ground,
+saw the child slipping from his grasp. A wail of horror broke from
+many, but another fireman rushed underneath and caught the little
+figure in his arms, thereby changing the wail into a frantic cheer.
+The poor fellow reached the bottom in safety, though nearly fainting,
+and Rhona's last rescuer, handing her over to a gentleman not far-off,
+immediately went up to the ladder in his stead.
+
+Rhona's new friend, a strongly-built young man, perhaps about eight
+and twenty in age, carried her quickly away from the vicinity of the
+burning house. As the fresher air again recalled her scattered senses,
+she was startled to find herself in the grasp of strange arms. The face
+which met her opening eyes was reassuring, yet her first impulse was a
+distressful struggle, and an imploring, "Wait! Oh, please wait! Don't
+take me anywhere till he is safe."
+
+"You shall wait near, my dear. I am only taking you to a house across
+the road," the gentleman said kindly. "Is he your father?"
+
+"No, it is my uncle,—it is Colonel Smyth. Oh, why doesn't he come
+down?" Rhona asked in an agony. "Please, please, I can't go till he is
+safe."
+
+"I am afraid of your taking cold," the gentleman said. Yet for an
+instant he had to pause that he might wrap more closely round her the
+blanket, disarranged by her struggle.
+
+It was a wild scene, viewed from where he stood. The house threatened
+to become soon a mass of fire; and thus far, the steady play of the
+engines seemed to take no effect. At the windows of houses round about,
+opposite and on either side, faces of ghastly pallor and fear were
+visible in the red glare, which glowed upon glass panes, and lent a
+false hue to the dark sky.
+
+Again the booming crash, and the burst of flame told of a floor falling
+in. Then a gust of wind swept the heavy smoke aside, and Colonel Smyth
+could be seen, still at the window, apparently striving to lift a heavy
+weight.
+
+"Oh, it is Bertha! O uncle!" cried poor Rhona.
+
+One fireman, striving to ascend, had already been beaten back half-way,
+but another now essayed the same successfully. A few more seconds of
+terrible suspense, and he was on his way downward, bearing a female
+figure. The Colonel following, seemed in some way to slip or fail,
+when getting out of the window, and was all but precipitated upon
+the pavement below. He caught the ladder with one hand, and somehow
+regained his footing, showing an activity hardly to be expected at
+his age. The remainder of the descent was accomplished by him without
+accident. A sudden change in the wind appeared to have taken place; and
+though flames leaped out fitfully, charring the canvas bagging, yet the
+chief rush of smoke and heated air was now in another direction.
+
+But of all this, including the Colonel's most narrow escape, Rhona saw
+nothing. One glance only was permitted. Then despite sobbing protests,
+she was borne hurriedly to a house over the way, near the farthest end
+of the street.
+
+"Yes, yes, my dear child, you shall know all as soon as possible," the
+gentleman said soothingly, as answer to her pleadings. "I cannot keep
+you out here in the night-air. I will come and tell you directly your
+uncle is safely down."
+
+"They won't let him stay there,—poor uncle! They won't let him be burnt
+to death," said Rhona's quivering lips.
+
+"No, no, don't be afraid. Think how many people there are to help, and
+they will do their utmost. See, I am going to take you in here to a
+friend of mine, a kind old lady."
+
+"But I don't know her, and I haven't any frock," said Rhona.
+
+"Never mind the frock. You and Mrs. Montague will not be strangers
+long, I am sure."
+
+It was a private house at which he stopped, just beyond the region
+of shops. The front door was on the latch, and the inhabitants were
+evidently astir. Rhona's friend entered with the air of one much at
+home. He carried her swiftly upstairs, clearing two steps at a time
+with long easy strides, tapped at a door, and on receiving no answer
+walked in. A candle stood alight on the dressing-table, and the bed
+bore signs of having been slept in that night, but nobody was present.
+Rhona was laid on a couch, still rolled up in her sheltering blanket,
+and an eider-down quilt, caught up from the bed, was spread quickly
+over her. The gentleman paused then and bent down, looking into her
+eyes.
+
+"Will you be afraid, my dear, to lie alone for a minute?"
+
+"No," said Rhona, returning the gaze. "I don't think I am
+afraid—exactly."
+
+"I am going to see after Colonel Smyth. You would rather I should do
+that than stay with you,—but Mrs. Montague will come directly. Somebody
+might be a little hurt at the fire, and I am a doctor."
+
+"Oh please, please, go—" Rhona implored, shivering violently, though
+not from cold. "Oh please, don't wait."
+
+Presently a lady entered, little and old and gentle, dressed in a
+quaint flowered wrapper, while a soft cream-coloured shawl was folded
+round her shoulders and passed, mantilla-wise, over her head. The face
+within these creamy folds was singularly small, aged yet delicate, worn
+yet still attractive. Rhona saw so much, almost without seeing, as a
+little wrinkled hand patted her fingers in soothing fashion, rubbing
+away their chill.
+
+"Now the other hand, if we can get at it. They have rolled you up into
+an Egyptian mummy. Ah, here comes the hot stuff, to put a little colour
+into those white cheeks. It is well I bade my maids light a fire and
+have boiling water ready, thinking either might be needed. Drink it up,
+little one and after that you shall rest in my nice bed."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+ACROSS THE WAY.
+
+COLONEL SMYTH came down the ladders quickly, though stepping with
+caution, even with difficulty. On reaching the ground, his first words
+were, "Where is my little girl?"
+
+"She's all right, sir,—taken to a house near. You'd best stand back,"
+one of the men said. "Is there nobody else in the house?"
+
+Colonel Smyth half answered in the negative, and checked himself. "I do
+not know. There is a servant girl,—sleeping downstairs, I believe. What
+of her?"
+
+"Pulled out of her bed just in time, sir,—found first of all, when the
+alarm was given. Nobody else, you are sure?"
+
+"Quite sure. Thank God!" the Colonel said involuntarily. "Then all are
+saved. No, I am forgetting,—how about the girl I let down from the
+window?"
+
+"Fell to the ground and broke her leg," the informant answered. "A
+doctor has seen to her, and sent her straight off to hospital. He is
+the same that carried the little girl away too."
+
+"No hope of rescuing any of my belongings, I suppose," the Colonel
+said, looking up regretfully at his flame-wreathed drawing-room
+windows. "Well—let them go. Life is worth more than books and pictures.
+Where is the child?"
+
+A hand was laid on his arm, and a voice said, "You had better come
+farther back. There is danger here?"
+
+Colonel Smyth obeyed the touch mechanically, and the other continued,
+"I have taken your little girl to a friend of mine in this street. Will
+you come there too?"
+
+"Thanks," the Colonel replied. "Yes, the sooner the better. I don't
+seem to be of any use here."
+
+It was well they had not far to go. Mrs. Montague's house-door was
+no longer on the latch, but Mr. Wynne had provided himself with a
+latch-key, and they entered without ringing. Colonel Smyth staggered,
+and dropped into a chair.
+
+"Never mind me. It is nothing," he said hastily, as if ashamed. "Where
+is Rhona? Not hurt, is she?"
+
+"No, not at all. But you are," Mr. Wynne said.
+
+"Rather scorched, I believe. I'll go to Rhona. The child must be
+frightened. By-the-by, what of my landlady?"
+
+"Uninjured, but a good deal excited at the loss of her property."
+
+"With some reason, perhaps. And the daughter—broken leg, they say."
+
+"That, and other injuries. Gone to hospital at once; and the mother has
+been taken in two doors from this."
+
+"And—yes—Bertha—what of her? I lost sight of the girl after we came
+down."
+
+"She has been received in the same house as Mrs. Burrell. After seeing
+to your hurts, I must take a look at her,—but I am told that she does
+not seem much the worse for her adventure."
+
+"Capital girl, plucky to a degree. I shall not lose sight of her, if I
+can help it. Has anybody any notion how the fire originated?"
+
+"There is some idea. The servant girl was found asleep on her bed,
+fully dressed. The mischief evidently began in the neighbourhood of
+the kitchen; and she confesses to a vague recollection of leaving her
+candle on the lid of a box which contained shavings, meaning to go back
+and fetch it. She says she was so tired that she dropped down across
+her bed for two minutes' rest, before finishing what had to be done.
+The remainder may be imagined. It is a marvel that she was not burnt in
+her bed, before help came."
+
+"Heinous carelessness!" muttered the Colonel. "But the poor thing
+was worked off her legs and out of her proper senses, I do believe.
+Well—Mrs. Burrell has to pay a heavy penalty. I hope her property is
+insured."
+
+"I cannot say. I have not spoken to her yet. I am going to send word
+upstairs that you are safe; and then I must see to your hurts."
+
+"Send word? I'm going myself," Colonel Smyth answered, starting up. "I
+want to satisfy my own eyes with a sight of the child."
+
+Mr. Wynne looked doubtful, but made no protest. They were speedily
+within the bedroom, where Rhona lay, anxiously watching.
+
+At the first glimpse of Colonel Smyth, she sprang up in bed with a cry
+of joy, sharpened into almost a scream.
+
+Colonel Smyth was startled at the energy with which the child flung
+herself upon him. Mrs. Montague had arrayed her in a dressing-gown of
+deep pink flannel, but Rhona's cheeks outdid the hue of her pretty
+wrapper.
+
+"Gently, my dear!" Mr. Wynne said, noting the Colonel's sudden wince.
+
+He loosened her clutch with a firm hand, and laid her back on the
+pillow. "You must keep still, or we shall have to leave you."
+
+Rhona had no sign of stillness about her. She remained obediently, as
+placed, but with eyes that shone like stars, and with breath that came
+in hysterical catches.
+
+"Oh, I'm so glad, so very very glad," she said. "It is almost 'too'
+good. I didn't really think you could have got down. O uncle—uncle—"
+
+"Hush, hush, my little girl; you will be ill if you excite yourself
+so," said Colonel Smyth, stooping to kiss her. "That is not like my
+gentle good Rhona."
+
+"I don't feel gentle to-night, not a bit—and not good either," said
+Rhona, speaking rapidly, and flashing her large eyes to and fro. "I
+felt good up in that room, when we thought we should all be burnt, but
+not now. I suppose it is because I am so very very glad you and Bertha
+are safe—poor nice Bertha. And Mrs. Burrell too,—only I don't like
+her so much—not nearly so much. Uncle, you don't know how dreadfully
+frightened I was about you. And the kind doctor went to see if he could
+do anything."
+
+"I found him on the ground, quite safe," said Mr. Wynne.
+
+"Quite safe from the flames!" said Rhona, with a shudder. "I keep
+seeing those flames all the while. Dear, dear uncle! Only think if you
+hadn't come down in time! Oh, are you quite sure the flames won't catch
+this house, and burn us all up?"
+
+"No fear of that," said Colonel Smyth, with an involuntary contraction
+of his brow, as she clasped his left hand.
+
+"But I am so afraid—suppose they should!" said Rhona, shivering. "And
+we mightn't all keep awake, and mightn't know in time."
+
+Mr. Wynne was noting the two faces carefully. He bent a little over the
+child, and said,—"There was a wise man once, little Rhona, who could
+say,—
+
+   "'What time I am afraid, I will trust in THEE!'"
+
+"That was King David," said Rhona hurriedly, with a brilliant smile.
+"It's in the Psalms, and mother did love that text so. She used to say
+it often."
+
+"Then you must try to say it now."
+
+He had not meant lip-utterance, but Rhona took the advice literally. It
+touched them to see the slender hands clasped, while a look of earnest
+gravity came over the broad brow.
+
+   "'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.'"
+
+The words were not spoken to Mr. Wynne, or for Mr. Wynne's hearing.
+Rhona's eyes had a far-away look for a moment, before coming back to
+his face.
+
+"Must I say it again?" she asked with curious simplicity.
+
+"No, my dear," said Mr. Wynne. "You must 'think' it now; and keep
+yourself from talking. Colonel Smyth is coming into the next room with
+me for a little while."
+
+Colonel Smyth obeyed the hint. He went straight to the window of the
+front room, looked out and remarked, "The glare seems lessening." Then
+he turned and said, "Will you help me off with my coat—carefully,
+please."
+
+"Your hands are a good deal scorched," said Mr. Wynne.
+
+"Yes, rather, but the shoulder is worst. I gave it a wrench
+somehow—getting out of the window—slipped and nearly fell, I believe,
+and saved myself by one hand. It was touch and go! Whew!" Colonel Smyth
+winced and paled at the light touch of Mr. Wynne's fingers. "Yes, just
+there. I did not know how bad it was till Rhona threw herself upon me.
+But no use minding. The coat has to come off somehow."
+
+"Not that way," Mr. Wynne said, with a restraining gesture. "Wait a
+moment."
+
+He was gone quickly, and reappeared with a large pair of scissors. The
+coat-sleeve was speedily ripped up from wrist to shoulder, Colonel
+Smyth submitting with only one remark,—
+
+"Do you know I don't possess another coat in the world?"
+
+"There are tailors in London," said Mr. Wynne.
+
+And after a brief examination, he uttered one word—"Dislocated."
+
+"Well, I am an old soldier, and can stand a good pull," said the
+Colonel. "By-the-by, are you a surgeon?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Seems a lucky event that you happened to be on the spot. You live
+near, I suppose?"
+
+"No; I was called up late to a patient in this neighbourhood, and
+happened to be passing the end of the street on my way home, just when
+the alarm was first given."
+
+"That poor girl, Bertha, will need you presently, I suspect,
+Doctor,—by-the-by, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name. May as
+well put my shoulder straight first, if you don't object."
+
+"I am not wanted there. Dr. Marsden, living in the next street, has
+made his appearance, and will see to her at once. My name is Arbuthnot
+Wynne,—Mr., not Dr. as yet."
+
+Colonel Smyth's movement of surprise was marked.
+
+"You seem to recognise it," Mr. Wynne said.
+
+"I remember a certain Dr. Wynne many years ago,—a man nearly of my own
+standing."
+
+"My father probably. He is in full practice still, and we live
+together."
+
+"Your patients being his, and vice versa, I suppose. Well, the sooner
+this little business is attended to the better. I can stand a wrench
+fairly well. You don't advise chloroform, do you?"
+
+"I don't think it is necessary," said Mr. Wynne. "Will you lie down
+here, if you please?"
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+
+AFTERWARDS.
+
+"THAT'S over!" said the Colonel, with an air of relief, when the
+bandaging was complete. The setting of the dislocated shoulder he
+had borne in a manner worthy of his profession; and though rather
+yellow-white still about the lips with pain, he was disposed to
+self-congratulation. "I see you inherit your father's fingers."
+
+"A good inheritance," responded Mr. Wynne. "You will have to take
+things quietly for a few days."
+
+"Well, yes, so I suppose,—as far as possible. You used to live in
+Burton Square, if I remember rightly?"
+
+"We live there still. I do not recall your face, Colonel Smyth,—or your
+name."
+
+"I dare say not. 'Smyth' is no very distinctive cognomen," said the
+Colonel, with an odd dry laugh. "And you were a mere boy in those
+days, a nice little lad with curly hair. Thanks, that is much more
+comfortable. I must get a ready-made coat in the morning, somehow,
+to go about in. By-the-by, I should wish you to consider me 'your'
+patient,—exclusively."
+
+"And not my father's? What! Did he and you fall out in past days?"
+
+"No, no—not at all, quite the reverse. I had a marked admiration for
+his skill,—always used to declare he was the only medical man living
+whose opinion I valued a rap. But I have found a second; and the hands
+that begin a job may as well finish it."
+
+Mr. Wynne was aware from Colonel Smyth's face that some other reason
+lay beneath. "Very well," he said. "You shall be my patient strictly. I
+must see you again to-morrow."
+
+"I can't give you any address for to-morrow. Rhona and I are houseless
+wanderers. I must take her to some hotel for two or three days, and
+decide on future plans."
+
+"We shall see in the morning. I am not sure that it will do to remove
+Rhona so soon. The child is a good deal shaken."
+
+"No wonder, poor mite. She kept up splendidly at the time, but that
+tells upon one afterward."
+
+"She is a winning little maid," the doctor said.
+
+"You would think so, if you knew her! The most extraordinary child
+I ever saw,—like a grown person in her feelings and ways. There's
+something about her, positively, which almost seems to belong to
+another world."
+
+Mr. Wynne's eyes said plainly, "Perhaps it does."
+
+After a pause, he remarked, "I have seen a face very like hers."
+
+"Where? When?" asked Colonel Smyth.
+
+"I cannot tell you. I don't possess my father's memory in respect of
+faces. When I have seen the same before, it comes back to me, but not
+always with the name attached."
+
+"You don't think you may have come across Rhona herself before? It is
+not a common type of face."
+
+"Too far back for that. I have merely a vague impression of such a face
+years ago, in my young days."
+
+"Your young days!" repeated the Colonel. "Why, you are hardly out of
+boyhood yet."
+
+"Twenty-seven to-morrow,—to-day, I mean. I forgot that 'to-morrow' had
+come," Mr. Wynne said quaintly.
+
+"I wish you many happy returns," responded the Colonel, with
+promptitude. "Now I must take another look at my little girl, and then
+see what they are doing at Number Three."
+
+"I am afraid nothing can be done there, beyond preventing the spread of
+the fire. As for Rhona, I must forbid you her room to-night. She does
+not know you are hurt, and we must avoid any increase of excitement.
+It is a frail little being, and I am afraid she may suffer more than
+any one from this night's work. For yourself, I prescribe quiet. Mrs.
+Montague's spare room is ready for you, and,—No, of course you can't
+sleep,—" with a smile. "But you must have bodily rest."
+
+"What will your friend think of this midnight invasion!" asked the
+Colonel.
+
+"She will thank me for acting as I have done. Now, Colonel, I will show
+you to your room; and for ten minutes, you may count me your valet."
+
+Colonel Smyth "pshawed" and apologised, laughed, and disclaimed the
+need of help, but finally had to submit.
+
+Mr. Wynne then went out to make inquiry as to the fire, and brought
+back such tidings as he had expected to bring. The condition of Number
+Three was hopeless,—the house being completely gutted, and promising
+to become a mere shell. The efforts of the firemen were chiefly
+directed towards the protection of neighbouring houses. A few pieces of
+furniture and two or three pictures had been rescued, but the contents
+of the house generally were lost.
+
+"Well, Rhona is safe," Colonel Smyth made answer. "I am not ruined,
+happily, though I should have liked to save my books."
+
+A few minutes later, Mr. Wynne was by the side of Rhona. She lay
+tossing to and fro with wide-open eyes, watchfully guarded by the
+little old lady in flowered wrapper and creamy shawl.
+
+"I don't feel the very least inclined to sleep," Rhona said, looking up
+at Mr. Wynne. "I can't forget those dreadful flames, creep—creeping up
+after us. Mayn't I get up and go to uncle? Oh, but I haven't any frock."
+
+"No; so you must be content to stay in bed," said Mr. Wynne.
+
+"Must I stay in bed all to-morrow, and next day? It takes such a time
+to get a frock made."
+
+"Perhaps we may find a frock somewhere ready-made, that will fit you.
+But you have to lie quiet now."
+
+"I wish uncle would come. Why doesn't he?" asked Rhona.
+
+"You forget that it is the middle of the night. I have sent him to bed;
+and now I am going to send Mrs. Montague to lie down, while I stay
+here."
+
+Mrs. Montague rose at once.
+
+"But I have got her bed," said Rhona.
+
+"There are other beds and sofas in the house, my dear," Mrs. Montague
+said. "You will call me when you want me, Mr. Wynne."
+
+Then she kissed Rhona and went away.
+
+"You are sure uncle isn't ill?" said Rhona suspiciously. "Quite
+perfectly sure."
+
+"No, not ill," said Mr. Wynne. "But he has hurt his shoulder, and I
+want him to have a few hours' rest."
+
+"Oh, I 'do' want to see him again," exclaimed Rhona tearfully. "Mayn't
+I get up and sit by him? I'll be so good. Please do let me."
+
+"No, Rhona."
+
+"It isn't as if I were tired," pursued the child with unwonted
+wilfulness. "I'm not tired a bit, only everything seems so funny. Oh!"
+And she gave a violent start. "Oh! I never thought till this moment!
+Fay,—poor little Fay; oh, how could I be so cruel, so wicked?"
+
+"I don't understand," said Mr. Wynne.
+
+"Fay,—my own dear little bird,—I never never thought of him," Rhona
+said passionately, tears streaming down her cheeks. "So cruel, so
+horrid of me. Oh, do, do please send somebody quick to save him! Please
+do."
+
+Mr. Wynne did not move. "Somebody else may have remembered the bird,"
+he said.
+
+"Oh no, I'm sure they wouldn't. He was in my room, and nobody else went
+there. And I never thought of him, nor Bertha either. And father gave
+him to me. What shall I do?" Rhona sobbed, even wildly. "Oh, please,
+can't something be done? Can't they get him out?"
+
+"If he has not been taken out already, nothing can be done now. The
+floor of your room has fallen in. It is just possible that the bird may
+be among the few things saved, but I do not expect it," Mr. Wynne said
+thoughtfully. "The little creature would very early be stifled by the
+smoke."
+
+"And my own father gave him to me," moaned Rhona.
+
+Mr. Wynne allowed her to sob freely for two or three minutes. Then his
+hand came on hers, and his voice said gravely—
+
+"Rhona, I think you are wrong."
+
+She looked up suddenly, as if in surprise.
+
+"Yes, wrong," he repeated. "I do not think you ought to grieve so much
+for the bird, instead of being thankful for the many lives spared.
+Think how terrible it would have been if the fire-escape had arrived
+too late; or if Colonel Smyth had not been able to get down in time.
+The loss of your pet is a small matter in comparison."
+
+"Oh yes, yes,—only I did love him so," Rhona answered sadly. "I think I
+should not mind so very very much, if only I had not forgotten him."
+
+"You could not help forgetting him. When Colonel Smyth carried you out
+of your room, you were unconscious, or nearly so."
+
+"Was I?" asked Rhona, in surprise. "I don't remember. It all seemed so
+dreadful. Then it wasn't really cruel of me to forget Fay."
+
+"No, not at all. And your maid too was so stupefied by the smoke and
+heat that though she was just able to walk, she had not power to think.
+Besides, the little creature was probably dead, even then. It does not
+take much to kill a bird."
+
+Rhona sighed heavily. "And all mother's things are gone," she said.
+"But I'll try to be good and not grumble. I 'am' glad nobody was burnt.
+And I suppose Mrs. Burrell is worse off, because she has lost her house
+and everything. Poor Bertha too, Bertha has nobody belonging to her,
+and Mrs. Burrell always seems vexed because she has to keep Bertha. Do
+tell me how Bertha is."
+
+"Quite herself, I am told, and really very little hurt. You will see
+her no doubt in the morning."
+
+"It was like being 'brands plucked out of the fire,'" murmured Rhona.
+"I couldn't help thinking of those words when we were up at the window.
+Somehow I didn't feel so frightened then as I do now. I do want mother
+to-night."
+
+"But you have a kind uncle," said Mr. Wynne.
+
+"Yes, very very kind, only of course, he isn't my mother," Rhona
+answered sorrowfully. Then with a sudden change of mood, she burst out
+laughing. "And he isn't my real uncle either. How funny that seems!
+He only makes me call him 'uncle,' and I love him dearly. There was
+somebody else once who loved him, and she used to mend his gloves. But
+that person got tired of him. 'I' shall never grow tired of my dear
+dear uncle. I shall always love him—always—all my life long,—and I'll
+always always mend his gloves."
+
+"Rhona, you have talked enough," said Mr. Wynne, rising and going to
+the dressing-table, whence he brought a small tumbler. "You are to
+drink this, and then you are to say nothing more for half-an-hour."
+
+"But I don't want medicine. What is it?" asked the child.
+
+"Never mind. You must take it."
+
+Rhona obeyed. "But I can't go to sleep," she said.
+
+"Then keep awake; only do not talk."
+
+"Must I be left alone?"
+
+"Not if you are a good child, and do as you are told. If you go to
+sleep, you shall find me here when you wake."
+
+"And may I get up then? Oh, but I haven't a frock."
+
+"I think we shall be able to manage. My little cousin is about your
+size, and she has plenty of frocks."
+
+"Does your little cousin live with you?" asked Rhona eagerly.
+
+Mr. Wynne answered "Yes," and held up a silencing finger.
+
+Rhona smiled, then shut her eyes, and settled into an attitude of
+repose, exercising an amount of control over her nervous excitement
+which he had hardly expected.
+
+He sat motionless, watching the sweet face, with its tense brow and
+quivering lashes. "Where have I seen that look before?" he questioned
+with himself.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+THE MORDAUNT HOUSEHOLD.
+
+"SUE."
+
+Susanna Mordaunt started out of an absent fit, and said hurriedly,
+"Yes, Clara. Yes. Did you speak before? I didn't hear. I was only
+thinking about—. But is anything the matter?"
+
+"A good deal, I should have thought. What are you mooning over now?"
+
+"Oh, I was only—only—just thinking," said Susanna, in a tone of
+apology. "One can't help thinking a little sometimes, you know."
+
+"One wouldn't wish to help it, I should suppose. What an absurd way you
+have of putting things?" the younger sister said tartly.
+
+"I was only just wondering about that poor little Rhona," said Sue,
+accustomed to such snubbings.
+
+"Wondering does no good," responded Clara.
+
+She was unwinding wool at the drawing-room bay-window, full in the
+spring sunshine, and an occasional whisk or tug told of considerable
+pettishness. The winder whirled round by fits and starts, answering
+accurately to her mode of management.
+
+"It seems to me that Barbara is perfectly demented," she broke out at
+length.
+
+"Why?"
+
+"I don't profess to know why. I only state the fact. How on earth
+are we to meet all these extra expenses when our income is barely
+enough for our three selves? Here has Mary been in this condition for
+weeks—and how long she may go on so—"
+
+"Not in the same condition all the time," broke in Susanna.
+
+"Quite as bad, at all events. And she has been in this particular state
+for weeks—three or four certainly—so I only said what was true. Who
+can tell when she will get over it? She may never recover at all, but
+just drag on a miserable existence for years, with no more sense than a
+baby. Such things do happen. And we have to bear all the expense of the
+night nurse, and of medicines, and of extra help in the house, and very
+likely of Dr. Wynne's visits too. We can hardly expect him to give all
+this attention to a mere stranger for nothing, as he does to us.
+
+"But Barbara is infatuated. If I venture a word about expenses, she
+only says, 'It will be all right.'
+
+"'I' should say it would be all wrong. She cares for nothing in life
+just now, except Mary. I believe she will fall ill herself soon with
+over-nursing. And what is the use of it all? Mary is not our own niece.
+She has absolutely no real claim upon us."
+
+Sue had words in her mind about "the claim of helplessness," but she
+lacked courage to bring them forth. Fearing to be laughed at for the
+expression, she kept silence, and then was distressed at her own
+cowardice.
+
+"For my part I am sick of it all," Clara continued pettishly. "I
+don't see why we are to be worried and put out of our way, just for
+the sake of Mary. Barbara is never free now—hardly ever in time for
+meals—and in a perfectly 'distraite' condition when she does vouchsafe
+us half-an-hour of her company. She seems to have no interest to spare
+for anything or anybody outside Mary's room. And I know what it will
+all mean by-and-by. Nothing but scraping and saving and paring, and not
+being able to afford this, that, and the other, for a year to come.
+Besides, when Mary does get better—if she ever does—what is to become
+of her? I hope to goodness she is not to be a permanent member of our
+family."
+
+"I don't see why not," said Sue faintly.
+
+"If you don't, I do. Of course it sounds a charming arrangement, but I
+for one should detest it. I can't endure those soft pretty women, who
+are always looking out for admiration. And suppose the child turns up,
+are we to take both of them in? We may as well decide at once to live
+on bread and water. It is not long since Barbara would have said the
+same, but her ideas seem all upside down. Not that I expect that Rhona
+ever will turn up. I believe the child is dead, and that is what has
+driven Mary out of her mind."
+
+"Oh, don't say that, Clara; it gives such a wrong impression!"
+protested Sue.
+
+"What, saying that Mary is out of her mind? I don't know how else to
+describe it. From the day she came to the house, she hasn't recognised
+a single person, and has scarcely spoken a rational sentence."
+
+"But the first part of the time it was delirium."
+
+"Very much like madness, I should say, and this is very much like
+idiocy. I don't quite know which is the worst. Three weeks and more of
+delirium—"
+
+"Not more," put in Sue softly.
+
+"Yes, more!" Clara reiterated, as if her assertion settled the matter.
+"And since then, as much sense as a baby two months old."
+
+"But, Clara, that is only weakness. Dr. Wynne hopes it will soon pass
+off. He said yesterday that after such an illness, we must expect her
+to live for a time a mere vegetable existence."
+
+"I don't believe Dr. Wynne knows anything about it, nor anybody else
+either," retorted Clara. "No one can tell what brought the illness on.
+And sometimes people's brains are so much affected by illness, that
+they never have their full senses again—never. A nice pickle we shall
+be in, if it turns out so with Mary. I don't see for my part what
+business we have had to take such a burden on ourselves."
+
+Barbara was standing within the door, as the last words were uttered.
+She came with her dignified air to the table, and asked, "What would
+you have wished, Clara? Surely not to turn the poor thing out upon the
+world."
+
+"I don't know what I wish, except to have things as they used to be,"
+Clara answered, with tears in her eyes. "It is all miserable now.
+Nothing goes right; and Sue is my only companion from morning till
+night."
+
+Sue took the implied slight calmly, saying, "I wish I were a better
+nurse that Barbara might be more often free to sit with you."
+
+"I do not wish it," said Barbara. "Clara must not try to draw me from
+my duty."
+
+"Is it our duty?" Clara questioned. "What is Mary to us?"
+
+"She is Arthur's wife—William's daughter—"
+
+"By marriage—"
+
+"Yes; by marriage, of course. And she has thrown herself upon us in her
+helplessness. Could we have refused to take her in?"
+
+Sue's face said, "No."
+
+Clara slightly shrugged her shoulders, and snapped her worsted with a
+harder tug than usual. An impatient exclamation broke from her.
+
+And as she joined the severed ends, Dr. Wynne was announced. He
+entered, hat in hand, an elderly man with silvered hair and placid
+eyes, yet not altogether unlike his son in manner and general contour.
+
+"Good-morning," he said to one, and "How do you do?" to another. After
+a few remarks, there was the usual question, "What about the invalid
+to-day?"
+
+"I think there is a change for the better," said Barbara. "She still
+notices nothing that goes on round her. But twice this morning, she has
+answered a question put to herself."
+
+"Do you think she ever will or can get back her full senses, Dr.
+Wynne?" asked Clara bluntly.
+
+"I have no reason for supposing otherwise," said Dr. Wynne in a laconic
+manner. Clara was not a favourite of his.
+
+"But how long will she be like this?"
+
+"I have not seen her to-day. Miss Mordaunt's report sounds hopeful."
+
+Then, before going upstairs, he mentioned casually the fact that his
+son, Arbuthnot, had been up all night at a fire.
+
+The ladies asked interested questions.
+
+"Arbuthnot was called suddenly, after midnight, to a patient at a
+considerable distance," Dr. Wynne said, "and he came in for this fire
+on his way home. No lives have been sacrificed, happily, but it seems
+to have been a narrow escape with some of the inmates. The fire-escape
+had been called elsewhere, and barely arrived in time. One girl,
+lowered by sheets from a top window, broke her leg; and a gentleman
+dislocated his shoulder—a Colonel, I think my son said. The Colonel's
+little girl was saved too—a pretty child, according to Arbuthnot. He
+sat up with her the rest of the night, fearing the effects of the
+shock."
+
+"So kind of him—just like Mr. Wynne," murmured Sue.
+
+"Well, yes; Arbuthnot is never reluctant to take trouble," said Dr.
+Wynne. "Besides, he is fond of children, and he is a boy still in his
+love of adventure."
+
+"And I suppose there was work for him to do,—broken bones," suggested
+Miss Mordaunt, little dreaming of the close connection which existed
+between herself and the "pretty child" of Dr. Wynne's story.
+
+"He had his share. I saw him go off this morning with a bundle of
+clothes for the child, pretty nearly everything having being lost.
+However, I have really heard very few particulars. Now, Miss Mordaunt,
+if you will kindly let me go upstairs—"
+
+
+They stood soon beside the bed. Rhona would hardly have recognised
+her mother in the wan wasted being, with half-closed dim eyes, and
+transparent powerless fingers. As a rule, during these days of deadly
+weakness, Mary Mordaunt paid no manner of attention to those around,
+and the task of arousing her sufficiently to receive food or medicine
+was a constantly recurring difficulty. Dr. Wynne had truly described
+her state as a mere "vegetable existence." She breathed and lived and
+took nourishment, but all thought and memory seemed to have fled.
+
+This day there was a change. When Dr. Wynne drew up the blind, letting
+a ray of light fall upon the bed, and then bent to examine her face,
+the heavy eyes were lifted to his with an intelligent look, and a faint
+smile parted the white lips.
+
+"Come, that is better. How do you do?" Dr. Wynne said gently, taking
+one of her hands.
+
+"How do you do?" Mary repeated mechanically.
+
+"Not so weak to-day, are you?" asked Dr. Wynne.
+
+Mary watched him, with a puzzled languid look.
+
+"Who is he?" she whispered at length.
+
+"Dr. Wynne," Barbara answered. "Our kind Dr. Wynne, dear, who has been
+to see you every day, for such a long time. You will know him again
+now, I think. And you know me, don't you, Mary?"
+
+The gaze was transferred to Barbara for two seconds.
+
+"Yes," Mary said indifferently.
+
+Dr. Wynne's hand made a silencing gesture, when Barbara would have
+pressed the matter.
+
+Mary sighed, shut her eyes, and gave no more sign of attention through
+the rest of his short visit.
+
+Outside the room Barbara said, "I think one word would rouse her
+now,—the child's name."
+
+Dr. Wynne shook his head. "Too great a risk at present," he said.
+
+"But surely anything would be better than this state?"
+
+"We can hardly say that. There might be more harm than good in such an
+arousing. Remember, if the death of the child has been the direct cause
+of this illness, any agitation connected with the subject might cause a
+relapse. And a relapse now would almost certainly be fatal. No, we must
+be patient a little longer. There is undoubtedly an improvement to-day."
+
+Barbara accompanied him to the front door. As he went down the steps,
+the postman came up, and Barbara received a letter from his hands. She
+hardly glanced at it, being more intent on first telling her sisters
+exactly what Dr. Wynne had said.
+
+"But when Mary is well, where is she to go?" asked Clara.
+
+"Time enough to think about that," Barbara answered. "Our way will be
+made clear."
+
+"It isn't generally made clear as one wishes," said Clara pettishly.
+"Who is that letter for?"
+
+"For me. I do not know the handwriting," Miss Mordaunt said in an
+absent tone; and then her face changed suddenly. "How strange! My last
+letter to Henry returned from India! Not from the Post Office. Somebody
+has enclosed it in an envelope, and written,—look—'Not here—gone some
+months ago.' Extraordinary."
+
+"Odd!" echoed Clara.
+
+Barbara's face showed agitation. "Where can Henry be? He has never
+failed before to give us notice of any permanent change of address. I
+thought he was a fixture in that appointment."
+
+"Nobody is a fixture now in India," said Clara. "Well,—he is a queer
+sort of brother. I suppose he will deign some day to tell us his
+whereabouts. Meantime, we must remain in blissful ignorance."
+
+"Clara, you don't understand," said Barbara, in distress. "It is not
+merely a question of his telling or not telling. Suppose something has
+happened to him. Suppose he has been taken ill, and died suddenly—"
+
+"I wouldn't fancy that. Of course we should have heard," said Clara,
+while Sue looked sorrowful.
+
+"I am not so sure. Who would tell us? Henry's friends are not our
+friends."
+
+"Well, I think we ought to take in a daily paper," said Clara promptly.
+"But as for Henry, I really don't believe there is anything wrong. I
+really don't, Barbara," and she spoke affectionately, wishing to cheer
+her sister.
+
+Clara cared little herself for this almost unknown elder brother. But
+Barbara had been his companion in childish days, and loved him still,
+despite long years of separation and coldness.
+
+"I wouldn't fancy troubles, if I were you. Henry always was an erratic
+being. I dare say he has gone rushing off to Kamschatka or the Cape,
+and has forgotten to leave directions for the forwarding of his
+letters. We shall hear from him by-and-by; and he will count us very
+silly to have supposed that anything was wrong. Couldn't you come out
+for a walk with me this morning, instead of spending all your time in
+Mary's room?"
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+
+A LINK WANTING.
+
+"I DON'T think, for my part, there ever 'was' a woman so badly off
+as me; and I don't care who hears me say it neither," Mrs. Burrell
+declared in aggrieved tones, while her solemn eyes looked more solemn,
+her long thin nose seemed longer and thinner, and the drooping
+mouth-corners hung lower than ever before. "It's no manner of use
+telling me other people have troubles too. Of course they have; and
+what then? I suppose I know about other people as well as you do, for
+the matter of that. Besides, other people don't lose their husbands,
+and have their houses burnt down, and their children's legs broken, and
+everything lost, all of a slap, as one may say. No; it is no use your
+telling me other people are as badly off as me, for I don't believe it."
+
+Neil Burrell had not made the remark imputed to him by his distressed
+aunt, though doubtless he had intended to bring it forth, and probably
+she read it in his face. A telegram from Mrs. Burrell had brought
+him to London the second day after the fire. He found his aunt still
+domiciled under the roof of the hospitable groceress who had first
+received her, dressed in borrowed clothes, and in a condition of
+greater depression over her losses than of thankfulness over her
+safety. Neil had paid a visit of inspection to the melancholy ruins of
+"Number Three," and now sat to condole with his aunt.
+
+"And I always 'shall' say it was a shame of the Colonel to let down
+Hope, poor lamb, knowing as he did she couldn't get safe to the bottom.
+I shall always say it was a shame," reiterated Mrs. Barrel. "Why,
+he wouldn't let Miss Rhona go so; and if it wasn't right for one,
+it wasn't right for the other. If I hadn't been near crazy with the
+fright, I should have stopped her. And now she'll die in hospital, and
+I shall never see her again."
+
+"Oh, I don't think she'll die, aunt," the young man said cheerfully.
+"People don't die of broken legs. You'll soon go and see her, and find
+her better, I don't doubt. There is sure to be regular days for friends
+being admitted."
+
+"And how am I to stay in London, so as to go to her?" demanded Mrs.
+Burrell. "I that have got no home now, and nothing belonging to me. It
+isn't as if my poor husband was alive. There's nobody for me to turn
+to. Why, the very gown on my back isn't my own. 'I' to come to wearing
+charity! I wonder whatever my poor dear husband would have said."
+
+"But it won't be all a dead loss to you, aunt. You've insured well, I
+believe."
+
+"And if I have, what then?" Mrs. Burrell wanted to know. "I suppose the
+money won't come in to-morrow. And how am I to get clothed and fed,
+till it does. I can't take another shop and start it afresh, all in a
+minute. And I'm sure I feel so upset and shaky, I'm fit for nothing,
+and shan't be for weeks. And there's Mr. Powis been in here this
+morning, telling me I ought to be thankful and resigned. It's easy for
+folks to talk. If 'his' house was burnt down, I expect he wouldn't be
+so particularly thankful."
+
+"I don't suppose he meant to say you ought to be thankful for that,
+aunt, only thankful that things are not worse," said Neil. "But there's
+something I want to say—"
+
+He had tried before and failed.
+
+"Worse! How could things be worse?" Mrs. Burrell demanded. "Unless Hope
+had been killed outright; and we don't know yet that she isn't."
+
+"Aunt, I just wanted to say—" began Neil again.
+
+"And the fuss that is made about Bertha," pursued Mrs. Burrell irately.
+"One would think she was the chief person in all London. Dr. Marsden
+going in to see her, and Mr. Wynne asking how she did, and Colonel
+Smyth talking of her bravery. The girl's head will be just turned. I
+don't see for my part what she did so very extraordinary, more than
+other people. She always was quiet. But there! I'm used to ingratitude,
+and I've pretty well given up expecting to be put in my proper place.
+Bertha must look out for herself now. 'I' can't give her a home any
+longer, for I've none to give."
+
+"Good evening, Mrs. Burrell. What were you saying about Bertha?" asked
+Colonel Smyth, at that moment ushered in by Mrs. Burrell's hospitable
+hostess.
+
+"Good evening, sir," Mrs. Burrell said grimly. "I was only just telling
+my nephew, Bertha would have to look out for herself for a bit. Seeing
+I haven't any longer a home of my own, it isn't to be expected I can
+provide a home for her. I'm sorry I have to say it, but—"
+
+"Not at all, not at all! No need to be sorry," said the Colonel.
+"I have had thoughts of proposing to Bertha to become Miss Rhona's
+personal attendant, and I am very well satisfied to learn that she is
+free. We must have somebody, and the child is accustomed to Bertha's
+ways. That will provide for your niece, and will be a satisfactory
+arrangement in every way,—supposing she is willing. We shall probably
+leave London in a day or two for the west of England, and Bertha can
+accompany us."
+
+Mrs. Burrell's face expressed the reverse of gratification.
+
+"So that matter is easily settled," pursued the Colonel. "I was afraid
+you might not wish to part with her. Now I can broach the subject
+without delay. Bertha is with Miss Rhona at this moment, I believe."
+
+"I don't know as I should altogether say Bertha was fit to be a lady's
+maid," remarked Mrs. Burrell.
+
+"A lady's maid!" Colonel Smyth laughed. "I dare say not! My little girl
+hardly requires a full-blown lady's maid yet. Bertha is thoughtful and
+dependable, and the child likes her. I'm not at all afraid that she
+won't do. How are you going to dispose of yourself, Mrs. Burrell?"
+
+"That's just what I wanted to say," broke in Neil. "I have been trying
+again and again, but I couldn't get her to listen. Aunt, it 'll make
+Nannie and me as proud and pleased as can be, if you'll come and stay
+in my cottage for a few weeks, till you've had time to look about you,
+and see what to do next. I don't pretend it's anything much of a place,
+but I know it is clean, and Nannie will do her very best to make you
+comfortable,—that I'm sure of. When Hope is better, she can come and
+share your room, if you haven't settled plans by then. I had a mind to
+propose Bertha coming too, but it seems she's provided for."
+
+Neil looked regretful, and Mrs. Burrell suddenly resolved to further
+the Colonel's proposal. She did not wish Bertha to become an inmate of
+Neil's little house.
+
+"I don't mean to say, sir, that there is anything against Bertha,"
+she remarked, turning to the Colonel, and forgetting that she had not
+thanked Neil for his generous offer. "Bertha isn't fit, to be sure,
+for a fine lady's maid, but, as you say, it's not that you want, sir.
+Bertha is willing enough, and never fails to do her best; and she
+thinks there's nobody in the world like Miss Rhona. She'll be glad
+enough, I don't doubt; and if she wasn't, I'd soon make her."
+
+"Thanks, but you may as well leave the matter to me," responded the
+Colonel curtly.
+
+And Neil asked, "Will you come, aunt?"
+
+Mrs. Burrell's gratitude, if tardy in expression, was sincere.
+
+Colonel Smyth left soon, signing to Neil to follow him. Outside the
+door, he thrust a slip of folded paper into the young man's hand,
+saying, "Don't think this a liberty, but you will be at some expense
+with Mrs. Burrell. Use it any way you like for her,—no need to say
+anything. I gave her a five-pound note this morning, to cover what
+might be due for my rooms or Miss Rhona's."
+
+Colonel Smyth strode away, and Neil found himself in the possession of
+a ten-pound Bank of England note.
+
+
+"I like that Mr. Wynne so much. He is nice," said Rhona, an hour later.
+
+She was on a little couch near the fire, dressed in borrowed clothes
+which did not fit her well, and the small slight figure seemed slighter
+than ever. The nervous excitement of the previous day had given place
+to weakness and lassitude, but she still suffered from fits of sudden
+terror if left alone.
+
+"Yes, he is very nice," said Colonel Smyth, who had just come into the
+drawing-room, looking well and vigorous, despite bandaged shoulder and
+arm in sling.
+
+On his entrance, Mrs. Montague went away, and the Colonel took a seat
+close to the child.
+
+"Yes, Mr. Wynne is very nice," repeated Colonel Smyth thoughtfully.
+"But I am seriously meditating how you and I shall get away from him."
+
+"Get away from Mr. Wynne," said Rhona in astonishment.
+
+"Yes,—elude him, in fact," said the Colonel, watching her expression.
+"I am thinking of taking you first to Bath, and then—somewhere else."
+
+"I know what 'elude' means," said Rhona soberly. "But Mr. Wynne won't
+come after us."
+
+"Well, perhaps not," said the Colonel.
+
+Then both were silent. Some other idea, foreign to the subject in hand,
+seemed to have possession of Rhona's mind. A wave of colour rushed
+suddenly over her face.
+
+"Uncle, may I ask something?"
+
+"Anything in the world, my little dear."
+
+"I thought I heard you tell Mrs. Montague that I must have a new
+frock," said the child in a low voice.
+
+"More than one," said the Colonel lightly. "As many frocks as you like,
+Rhona. We'll get one here to start with, and then you shall choose
+in Bath anything that takes your fancy,—pink and blue and green and
+all sorts. Somebody is coming from a shop to-morrow morning to take
+orders. Mrs. Montague would not have you bothered about it to-day.
+But of course we have to get a whole new wardrobe for you—hats and
+bonnets, and boots and shoes, and—and—pelisses and capes,—and in fact
+everything."
+
+"I don't think I want a great many new frocks," said Rhona gently. "And
+I haven't left off black, you know, for father!" The Colonel had lost
+sight of this fact, and was rather staggered. "Please," continued the
+child, with a manifest effort, "please, uncle, may there be a little
+bit of crape on my frock? Because—because—"
+
+"There, there, my pet, don't cry," the Colonel said, stooping with his
+newly-found tenderness to kiss away two heavy tears. "I am a stupid old
+fellow, and I forgot you were in mourning still. But you shall have
+anything in the world that you wish, only don't cry."
+
+"I should like to have some crape on my frock," said Rhona sadly.
+"People all do, and I haven't yet. And I think—I think—now—I'm
+afraid—mother can't be coming back—"
+
+Colonel Smyth thought the same. He was unable to contradict her.
+
+"I know I oughtn't to be too sorry," sobbed the child, breaking into
+irrepressible weeping. "And I do try, I do try to be good. But oh, I do
+want so to see her again—just once—only once."
+
+Colonel Smyth always felt himself at a loss when this trouble came up
+prominently. He was aware of the kind of comfort which she needed; and
+he was aware also of his own inability to give it, further than in a
+very vague and superficial manner. Kind words and touches were all that
+he usually attempted on these occasions.
+
+"You won't feel it so acutely by-and-by, my poor little one," he said
+presently, finding her grief not easy to soothe. But this caused such
+heartbroken sobbing that he speedily regretted the utterance. "Why,
+Rhona, Rhona!" he said almost reproachfully. "What has come over my
+little darling to-day? Don't you love your old uncle still?"
+
+"Oh yes, yes," Rhona answered, with bitter tears. "But I do so want
+mother,—I do so want mother. I don't know how to get on without her. If
+I only could see her again, just for one minute,—only one minute."
+
+"Rhona, do you know you are making me very unhappy?" said the Colonel,
+stooping over her. "If I knew how to take better care of my little pet,
+things would be different."
+
+"No, no; it isn't that," cried Rhona almost passionately. "I love you
+dearly, and I always shall, and you are so, so good to me. But you
+aren't mother. Nobody can be mother. I wouldn't be naughty if I could
+help it, but oh, I do want mother to-night."
+
+Then, as she buried her face in the sofa-cushion, trying to smother the
+sobs, he heard her moan brokenly,—"Mother—mother—do come—O mother! I do
+want somebody—somebody—to teach me—"
+
+Colonel Smyth listened, and could make out no more. "What is it you
+want, Rhona?" he asked.
+
+She had evidently spoken her thought unconsciously, and was startled at
+the question.
+
+"Somebody to teach you what, my dear?" he went on.
+
+Rhona gave him one hasty look with full eyes, and hid her face anew.
+"I didn't mean to say it," she sobbed. "Nobody ever speaks to me
+now—about—about Jesus—and mother always did. I do want mother to-night."
+
+A pause followed, somewhat perplexed on the part of the Colonel. Tears
+seemed to be lessening; and for once, it was almost a relief to him to
+note the signs of pain, which would render her unfit for conversation.
+Sobs gradually came to an end, and Rhona lay back patiently, with
+closed eyes and drawn brows, one of her little hands clutching the back
+of the sofa.
+
+But as the Colonel remained silent, she looked up at him with a
+frightened expression, and said—"Don't be angry, please."
+
+"My dear, I am not angry," said Colonel Smyth.
+
+"I didn't mean to say that. Oh, don't be angry,—please, please don't."
+
+"I am not angry, Rhona, not the very least, I assure you," said Colonel
+Smyth, stooping down to kiss her. "It is much best that you should say
+what is in your mind. There is nothing to be angry about. But I don't
+exactly understand why you wish to be spoken to about things that you
+are already well acquainted with," the Colonel said in a measured
+manner, as if he were counting out his words. "You are always a good
+little girl."
+
+"Oh no, not lately. I've been getting all wrong, and mother would help
+me—"
+
+"Well, well, I can only say I have not seen it," said the Colonel. "You
+shall tell me another day what you have done that is so wrong."
+
+"It isn't doing. I don't feel rightly," said the child in a low voice:
+and again she repeated, "Mother would know."
+
+"I am afraid I can't promise to talk to you like your mother, Rhona.
+You see I was differently brought up, and—in fact, it is not my way.
+But if there is anything I can do, that you would like, such as—such as
+reading to you, for instance—"
+
+"Mother always read the Bible to me every evening," said Rhona
+wistfully. "And sometimes a hymn."
+
+It cost the gallant Colonel much more of a struggle than might be
+supposed, to answer,—
+
+"I'll do that, if you think it will make you happier."
+
+Rhona accepted the offer unhesitatingly; and evidently without a
+question in her mind as to his willingness.
+
+"Before I go to bed?" she asked.
+
+"Yes, if you like, my dear," said the Colonel, with internal reluctance.
+
+"Mother always talked to me and explained," said Rhona.
+
+A bright idea struck the Colonel. "I couldn't possibly do that, my
+little girl, but you shall tell me what your mother used to say, and
+that will keep her teaching in your mind." Then to avoid further
+awkward suggestions, he said hurriedly,—"Come now, don't you want to
+know why you and I are going to run away from Mr. Wynne?"
+
+"Is going to Bath running away?" asked the child languidly.
+
+"Well, yes, in a sense,—if our object is to avoid him."
+
+"But I don't see why you want to avoid him, uncle."
+
+"That is what I have to explain. There are two doctors, named
+Wynne,—this young Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, and his father, Dr. Henry Wynne.
+They live together in a house which happens to be very near to those
+three aunts of your father's, who were such a trouble to you some
+months ago. Well—it happens that once upon a time, I knew Dr. Henry
+Wynne very well, and if I saw him, he would recognise me directly. Then
+of course, he would mention having seen me to my—ahem, to those good
+aunts of yours, the Miss Mordaunts. And that might bring them here,
+and then they would see you. Indeed, it is an event—their seeing you,
+I mean—which might come about any day, apart from an encounter between
+Dr. Wynne and myself. If our friend, the doctor, happened to meet the
+Miss Mordaunts, and happened to mention you by name—"
+
+Rhona's eyes were strained and intent, as she drank in every word. And
+before he came to a pause, she was trembling like an aspen leaf. "Oh,
+take me away,—please take me away!" she entreated.
+
+"There's nothing to be frightened about, my little girl. I'll undertake
+to protect you against all the aunts that ever existed. But perhaps you
+don't care to see them just yet."
+
+"No, no, please,—they wouldn't let me stay with you." Rhona looked
+positively blue with terror.
+
+"Don't be afraid," repeated the Colonel. "You are my little girl now,
+not theirs. But I don't think you would be any the better for having
+them in and out, at present. So you and I will go straight to Bath,
+the day after to-morrow—if you can have a new frock so soon. And when
+we are at Bath, we will settle what to do next. What do you say to
+the country—real thorough country, with any amount of fields and wild
+flowers? Yes, I see by your face that will do. And I have just settled
+with Bertha that she shall come with us, as your maid, to take care of
+you. You like Bertha, I know—and when I have to be out, I shall be able
+to leave you with her safely."
+
+Rhona's eyes sparkled. "O uncle, how lovely! I did dread losing that
+nice dear Bertha. And now Mrs. Burrell won't be able to scold her any
+more. And I do love the country."
+
+"So I imagined. Now it is all settled, and you must go to sleep," said
+the Colonel, with his caressing air. "Shut your eyes, little one."
+
+"I can't think why you are so kind," Rhona whispered, as she obeyed.
+
+
+A connecting chain hung at this moment between Rhona and her mother,
+almost complete. One middle link alone was wanting.
+
+Dr. Wynne, daily attending Mary Mordaunt, knew the outline of her
+story, knew about the child whose position was a problem in the
+Mordaunt household, and knew the child's name to be "Rhona."
+
+Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, on the other hand, had accidentally come across
+Colonel Smyth and Rhona, and had seen much of them during three or
+four days. He knew Rhona's Christian name, but not her surname, for
+the Colonel had evaded an inquiry on this point, and delicacy withheld
+Mr. Wynne from pressing the matter further. He also knew Rhona to
+be the Colonel's adopted child, and believed her to be at least no
+near relation. He was a little perplexed as to the real connection,
+certain words having dropped from the Colonel rather at variance with
+an assertion of Rhona's. The doctor had, moreover, heard that Rhona's
+mother was supposed to have been drowned. He gathered altogether that
+some slight mystery existed, in connection with the Colonel, with
+Rhona, or with both.
+
+The one link wanting to complete the chain which might have brought
+mother and daughter together again, was that Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne
+mention little Rhona by name to his father, that Dr. Wynne's attention
+should be arrested by the said name, and that through a few natural
+inquiries, the whereabouts of Mary Mordaunt's child should be revealed
+to the aunts.
+
+But this link was not yet supplied. It happened that those few days
+were exceedingly busy ones to both the older and the younger medical
+man. They scarcely met even at meals, and exchanged few words except
+on business. Moreover Colonel Smyth's evident reserve as to his own
+affairs and evident wish not to be seen or recognised by Dr. Wynne,
+rendered Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne doubly cautious in speaking about him.
+
+Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne was much less intimate than his father with the
+Miss Mordaunts. He had been acquainted with them all his life, but the
+acquaintance had never ripened into friendship. General particulars as
+to the appearance, disappearance, and reappearance of Mary Mordaunt
+had reached him. If, however, he knew vaguely that there was a child
+in the question, he did not know the child's name, and "Rhona" was a
+word which called up no associations in his mind. He had not seen Mary
+Mordaunt, during her brief former stay, near the Miss Mordaunts; and
+her story as a whole had made no particular impression on him. Dr.
+Wynne, not Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, was the family physician at Number
+Three, Winifred Place.
+
+That the link should have remained long unsupplied was, under existing
+circumstances, hardly possible. Only three days after the fire,
+however, Colonel Smyth announced his intention of proceeding within
+twenty-four hours to the west of England. "Bath first,—then either
+sea-side or country," he said. Sufficient wearing apparel for the
+journey would arrive, according to promise, that same evening, and "the
+sooner they could be off, the better."
+
+Mr. Wynne, though rather astonished, had no objections to offer.
+Colonel Smyth's shoulder was doing as well as could be wished, and
+medical advice if required could be readily obtained in Bath. Rhona
+was still shaken and poorly, but change of air and of scene might be
+the best possible remedies for her overstrained nerves. So the matter
+was speedily settled. Mr. Wynne had again a curious consciousness that
+the Colonel wished to avoid further intercourse with himself and his
+father; yet he would have found it difficult to give a reason for the
+feeling.
+
+Mrs. Montague had insisted on the Colonel and the child remaining in
+her house during these three days, though perhaps the nearness of No.
+3, Albert Terrace, was hardly desirable for Rhona. Mrs. Burrell had
+already gone to pay a long visit to Neil and his sister. Hope, still in
+hospital, seemed to be doing well.
+
+Bertha was now installed as Rhona's attendant upon liberal wages, five
+pounds of which were paid her in advance by the Colonel for immediate
+necessities. The fire, causing this change of condition, had opened out
+a new vista of happiness to poor Bertha.
+
+Hannah Hoskyns, believed to have been the unfortunate cause of the
+fire, had been sent home without a character, bitterly abused by her
+former mistress.
+
+
+About ten days after the disappearance of Colonel Smyth, with Rhona
+and Bertha, from the neighbourhood of London, the elder Dr. Wynne was
+suddenly laid aside by a sharp attack of bronchitis. He had been an
+unusually healthy and vigorous man hitherto, but for once he was forced
+to succumb, and his busy son had to fill the place of two as best he
+might.
+
+Therefore, it came to pass that at the hour when Dr. Wynne usually
+dropped in to see Mary Mordaunt, not Dr. Wynne but Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne
+appeared.
+
+He was slightly apologetic, being well aware that the ladies of "No. 3,
+Winifred Place" objected to his comparative youth.
+
+"Yourself, please,—not your son!" Miss Mordaunt had been known to say
+majestically to the elder doctor, when on one occasion, being severely
+pressed with work, he had ventured to send Arbuthnot in his stead. But
+this day there was no choice, Dr. Wynne being a prisoner to his room,
+voiceless and almost breathless.
+
+"Really I am very sorry about Dr. Wynne, very sorry indeed," Miss
+Mordaunt said. "He seemed the day before yesterday to be rather unwell;
+and yesterday, as he did not come, I feared his cold might be worse.
+One never expects Dr. Wynne to give in, but of course he must not run
+risks. Do you think he might be able to come to-morrow? One day more
+would not perhaps signify, and as he has watched the case all through—"
+
+Arbuthnot Wynne knew his father to be in for at least a week's
+imprisonment, and suggested that it might be hardly wise to leave the
+invalid so long.
+
+"No, certainly not,—though she seems better,—I could not undertake the
+responsibility. I am only afraid she may not like a stranger about her.
+But please come upstairs. I know your time is valuable just now. I hope
+Mary will not be startled."
+
+She preceded him upstairs, and opened the bedroom door.
+
+When they entered, it was Mr. Wynne who started, not Mary Mordaunt.
+
+That face! He knew it immediately, recognising at a glance its
+marvellous likeness to the fair little face he had seen less than a
+fortnight earlier. Frail and wan, transparent and nerveless, as this
+young creature was, he could not mistake the resemblance. The same
+broad brow, only not quite so full and intellectual, the same delicate
+outline of feature: only sharpened by illness; the same large dark
+eyes, only heavy and dim.
+
+Beyond one slight start, he did not betray himself. But when he took
+her hand, and asked how she was, she lifted her eyes to his, with a
+look of indescribable bewilderment and sadness, muttering confusedly,
+"Rhona! My little Rhona! My child Rhona!" And again he found difficulty
+in controlling his surprise.
+
+Mary Mordaunt was slowly waking up from her impassive and enfeebled
+condition. And during the last few days, the name of Rhona had been on
+her lips. As yet, however, nothing fell from her which might afford any
+clue to the truth about the missing child. And Dr. Wynne, at his last
+visit, had still forbidden any direct attempt to find out particulars
+from the invalid.
+
+So Barbara was not a little dismayed to hear Mr. Wynne ask quietly, "Is
+Rhona your child, Mrs. Mordaunt?"
+
+"Mr. Wynne, will you kindly come here for a moment," she said hastily,
+moving towards the bow-window, with a somewhat imperative sign to him
+to follow her. Miss Mordaunt had known Arbuthnot Wynne as a schoolboy,
+and she never lost sight of this fact.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+
+RESTORED HOPE.
+
+"YOUR father does not seem to have explained—" Barbara breathed in an
+undertone, as she stood facing Arbuthnot Wynne in the bow-window. "I
+thought he would have done so. If I had not been taken by surprise at
+your coming, I would have told you more myself."
+
+"My father is hardly in a condition to speak much this morning," said
+Mr. Wynne.
+
+"But you are surely acquainted with general particulars? No fear!"—as
+he glanced towards the bed. "I am speaking low, but it would be just
+the same if I spoke loudly. Mary hears nothing and heeds nothing,
+except what is immediately addressed to her. She has been in this state
+for weeks, ever since the delirium left her. It is an extraordinary
+state, almost as if she had been stunned, and could not rally. I cannot
+get your father to say what he thinks, except that matters will improve
+as she grows stronger. But he will not allow us to put any questions to
+my niece."
+
+"No questions!" said her listener.
+
+"I mean, on that point, about the child! You know of course that
+there was a child, her only one. When she left this neighbourhood
+before Christmas, in a fit of vexation at a plan of my proposing—poor
+Mary!—she took the little girl with her. We heard no more of either
+of them, till she came back, alone, and so ill as to be unable to
+speak rationally. For weeks, she never mentioned the child except in
+delirium, and then quite incoherently. It is only the last few days
+that she has begun to speak of her with any appearance of sense. The
+day before yesterday, Dr. Wynne told us to do nothing until he should
+come again; and yesterday, as you know, he was unable to pay his visit.
+I am very much perplexed. It seems as if we ought to make use of this
+opportunity to discover more about the child,—and yet—if it would do
+harm to my niece—"
+
+"I think you had better let me see how she is," said Mr. Wynne.
+
+"Yes, certainly. But it is not as if you had been with her all
+through," said Barbara dubiously.
+
+Mr. Wynne's "Yes" was rather mechanical than assenting. "And the
+child's name is Rhona?" he said in a dreamy manner.
+
+Unexpectedly, there came a muttered echo from the bed,—"Rhona! My
+little Rhona!" as if in response.
+
+"We have to avoid saying that name in her hearing," said Barbara
+softly. "It is the one thing she notices now, and the one thing which
+excites her."
+
+"The child is—how old?" asked Mr. Wynne.
+
+"About nine years old."
+
+"Like the mother?"
+
+"Some say so. I do not think so much of the likeness myself, though
+certainly the eyes and general outline are much the same. I never saw a
+sweeter child. Poor little thing! It is sad if she has been thrown upon
+strangers all this time. But our fear is that she has died, and that
+her death has caused this illness. I must not take up your time, only
+I am sure you will be cautious. Dr. Wynne is so very much afraid of a
+relapse."
+
+Arbuthnot Wynne went back to the bedside thoughtfully. He could feel
+no doubt in his own mind as to the identity of the two Rhonas. At this
+moment, he was so completely occupied with the endeavour to unravel the
+perplexities of Colonel Smyth's conduct, that it actually did not occur
+to him to tell Miss Mordaunt there and then his belief that the child
+was found; neither did her last words reach his understanding.
+
+Could Colonel Smyth have known that Rhona's mother lay ill at No. 3,
+Winifred Place? Did he wish deliberately to keep mother and child
+apart? Was his conduct governed by a dread of losing the child, a
+determination to keep her to himself at all hazards? These thoughts
+flashed like lightning through the young doctor's brain, as he passed
+from window to bed. Barbara saw only a slow step and absent manner. She
+wished, with a touch of impatience, that Arbuthnot Wynne were more like
+his father.
+
+The usual questions were asked, Mary paying no heed to the questioner.
+But as he stood somewhat long, watch in hand, examining her pulse,
+she moved restlessly, and lifted her eyes again, with a pleading
+mutter—"Rhona! My little Rhona."
+
+Arbuthnot Wynne restored the watch to his pocket, and said
+composedly—"Rhona is well, Mrs. Mordaunt, I believe."
+
+Barbara was horrified, and vainly strove to catch the doctor's eye.
+He was looking steadily at Mary Mordaunt, and she returned the gaze
+pitifully, wistfully, as if struggling to see through a fog.
+
+"My little Rhona?" she repeated.
+
+"Yes, your own little Rhona," responded Mr. Wynne. "She is coming to
+you by-and-by."
+
+Mary's eyes brightened slowly into such intelligence, as had not been
+seen in them once since her arrival at Winifred Place. "Rhona is
+coming! My own little Rhona! O aunt Barbara! Do you hear?"
+
+Barbara stood rigidly irresponsive and cold.
+
+"By-and-by," repeated Mr. Wynne, in the same quiet yet cheerful voice,
+and he gently patted Mary's hand. "You must get a little stronger, and
+then you will be fit to see her."
+
+"Dear little Rhona! My own little darling!" murmured Mary, with some
+agitation.
+
+"Yes, dear little Rhona. She is a sweet little girl," said Mr. Wynne
+soothingly. "So like you in face."
+
+Mary absolutely smiled. "So like—everybody said."
+
+"No one could help seeing the likeness," Mr. Wynne answered.
+
+"Will she come to me soon—soon?" asked Mary.
+
+"Very soon, I hope. Rhona has gone into the country, with kind friends,
+for change of air. You will like to see your dear little girl come
+back, looking rosy and well. Children love the country," said Mr.
+Wynne, speaking rather monotonously, and appearing unconscious of
+Barbara's distressed endeavours to beckon him away.
+
+"Rhona loves the country," echoed Mary. Then a perplexed expression
+came over her face, and she murmured—"Friends! Friends!"
+
+Mr. Wynne dared not risk a mention of Colonel Smyth, unknowing what
+associations she might have with the name. "Very kind friends," he
+said. "Everybody loves little Rhona."
+
+Mary's troubled look continued. She was evidently more awake to past
+and present than she had yet been, but some sad dread or bewilderment
+hung about her still. The wistful dark eyes seemed searching for more
+information.
+
+"I thought—I thought—" she muttered confusedly. "I can't
+remember—but—I—I thought—"
+
+Mr. Wynne's hand was on her wrist again. "Never mind. It will all come
+back by-and-by," he said. "Try to lie quiet now, and think of little
+Rhona playing among the daisies."
+
+"The daisies!" And there was another smile. Then with a start and
+moan—"But Rhona—Rhona—they said she was dead. I heard them say my
+little Rhona was dead."
+
+"You heard wrongly. Rhona is not dead."
+
+Mary looked at him in a half-wild manner, singularly contrasting with
+her late torpidity. "But they said she was dead, and I could not bear
+it,—I could not wake up to life again. If Rhona is dead, I want to die
+too."
+
+"No," Mr. Wynne said gravely, "you would not wish that. You would wish
+to live and to serve God. But your little Rhona is not dead."
+
+"Where is she?" Mary asked.
+
+"She has gone into the country with friends. She is not at Mrs.
+Burrell's any longer," said Mr. Wynne.
+
+"Mrs. Burrell!" Mary evidently recognised the name, though her memory
+was confused. "Oh yes,—Mrs. Burrell."
+
+"Rhona is not there any longer," said Mr. Wynne, his last remnants of
+doubt as to the truth of his conjecture entirely dissipated. "She has
+been taken into the country for change of air that she may become rosy
+and strong. You will be content to wait a little while, until she can
+come back to you."
+
+"Oh yes,—I can wait now. My little darling!" murmured Mary, and she
+smiled peacefully. "My own little Rhona."
+
+She lay whispering—"Rhona! Sweet Rhona!" for some seconds, till her
+eyes seemed to close of themselves, and she sank into such a calm and
+natural sleep as she had not enjoyed since the beginning of her illness.
+
+Mr. Wynne stood silently watching her, till that stage was reached; and
+then he turned to leave.
+
+Barbara, listening to all this, was utterly aghast. She really credited
+Arbuthnot Wynne with inventing a pretty little fiction for the purpose
+of temporarily cheering the invalid, and all her righteous indignation
+was aflame.
+
+Leading him downstairs into the drawing-room, she shut the door, turned
+herself about, and broke into the ejaculation—"How you 'could!'"
+
+Mr. Wynne faced her with the slightest possible smile, and made no
+answer.
+
+"How you could!" repeated Barbara.
+
+"I beg your pardon. Could what?"
+
+"Could raise false hopes,—could lead her to believe that we know what
+we do not know. But I must undeceive her at all risks. I can never lend
+myself to such a plan. Your father would never—"
+
+"My father is perhaps not acquainted with certain facts—"
+
+"I assure you he is. I have informed him of every particular. Do you
+know that you may have done irreparable harm?" said Barbara, much
+excited and alarmed. "Your father has been so anxious that her thoughts
+should not be turned in the direction of the child, at least until we
+can be assured that she is still living. And now you have led her to
+expect to see Rhona again almost immediately. It will be impossible to
+quiet her down."
+
+"By-and-by, I said."
+
+"But you promised it. You undertook to say that Rhona would come. And
+we do not even know whether the child is alive. I suppose you were
+playing upon words when you said she was not dead,—but however true in
+one sense of those who are in heaven, that certainly is not the sense
+which you have conveyed to Mary. Poor dear Mary! I cannot imagine what
+I shall say when she questions me, as she is sure to do, now you have
+thoroughly aroused her. Excuse me, Mr. Wynne, but you are young, and I
+do think that if you had simply followed out your father's plans with
+my niece, it would have been wiser—would have been more seemly. I have
+no more to say, except that I at least cannot pretend what I do not
+know to be true."
+
+"Neither could I!" said Mr. Wynne, apparently content that Barbara's
+remarks should enjoy full swing before he made his own explanation.
+
+"But—pardon me—I think you have done so."
+
+"You are supposing too hastily that I have no reason for my line of
+action," said Mr. Wynne gravely. "What will you say, when I tell you
+that I not only suppose, but have the fullest conviction, that little
+Rhona is at this moment alive and well,—that only a few days ago I
+actually held her in my arms?"
+
+Miss Mordaunt looked at him in bewilderment. Was he trying to take her
+in also?
+
+"Well?" he said, unable to help smiling.
+
+"But why—why not speak sooner—if you have really known this?"
+
+"I did not know it."
+
+"Did not know, and yet you profess to have seen Rhona, to have held
+her in your arms. You are pleased to speak in enigmas," said Barbara
+impatiently.
+
+"You shall have plain English. Did my father happen to mention to you,
+rather more than a fortnight ago, a bad fire which took place one
+night, at which I was present? Several people were saved, including a
+little girl."
+
+A light flashed into Barbara's mind. "Yes, yes," she said eagerly. "Of
+course I remember. And that child—"
+
+"Was named Rhona. I carried her from the spot myself, when she
+was brought down the fire-escape. A pretty little dark-eyed girl,
+about eight or nine years old seemingly,—the adopted child of a
+Colonel Smyth, living in the same house. They were lodgers at a Mrs.
+Burrell's,—and you may have observed just now that the name 'Burrell'
+was familiar to Mrs. Mordaunt."
+
+"I could not think what you meant," Barbara said.
+
+"You had not the clue; and it was hardly possible to explain all this
+in Mrs. Mordaunt's presence."
+
+"And the child's name was Rhona—Rhona Mordaunt?"
+
+"The name of the child was Rhona. I can say nothing as to the surname.
+'Mordaunt' would of course have arrested my intention at once, but I
+had no associations with 'Rhona.' Till within the last half-hour, I had
+no idea that your little missing niece was named Rhona. It may seem
+strange to you, Miss Mordaunt, but so it is. As to the surname, Colonel
+Smyth twice evaded inquiries—so distinctly that I could not ask again.
+The relationship between him and the child puzzled me a good deal."
+
+"But he could not have adopted her long. Did he profess to be a near
+relative?"
+
+Mr. Wynne shook his head. "The matter seemed to be in a state of
+entanglement. Rhona called him 'uncle,' but told me once plainly that
+he was not her uncle. On the other hand, Colonel Smyth once spoke to
+me in a manner which certainly implied that she was his great-niece.
+Colonel Smyth had dislocated his shoulder, and Rhona was suffering from
+the night-alarm. I attended them both for three or four days. Then the
+Colonel started off with his little charge to Bath, saying that he
+meant to take her afterwards into the country for thorough change. So
+my assertions upstairs were strictly true."
+
+"I beg your pardon for having doubted you. But, Mr. Wynne, suppose
+after all it were not our little Rhona? Suppose she proved after all to
+be another child of the same name?"
+
+"I hardly think such an outcome of the affair possible. My old friend,
+Mrs. Montague, who sheltered them after the fire, told me a few more
+particulars, which I noticed little at the time, though now they seem
+important. The little Rhona's mother, a pretty young widow, was at the
+lodgings with the child until after Christmas,—how long after I cannot
+say. Mrs. Montague often saw her going to and from her daily work as
+governess. One very foggy day, she disappeared, and she was believed to
+have been drowned in a neighbouring canal. They say a body was found,
+sufficiently resembling her. But the matter seems to have been clothed
+in mystery. Since then, Mrs. Montague has frequently seen the Colonel
+and the child walk out together. I believe she took it for granted that
+he was her grandfather. People may live almost next-door to one another
+in London, yet know strangely little of each other's circumstances."
+
+"Extraordinary!" Miss Mordaunt said repeatedly during this narration.
+Her remark at the end was, "Yes, true, but women have generally more
+curiosity than men. Would not your friend at least know whether the
+mother's name was Mordaunt?"
+
+"She might, probably. I did not hear her mention it."
+
+"And you made no attempt to find out, from her or from other people?
+The landlady, for instance."
+
+"I am not a woman," said Arbuthnot Wynne, with a half-smile. "I
+hardly exchanged a dozen words with Mrs. Burrell; and the child was
+always spoken of as 'Rhona' or as 'Miss Rhona.' No, I made no effort
+to discover anything further. It was not my business, and I avoided
+asking questions, since the Colonel evidently did not wish me to be
+enlightened. You must remember that I did not dream of the child's
+connection with you. Nor did I, till the last, expect to lose sight of
+them so soon."
+
+"Well, we must write immediately to this Colonel Smyth. I must write,"
+said Barbara.
+
+"Of course I could make inquiries now of Mrs. Montague and of others in
+the neighbourhood," said Arbuthnot Wynne thoughtfully. "Mrs. Burrell
+has left London, but her address would probably be known to some of
+her acquaintances. Yes, we must communicate with Colonel Smyth, if
+possible. But there lies the difficulty. He gave me the name of the
+hotel in Bath to which he was going ten days ago."
+
+"Would he not be there still?"
+
+"Hardly. He spoke of remaining in or near Bath three or four days."
+
+"And that was ten days ago! But letters would be forwarded after him.
+If we could find the child, it would put fresh life into Mary. What a
+mercy that you came in to-day! We might not have found out about Rhona
+for months."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+
+ABOUT THE AUNTS.
+
+"WHAT are you looking so grave about, my little girl?" asked Colonel
+Smyth.
+
+About a fortnight had passed since the journey from London to Bath. It
+seemed a natural thing now, to Colonel Smyth, having a child and her
+maid as part of his "impedimenta."
+
+They had spent five or six days in Bath, shopping vigorously. The
+Colonel had taken Rhona to the best shops in and about Milsom Street,
+allowing her such a choice of pretty things as she had never enjoyed
+in her life before. He was anxious to interest her, to draw off her
+attention from sad recollections. And it was not in child-nature not
+to be charmed. Rhona took the matter with a certain outward placidity
+natural to her, but enjoyment if subdued was genuine.
+
+Dress interested her least. She was bent upon having a due amount
+of crape upon her new black frocks, and enforced the same with sad
+earnestness. That once settled, the possession of clothes seemed to
+come to her as a thing of course; only she showed herself solicitous
+that the Colonel should not spend too much, amusing him greatly thereby.
+
+"Not that, please; it is very nice, but it is too expensive," she
+would say in her gentle way, when goods were spread upon the draper's
+counter, or when hats and bonnets were pulled forth by the milliner.
+
+"Not a penny too much, my dear!" the Colonel would answer, and the
+"expensive" article was at once chosen.
+
+Rhona thanked him always, though with a doubtful look.
+
+But when he led her into a large fancy warehouse, and desired
+her to select what she would in the way of desk and work-box and
+travelling-bag, her eyes did shine,—not only then, but during hours
+after, while unweariedly examining the intricate fittings of her new
+morocco, rosewood, and leather possessions. Finding the plan so far
+successful, Colonel Smyth followed it up perseveringly.
+
+Next day he had her at a jeweller's, for the choice of a little silver
+brooch, locket and chain. The morning after, their destination was a
+bookseller's, where he presented her with a Turkey-morocco bound Bible,
+and a Church Service to match. That day's work transcended all, in
+Rhona's opinion. Her childish delight in her new treasures was a pretty
+sight, and it did the Colonel's heart good.
+
+Yet even at her brightest, a shadow would often sweep over the
+sweet face, and if the Colonel asked,—"What now, Rhona?" the answer
+invariably was, "Mother would be so pleased! If only mother could see
+them all!"
+
+They had remained two nights in their first Bath hotel, moving then to
+a second, with no expressed reason on the part of Colonel Smyth. He
+resolved next to give Rhona a week or two of sea breezes, before trying
+the effects of country air, and took her straight to Ilfracombe.
+
+A new vista of delight opened there before the child's wondering
+eyes. She had never yet tasted the charms of English sea-shore life.
+Hours were spent in scrambling over the rocks and up the hills, with
+the Colonel. Happily for her, he loved walking, and as her powers of
+exertion increased, she could never have too much of it. At first,
+every effort wearied her, but before the close of one week, a marked
+change had taken place, shown by increase of colour and appetite.
+Colonel Smyth had never seen her look so well. His devotion to the
+child grew daily, till at length he was scarcely happy to have her out
+of his sight; and his love was abundantly returned.
+
+More than a week of fine weather was succeeded by high winds and
+drenching rain, rendering it impossible for Rhona to go out. Two days
+of imprisonment passed cheerily enough, filled up with arrangements of
+shells and seaweeds collected during hours of sunshine.
+
+On the third afternoon, Colonel Smyth left her busied over
+glove-mending,—Bertha as usual sitting with her during his absence.
+He was gone longer than he intended. On his return, the gloves were
+forsaken, and Rhona sat alone in the window, looking out with sorrowful
+intentness at the sea. The voice with which she greeted him told of
+some hidden distress.
+
+He was soon beside her, taking her small hand in his, and asking—"What
+are you so grave about, my little girl?"
+
+"Oh, I'm only—thinking," said Rhona, with one of her deep sighs. "I
+have been talking to Bertha."
+
+"What about, Rhona?"
+
+There was no answer, and Rhona's face went down on his knee.
+
+After a minute, the Colonel repeated his question.
+
+"I've been talking—at least, Bertha has—about—oh, only about herself,"
+said Rhona. "She went away before you came in, for fear you should
+see she had cried. She didn't cry much, but only a little. It made me
+unhappy, because I don't know how to help her. Mother could, but I
+can't. I do wish mother was here."
+
+"Bertha was wrong to trouble you," said the Colonel.
+
+"O no, no,—" and Rhona looked imploring. "Oh, please don't stop her.
+She has nobody else in the world to speak to: and I like it. I do like
+it, uncle. Please don't stop her."
+
+"Well; I will not," said Colonel Smyth, passing an arm round the child.
+The other arm was still in an invalid condition. "I wish I could cure
+you of suffering so much for other people. It is not necessary, my
+little girl."
+
+"Isn't it? Mother always said it was right to feel. She said that was
+what the Bible meant by weeping with those who weep," said Rhona.
+
+"Yes, no doubt, but there are different modes of feeling. I don't like
+to see my darling unhappy. Perhaps I could help Bertha. Is it money she
+wants?"
+
+"No, it isn't that at all," said Rhona, with a half-smile. "It isn't
+that sort of thing. She wants—I don't know what. She isn't happy, and
+she can't believe she will ever go to heaven. And I don't know how to
+help her."
+
+"I should think you could help her about as well as anybody," said the
+Colonel.
+
+"O no; because I am only a little girl. I want somebody to help me."
+
+"Rhona, you are not going to cry?"
+
+"I'll try not," whispered the child.
+
+"I don't understand what you mean by wanting help. You said something
+of the kind once before. I have read a chapter of the Bible to you
+almost every evening since then,—certainly we have not missed twice.
+But that does not seem to be sufficient. What more do you want?"
+
+"I don't know," Rhona answered faintly.
+
+And he asked—
+
+"Is that quite true?"
+
+"No,—I didn't mean to say it,—I didn't mean to tell a story," said
+Rhona hurriedly. "I only meant—"
+
+"You do not know how to express yourself? Is that the difficulty? Try!
+It might do you good."
+
+Rhona hid her face more completely, and was silent.
+
+"Is Bertha's state of mind the only trouble? I think if I were you,
+I should advise her to consult somebody,—some clergyman, like your
+friend, Mr. Powis."
+
+Silence still. The Colonel tried to obtain a glimpse of Rhona's face.
+
+"My dear, if you break your heart to this extent for other people's
+worries, how will you ever get through life? Come, Rhona,—Rhona, my
+pet!"
+
+"Oh, it isn't only that," Rhona broke out at length. "It isn't only
+Bertha. It's about me too."
+
+"What about you, darling?"
+
+"I'm not right,—I can't keep right. Mother used to talk to me about the
+Lord Jesus, so often. She used to tell me,—used to help me. It seemed
+so different. I can't feel now as I did then. And I know I'm wrong—I
+know I'm wrong—and I don't know what to do. Oh, I don't know what to
+do."
+
+Tears were still restrained, but the fight for composure was doing her
+more harm than tears would have done.
+
+Colonel Smyth drew up her face, and kissed the drawn brow tenderly,
+though in another moment, it was again hidden, pressed into his right
+shoulder.
+
+"What is it that you feel to be wrong, my little girl?"
+
+"I can't feel—can't feel—rightly—about—the aunts."
+
+Colonel Smyth was very much taken by surprise.
+
+It took him some seconds to get over his astonishment, and to ask—
+
+"What do you mean?"
+
+"I can't feel rightly,—I can't forgive them. I can't feel as I ought. I
+can't forget."
+
+"Can't forget what?" He thought he knew, but his wish was to draw her
+out.
+
+"What they did—to—to mother? If they hadn't—if they hadn't—mother might
+never—never—"
+
+That sentence could not be finished. The child was shaken by a passion
+of weeping, but her physical strength was greater than some weeks
+before, and she had it sooner under command than of old. "Oh, don't
+ask, please don't ask," she gasped, when able to speak. "I didn't mean
+to cry, but I couldn't help it. Don't make me speak of them, please. It
+does make me so miserable. I can't forget,—and I can't—can't forgive
+them. And if I don't—"
+
+"My dear, you have had ample reason for feeling vexed with the Miss
+Mordaunts."
+
+"No, no,—not to feel as I do now. It isn't right. It is very very
+wrong. You don't know—you can't see into my thoughts. And if mother
+were here, she would help me—she would talk about Jesus!"
+
+"Would that help you?"
+
+"O yes!"
+
+He let her cry still for some minutes, soothing her by degrees. When
+she had grown calmer, he said—
+
+"I am going to ask you to do something for me now."
+
+"What?" asked the child.
+
+Colonel Smyth's bronzed cheek took a deeper tint than usual.
+
+"Nobody has ever spoken to me about Him for more than fifty years. I
+want you to begin doing so."
+
+She looked up in startled wonderment.
+
+"Nobody for fifty years!"
+
+"No, not since my mother died. I have heard sermons, of course, but
+nobody has spoken to me of Him. Will you try, my little girl,—try to
+talk, just as you would to your mother? I think it might help you,—and
+perhaps—perhaps it might help me too."
+
+Rhona could give no direct answer to the request. She only clasped his
+arm, and half-sobbed—"Oh, you dear dear uncle!"
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+
+NUMBER THREE, AND NUMBER THREE.
+
+"NO answer to my letter, Mr. Wynne. A week to-day since it went off,"
+said Barbara Mordaunt. "My sister-in-law's questions are becoming very
+difficult to evade."
+
+"She certainly improves," said Arbuthnot Wynne.
+
+"Yes, but how will it be, when she has the shock of learning that the
+child is lost to us again?"
+
+"She must not at present have that shock. You must avoid the word
+'lost' in speaking of Rhona."
+
+"Easier to avoid the word than the sense," said Miss Mordaunt.
+
+"I would keep clear of both. After all, it is merely a question of
+time. Sooner or later, we shall trace them. And there is hope so far,
+in the fact that your letter has not been returned to you."
+
+"Hardly likely to be as yet. It will probably lie waiting at the hotel
+for weeks. It may have been forwarded after Colonel Smyth,—but could
+any man delay answering such an appeal?"
+
+"Unless—" Arbuthnot said dubiously.
+
+"Unless—Yes—"
+
+"One hardly likes to suggest the idea. But Colonel Smyth certainly was
+an enigma to me. I could not at all see through him. The only clue
+which has occurred to my mind, and which I do not wish to entertain,
+is that he really is not anxious to find the mother and to restore the
+child."
+
+"Impossible! Human beings are not such monsters!"
+
+Arbuthnot's lips parted in a smile. "I should not describe Colonel
+Smyth as a monster," he said. "But—"
+
+"It could not be. The thing is out of the question."
+
+"Such things have been, I should be very sorry to accuse the Colonel
+of any such motive, without strong proof. But I confess, he was a
+perplexing subject. His evident shrinking from an encounter with my
+father was and is a mystery to me."
+
+Barbara stood in thoughtful silence for some seconds. "I do not know
+what view to take," she said at length. "Do you think we might venture
+to name Colonel Smyth to Mary?"
+
+"That has occurred to me. I will see how she is to-day."
+
+Nearly a week earlier Arbuthnot Wynne had paid a visit to old Mrs.
+Montague, for the purpose of learning all he could from her and others
+about the child. Inquiries had resulted in the knowledge that Rhona's
+surname was indeed Mordaunt, and that the Colonel was generally
+believed to be no relation, having only adopted the little girl after
+the disappearance of her mother.
+
+Mr. Wynne had also succeeded in obtaining Neil Burrell's address, and
+a letter was forthwith despatched to Mrs. Burrell, asking where Bertha
+Stephens could be found, and requesting an answer by return of post.
+The answer came as desired, bringing disappointment with it. Mrs.
+Burrell had had no news of Bertha since leaving London. "Not one word
+of thanks from that ungrateful girl," the writer complained. She could
+not say anything at all about where Bertha might have gone. So this
+clue failed.
+
+Standing by Mary Mordaunt's side, Mr. Wynne noted a marked improvement
+in her condition. She asked questions confusedly still, and memory was
+at fault, but powers of mind and body were returning. "I think we shall
+have her in an arm-chair soon," he said.
+
+Then, when she asked in anxious tones for her child, evidently under a
+vague impression that he had a hand in the management of affairs, he
+said, "Rhona has gone into the country with your friend, Colonel Smyth."
+
+"My friend!" She looked bewildered, and her eyes roved round the room.
+
+"With Colonel Smyth," repeated Mr. Wynne in a distinct voice. "He was
+in Mrs. Burrell's lodgings. Was he not a friend of yours?"
+
+"Colonel Smyth! At Mrs. Burrell's!"
+
+"Yes,—Mrs. Burrell, Number Three, Albert Terrace."
+
+Mary started sharply, and put her hand to her head. "Number
+Three—Number Three—" she muttered hurriedly. "Number
+Three—Winifred—Winifred—"
+
+"Albert Terrace, not Winifred Place," said Mr. Wynne. "Mrs. Burrell was
+your landlady, at Number Three, Albert Terrace. And Colonel Smyth—"
+
+Mary held her forehead still, looking eager and nervous, as
+recollections came upon her. "Mrs. Burrell—oh, yes—Number Three,
+Winifred—"
+
+"No; Albert Terrace," said Mr. Wynne patiently. "There was Hope Burrell
+too, the landlady's daughter, and Bertha—"
+
+"O yes, that nice Bertha!" said Mary. "Yes, I remember. And Rhona,
+Rhona, my little Rhona!"
+
+"Yes: and Colonel Smyth," said Mr. Wynne again.
+
+The name seemed at last to arrest her attention. "Colonel Smyth—" she
+said. "Yes,—Colonel Smyth—"
+
+"You knew him very well, I suppose?"
+
+"O no, not at all," she said, with a vague little laugh. "Why, I never
+saw him."
+
+Arbuthnot Wynne naturally regarded this as a slight hallucination.
+
+"No—never," repeated Mary, evidently trying to recall the past, and she
+laughed again. "He was such an odd man. But Rhona liked him—my little
+Rhona. When is Rhona coming to me—please—please?"
+
+"By-and-by," said Mr. Wynne; and no more was said about Colonel Smyth.
+
+Mary recurred, however, many times to his name during the day,
+sometimes with a half-smile, sometimes with the remark, "Such an odd
+man," and sometimes with confused recollections of other events in
+connection with him.
+
+"That has not cleared up matters at all," Arbuthnot said later in the
+day, when relating to his father what had passed.
+
+Dr. Wynne, though better, was still a prisoner, his attack having
+proved a sharp one.
+
+"I shouldn't have expected that it would," Dr. Wynne answered drily.
+
+"It was worth the trial. The most singular thing to my mind, is the
+extraordinary likeness of the two faces—Mrs. Mordaunt's and little
+Rhona's,—not only one to another, but both to a third which I have seen
+somewhere and at some time. I cannot recall time or place."
+
+Dr. Wynne looked surprised, and said, "I should not have expected you
+to remember her."
+
+"Whom?"
+
+"Mrs. Pratt."
+
+"I have not the least recollection of the name."
+
+"No,—it is her face that you recollect. She was in and out a few times
+one winter long ago. You were a mere boy at the time, but no doubt you
+may have seen her occasionally. I had known her earlier; and when she
+happened to be in London with her husband, she consulted me upon her
+health."
+
+"Then the likeness—Was she any connection of Mrs. Mordaunt?"
+
+"Rather near! Mrs. Pratt was Mrs. Mordaunt's mother."
+
+Arbuthnot's "Ha!" was expressive.
+
+"That is not all the story. As a girl, she was intimate in the Mordaunt
+household. There was at one time an affair between her and the eldest
+son, Henry Mordaunt."
+
+"She must have been a pretty creature."
+
+"One of the loveliest women I have known, and one of the most
+disappointing. She was engaged to Henry Mordaunt for two years, and
+then threw him overboard for the sake of Lieutenant Pratt. When Arthur
+Mordaunt engaged himself to Mary Pratt, the Miss Mordaunts were greatly
+displeased. They have never admitted that the fact of the young
+lady being the daughter of Mrs. Pratt had any connection with their
+displeasure, but no doubt it was so."
+
+"And the name of Mrs. Pratt before her marriage was—?"
+
+"Margaret Willis."
+
+Arbuthnot mused a little.
+
+"Henry Mordaunt—" he said, at length. "I am half ashamed to ask,—but is
+he living still?"
+
+"Others are putting that question beside yourself. Miss Mordaunt has
+not heard from him for many months, and her last letter was returned
+from India by a stranger. He was a singular character,—naturally blunt
+and reserved, and made worse by being misunderstood at home. I always
+believed that there was more good in Henry Mordaunt than appeared on
+the surface,—more warmth of heart than was supposed. But he never was
+a favourite with his sisters; and Miss Willis' conduct certainly had a
+souring effect upon him. It must be nearly twenty years since he last
+came to England."
+
+"Then I may safely say, I do not know him. Hardly likely that he
+should have come into our nursery to make my acquaintance," observed
+Arbuthnot. "I have learnt more about the Mordaunt family in the last
+fortnight than during all those twenty years. Somehow they never
+interested me particularly."
+
+"And they do now?"
+
+"Rhona does," said Arbuthnot.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+WYVERN HOUSE.
+
+ONE hot June day, two flys might have been seen proceeding through
+lanes and high roads, in a pretty midland district. Fields and meadows,
+trees and hedges, formed the chief features of the landscape, with
+finishing touches of cows and sheep. Occasional ponds made a variety,
+and occasional hills broke the level line of the horizon.
+
+The second fly was closed and heavily loaded with luggage. One young
+woman, respectably dressed, sat inside. The foremost vehicle, which was
+open, held two individuals—a grey-haired gentleman of soldierly aspect,
+and a fair child in deep mourning. The large soft eyes of the little
+girl were roving eagerly to and fro, while the gentleman seemed well
+content to watch her face.
+
+"How pretty!" she said repeatedly. "O uncle, how pretty! Mother used
+to talk so about the fields. I do love them. And shall we live in the
+country always—quite always?"
+
+"I don't know about living there always," Colonel Smyth answered. "If
+we like the old house, we may find it pleasant for part of the summer.
+London is best for winter."
+
+"I don't like London ever the best," Rhona said decisively. "I think
+country is much much the nicest. Oh, look—look, uncle, at those sweet
+little lambs. I wish I could play with them. And those big birds."
+
+"They are rooks. That is a rookery," said Colonel Smyth.
+
+"Is it? I thought they were crows. Mother said once that she liked
+rooks so. But the dear little lambs are the prettiest. See, there are
+more of them! O uncle!"
+
+Words seemed to fail Rhona. She laid her hand on his knee, and drew a
+deep breath of satisfaction.
+
+"We must be getting near the house now," said Colonel Smyth, delighted
+with her delight. "I wonder how you will like it, my little girl."
+
+"I am sure I shall like it, if there is a garden," said Rhona. "I can
+see some chimneys, uncle, and ever so many trees all round. Do you
+think that is the house, perhaps?"
+
+"May be so, my dear. I am as much a stranger to the place as you are
+yourself."
+
+"It does seem so very funny that you should never have seen your own
+house."
+
+"Not so funny, when you remember that it has not long been mine. The
+old lady who left it me in her will was living here less than two years
+ago."
+
+"And was her name Mrs. Smyth?" asked Rhona, in a meditative manner.
+
+"Her name was Mrs. Smyth."
+
+"And was she your grandmother?"
+
+The Colonel laughed heartily. "No, not my grandmother."
+
+"Or your aunt?"
+
+"No," said the Colonel.
+
+"She couldn't have been your mother, because of course you wouldn't
+have left her to stay all that great while in India."
+
+"Perhaps not," the Colonel said, more gravely. "No, she was no relative
+of mine at all, but she left me her house for the sake of her only son,
+who was a great friend of mine in India."
+
+"I should have thought she would have left it to him!"
+
+"So she would have done, no doubt; but Captain Smyth died some years
+ago, and she had nobody else belonging to her."
+
+"I think it is very funny that you have the same name as Mrs. Smyth,
+and yet you aren't any relation," Rhona said deliberately, as if
+weighing the matter.
+
+"People change their names sometimes," said Colonel Smyth, watching the
+effect of the words. "Mrs. Smyth made a stipulation in her will that
+her heir should take her name."
+
+The full sense of his utterance seemed to dawn upon Rhona slowly. She
+was looking about still, but after nearly a minute of silent enjoyment,
+her eyes went to his face in perplexity.
+
+"But, uncle,—have you got 'two' names?"
+
+"Yes," Colonel Smyth answered. "The old and the new. Some day I will
+tell you what the old name is, but not to-day,—not yet. See, Rhona,
+this really is the house; we are turning in at the gate."
+
+"Oh, what a beauty of a house!" Rhona exclaimed, delicately ceasing at
+once to ask questions. "Oh, isn't it sweet! Such lovely creepers all
+over it. And the roses!—Oh, the roses."
+
+Colonel Smyth lifted rather than helped her out at the front door,
+and led her through a quaint lattice porch into a still more quaint
+sitting-room, furnished in the style of a century earlier. But things,
+if old, were well preserved.
+
+Rhona gazed round her wonderingly, and took refuge in the deep
+window, where roses clustered outside. She stood there in a trance of
+happiness, which yet was clouded by one shadow. What would not this
+have been to her mother? A sigh broke from Rhona, and for a moment her
+eyes were dim with tears.
+
+Colonel Smyth and Bertha were busy with the luggage, but presently a
+step made her turn, and she found a middle-aged person behind, dressed
+in black, with cap and spectacles, most respectable in appearance.
+
+"Pretty little dear!" the new-comer murmured. "And a orphan too."
+
+Rhona said, "How do you do?" politely, and put out her little hand.
+
+It was immediately taken possession of.
+
+"Pretty dear! And such sweet manners too!"
+
+"Yes, yes, the Colonel says to me, 'She's a lady, Mrs. Burrows,' and
+so for sure she is. I'm Mrs. Burrows, my dear, and been Mrs. Smyth's
+housekeeper for over thirty years, and the Colonel's now to continue.
+And before that in her service nigh upon fifteen years. Yes, it's
+forty-five years I've lived in this house, and never had but one
+mistress. A good mistress she was too,—ah, dear me!—but that's over
+and gone. My new mistress don't seem like to be a hard one!" And she
+laughed.
+
+"Are you going to have a new mistress now?" asked Rhona gently.
+
+"That's about it, Missy. The Colonel says to me, says he, 'I'm
+bringing you a new mistress, Mrs. Burrows, and you'll find her in the
+drawing-room.'
+
+"Dear me, it did put my heart all of a flutter, and me looking for a
+bachelor household. And I never to be at the door in time to welcome
+you,—all the fault of that Tom, calling me into the yard just when the
+carriages was coming round the corner. But I'll be even with him yet.
+So I came off here, all of a flutter as I say, to see my new mistress."
+
+"Uncle didn't mean me," said Rhona, distressed. "I am not anybody's
+mistress. I am only a little girl."
+
+"And the Colonel's adopted daughter, ain't you, Missy?"
+
+"I don't know. Yes, I suppose so. I am his little girl, and he is my
+uncle," said Rhona.
+
+Mrs. Burrows nodded. "That's just it, my dear, just it exactly. You'll
+please forgive me for calling of you 'my dear,'—I'm that taken aback by
+finding you no bigger, after what Colonel Mord—goodness me, what am I
+after saying next? And I've got that London maid to see to, so you'll
+excuse me being all of a flurry, my dear. It's the first time we ever
+had a maid in the house out of that wicked London, and I'm all of a
+tremble to think of the ways we'll learn from her."
+
+"Oh, I don't think you need be afraid, because Bertha is so very good,"
+said Rhona earnestly.
+
+"Well, I hope it may be so, my dear, but London's a place knowledgeable
+for wickedness, and we ain't used to such ways here. But I've got to
+see after her, howsomever. I shouldn't wonder if you'd like a cup of
+tea, Miss."
+
+"I should—so much," Rhona said gratefully.
+
+And Mrs. Burrows bustled out as the Colonel came in.
+
+"Well, my pet, have you been making acquaintance with the old
+housekeeper?" he asked, kissing her. "A worthy soul, and of course I
+must keep her on, though really she has so long been head-woman here,
+and her husband head-man, that I only wonder they admit me at all."
+
+"I like Mrs. Burrows," said Rhona, looking up in his face. "Uncle, she
+called you 'Colonel Maud' just now, and I don't think she meant to do
+it. I couldn't help hearing it—it came out so quick."
+
+"You shall call me Colonel Maud too, if you like," said the Colonel,
+with a comical expression.
+
+"I don't want to, uncle. I only thought I ought to tell," Rhona said,
+flushing.
+
+"You are a little soul of honour," said the Colonel, kissing her.
+"Never mind what Mrs. Burrows says. How do you like the new home?"
+
+"Oh, very very much," Rhona answered.
+
+
+As weeks passed, this first impression was strengthened. The house
+proved to be not only pretty, but comfortable. Colonel Smyth was not,
+generally speaking, a lover of rural scenes. "Real country meant real
+dulness," he had been often heard to assert. But for Rhona's sake, his
+inclinations seemed to undergo a change; and the time spent at Wyvern
+House was to him a time of no little enjoyment. Shady lanes and green
+fields, flowers and ferns, rambling and gardening, became matters of
+new interest, in connection with the delight they afforded to Rhona.
+She seemed at length to shake off the long oppression caused by her
+mother's disappearance, and to become a happy child again, brighter in
+spirits and healthier in face than ever yet since her father's death.
+
+Colonel Smyth was perfectly happy in her happiness. He never wearied
+of attending to his darling's wants, walking with her, gardening with
+her, reading with her, doing his utmost, indeed, to spoil her, had
+Rhona been an easily spoilable child. Many would in her place have
+suffered from his unlimited devotion and indulgence, but her intense
+conscientiousness and strong sense of duty were great safeguards.
+
+The evening Bible-reading was now an established custom, and it was to
+Colonel Smyth an increasing pleasure. Memories of early days were often
+stirred, not to be again laid to rest. The plain reading of a chapter
+was gradually growing into a systematic half-hour's study, with much
+looking out of references. Rhona could never talk to him so freely as
+to her mother and Bertha; yet her simple faith and vivid realisation
+of unseen things were sufficiently apparent, to shake the Colonel out
+of his long-settled religious torpidity, and to set him thinking. The
+thinking led in time to prayer, and prayer led in time to a new life.
+With him, as with many, the spiritual dawn broke slowly, but already a
+change could be seen.
+
+Since coming to Wyvern House, no further conversation had taken place
+about "the aunts," or about Rhona's feeling respecting them. From
+certain slight indications, the Colonel was convinced that she had not
+forgotten the subject. It seemed, however, to have fallen so far into
+the background amid her new interests, that he hoped it might in time
+die out of existence.
+
+
+It was the Colonel's pleasure to escort Rhona on Sundays to a Church at
+some little distance, partly for the sake of the walk, partly because
+he desired at present to avoid meeting acquaintances in the village.
+One Sunday, however, many weeks after their arrival at Wyvern House,
+the fair weather, which had so far served them well, gave place to
+drizzling rain. He yielded reluctantly to Rhona's entreaties, and
+consented to take her for once to the Parish Church. His dislike arose
+in some measure from fear of a chill for Rhona, but still more from an
+objection to being the centre of interest to the village congregation.
+The ordeal had, however, to be borne one day; and the Colonel at length
+resolved to face it like a man.
+
+During the Prayers, he was uncomfortably conscious of many gazing eyes.
+But when the clergyman had mounted the pulpit, his thoughts all went
+from himself to Rhona. For the text given out was—
+
+   "If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father
+forgive your trespasses."
+
+Colonel Smyth soon regretted greatly that he had not kept Rhona at
+home that day. She listened to the sermon quietly, but with a look of
+earnest thought which gradually grew into an expression of intense
+sorrow, and tears were soon running down her cheeks. Once or twice, the
+little hand was lifted to wipe them away; otherwise, she remained very
+still. The Colonel could do nothing then, and as they went home, no
+word was spoken.
+
+When the house was reached, she ran away to her own room. At dinner,
+she was evidently struggling to be calm, and to respond to his cheerful
+conversation, but she could eat little, and tears soon broke out anew.
+
+The Colonel would not leave her. He made the child lie on a sofa,
+petted her, and finally read her to sleep.
+
+She woke up better, but still troubled and sad.
+
+Tea passed quietly, and then Colonel Smyth lifted her on his knee,
+folding his arms round her.
+
+"I wish I had not taken you out this morning, my little girl," he said.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+
+RHONA'S REAL UNCLE.
+
+"I'M glad I went," Rhona answered in a low voice. "Please, may I go
+this evening too?"
+
+"No, my pet. I couldn't think of such a thing,—such weather!"
+
+"But the clergyman didn't finish all he had to say this morning,—and it
+was so—so interesting—"
+
+Rhona's voice faltered.
+
+Colonel Smyth would have described the morning's sermon as being the
+very essence of dulness. He did not yet understand how even the dullest
+sermon may bear its message from above, to one heart among many wearied
+listeners. After a puzzled pause, he said only—"You liked it!"
+
+"O yes,—so much—so very much," Rhona answered, unconscious of the note
+of admiration.
+
+"But you mustn't talk about it, if talking makes you cry," said the
+Colonel, noting suspicious signs.
+
+Rhona was so long silent that he supposed her to be falling asleep
+again, when a remark came in a wide-awake tone:
+
+"I do wonder if aunt Barbara thinks I am angry with her still."
+
+The Colonel's first impulse was to laugh, but Rhona's voice sounded
+intensely serious, and he feared to hurt her feelings by any sign of
+lightness. So he only stroked her head, and said with due gravity, "I
+should not think she would suspect you of it, my dear."
+
+"Of course she doesn't know about—about—mother," said the child, with
+an effort. "And most likely she only thinks mother is keeping me away
+still, for fear she should want to have me to live with her. If she did
+know about mother, she would want me now, I dare say."
+
+"And you would naturally go there, if you were not my little girl."
+
+"I like being your little girl, after mother's," said Rhona softly. "I
+shouldn't like to go away to aunt Barbara. I don't think I could bear
+it. I do love you so."
+
+"You don't think she and I are at all alike?" asked the Colonel.
+
+"Not a bit. O no, not the very least! I love you so," repeated Rhona.
+"And I didn't love aunt Barbara, at least, not properly. I do wonder
+why she wasn't kinder to mother. But mother thought she knew."
+
+"What did she suppose was the reason?"
+
+"I don't think I remember—exactly," said the child. "Mother said there
+were more reasons than one. But she knew they hadn't been pleased with
+her mother once for something,—mother didn't say what it was. That was
+my grandmother, you know. Mother said aunt Barbara and all of them had
+once been vexed with her. But I don't see that that was any reason.
+Mother couldn't help what my grandmother had done, and people oughtn't
+to keep on being vexed such a time."
+
+"Quite true, my little girl," assented the Colonel.
+
+Then after a short silence Rhona broke out unexpectedly—
+
+"I did like that sermon this morning."
+
+"Did you? I don't think I did. It made me sleepy."
+
+Rhona's wondering gaze was too much for him, and he could not help
+laughing.
+
+"Don't think me very naughty, Rhona. It was all quite true, no doubt,
+but—"
+
+"I liked it," said Rhona again, in a serious tone. "It showed me how
+wrong I had been. And mother said we ought to be very glad of anything
+that showed us what we really are."
+
+"'Wad some fay the giftie gie us!'" muttered the Colonel rather
+perversely. Then he kissed Rhona's brow. "Well, my darling, it can't be
+anything very bad that you really are."
+
+"Oh, but it is. You don't know," said Rhona sadly. "I wasn't sure till
+to-day."
+
+"Sure of what?"
+
+"About the aunts. I haven't ever really really in my very heart
+forgiven them. I haven't liked to think about aunt Barbara. I did mean
+to forgive, but it wasn't true forgiveness. I didn't want ever to see
+her and aunt Clara again; and I couldn't pray for them."
+
+"All that seems to me perfectly natural, under the circumstances,"
+said Colonel Smyth. "In fact, it is only right that you should feel a
+certain measure of just indignation."
+
+"O no, because it isn't that, it is wicked indignation," said Rhona,
+her chest heaving. "I ought to be able not to be angry when I think of
+aunt Barbara's face. Didn't you hear this morning, how he said—said—it
+would—would grieve the Lord Jesus—"
+
+One sob could not be suppressed. "I don't mean to cry,—I'll try not,"
+Rhona said, with long breaths. "But oh, I do want to do right,—I do
+want to do right. And I know I have grieved Him. It hasn't been real
+forgiveness."
+
+"How are you going to make it real?" asked the Colonel curiously.
+
+"I think I shall write to aunt Barbara, and tell her I am sorry for the
+naughty feelings."
+
+The Colonel was startled. "But aunt Barbara does not know you have had
+those naughty feelings. Would it not vex her to hear of them?"
+
+"I don't know. I don't want to vex her," said Rhona. "But mother said
+we ought to confess to people, if we had done them any wrong."
+
+"Well, yes,—if one has done wrong. I am not so sure about wrong
+thoughts."
+
+Rhona seemed perplexed. "I don't know exactly how else to manage," she
+said. "I do want not to have the bad feelings again. And I thought,
+perhaps,—perhaps—if I wrote to aunt Barbara—"
+
+"I see no harm in your writing to her," said the Colonel, after some
+cogitation. "On the whole it is a good plan. No need to say much about
+your own feelings, my dear,—at least that is my opinion. Just a kind
+little letter, saying that you think she would wish to hear from you,
+and that she ought to know about your dear mother,—stay, I have a
+better plan to propose. Suppose we run up to London for a week, and
+call on the aunts. You can say what you like then,—much quicker work
+than writing. And we can see your friend, Mr. Wynne."
+
+"I should like that," said Rhona. "And you will come with me to aunt
+Barbara."
+
+"Yes, certainly. I shall not let you go out of my sight. Why, she might
+eat you up! Don't write beforehand. We'll go straight in, and take them
+by surprise."
+
+"Uncle—" Rhona said tremulously—"uncle,—do you think?—Don't you
+think?—Won't they want to take me from you?"
+
+"They shall not do it, my pet, whatever they may wish."
+
+"But they are my real aunts, and you are not my real uncle. And
+perhaps—"
+
+Colonel Smyth had it on the tip of his tongue to say,—"But I am your
+real uncle, Rhona." He could have uttered the words with truth. Yet he
+hesitated.
+
+He had gone on step by step for so long that his reserved nature now
+shrank with strong dislike from the necessary explanations. Like many
+another moral coward, he was disposed to put off the unpleasant moment
+as long as possible. That the fact itself would give joy to Rhona, he
+could not doubt. But he was a little afraid that to her transparent
+nature, the prolonged concealment might appear blameworthy.
+
+"Rhona, will you trust me?" he asked, kissing her. "I promise
+faithfully that you shall not leave me against your will."
+
+"I know you'll try your very best," the child said sorrowfully. "But
+you haven't seen aunt Barbara. She is my father's very own aunt, you
+know, and she is sure to say she must have me."
+
+Reluctance of every kind gave way before those troubled eyes. "My pet,
+you are worrying yourself needlessly," Colonel Smyth said. "Shall I
+tell you a secret, Rhona? I meant you to know it soon. Aunt Barbara is
+your own aunt, it is true, but—but—ahem—but the fact is, my darling, I
+am just as much your own uncle. And since your dear mother's death, no
+one has a better right over you than I have. It is true. I am your aunt
+Barbara's own brother, Henry."
+
+Rhona looked bewildered and white. "And not Colonel Smyth!" she said.
+
+"Yes, I am Colonel Smyth,—more strictly, Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth. It
+is not long since I took the name of Smyth, in addition to my own,
+consequent upon this property being left to me. Do you understand,
+darling? I am your own uncle, Henry Mordaunt-Smyth. So aunt Barbara
+cannot possibly steal you from me."
+
+He heard a low murmur of, "I am so glad!" and read a certain peaceful
+satisfaction in the way she laid her head upon his shoulder. He let her
+remain quiet, and she was the first to break silence.
+
+"Doesn't aunt Barbara know you are here, uncle?"
+
+"Why, no—" said Colonel Smyth. "Not exactly. I am afraid I have
+treated the aunts rather badly. But the truth is I am not much of a
+letter-writer. It is a great many months since they heard from me."
+
+"And they don't know that I am your little girl?"
+
+"Not a word of it. They don't even know, so far as I am aware, that I
+have taken the name of Smyth, or that I am in England."
+
+"I should think they must want a letter very much."
+
+The Colonel's conscience smote him. "Perhaps they do," he said. "It has
+been hardly fair, after all. We'll go and see them."
+
+Another pause, and Rhona spoke again. "If only you had found out
+sooner," she said sadly, "mother needn't—mother wouldn't—perhaps—"
+
+Cowardice prompted the Colonel to make no answer, but he resisted the
+temptation. "I did know, my little girl," he said regretfully. "You
+cannot be more angry with me than I am with myself, for not speaking
+sooner. I can't explain to you all my reasons,—you would not understand
+them."
+
+"But you don't mean—you don't mean—" said Rhona, lifting her face.
+"Uncle dear, when we were at Mrs. Burrell's, and when you wouldn't ever
+meet mother on the stairs, you didn't know then!!"
+
+"Yes, I did know then," said the Colonel courageously, glad at last to
+speak out. "I knew you were related to me even then—from the very first
+day I went to the house. That was partly what decided me to take the
+rooms. But I had a fancy not to be known for a time by old friends and
+connections—so I just dropped the name Mordaunt, and called myself only
+Colonel Smyth. It was foolish, no doubt. And I had a fancy to find out
+all I could about you and your mother, before taking any steps—before
+helping her, I mean. I had loved your father when he was a boy, but I
+wanted to know what she was—whether she was like somebody else whom I
+had once known. I cannot explain all! Only I meant no unkindness to
+either of you. I should like you to be able to believe that.
+
+"I really did intend to do something very soon for your mother, and
+not to let her go on teaching always,—but—well, I could not make up my
+mind exactly what to do, and there were old associations which made me
+inclined to put off the first meeting—and—The fact is, your old uncle
+acted very foolishly, my darling, and he is very sorry for it. Can you
+ever forgive me, Rhona?"
+
+"O uncle! I do love you so! I know you didn't mean it," Rhona broke out
+passionately. "But oh I—if only you had spoken sooner,—if only you had
+spoken just a little sooner!"
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+
+TOGETHER AGAIN.
+
+"HOW strangely one may be mistaken in other people! I never knew you
+till now, aunt Barbara. So very very good you have been to me! I can
+never repay you."
+
+"It is easy to be good to people, if one loves them," Barbara answered.
+
+"I don't know about being easy,—and I do not know why you should love
+me. I have been nothing but a trouble."
+
+"I have not felt you a trouble."
+
+"No, because you are so good—so self-forgetting. You must let me
+thank you this once, dear aunt. I sometimes feel as if the weight of
+obligation were more than I could bear."
+
+Mary Mordaunt looked wan and shadowy still. She was exceedingly fragile
+after her illness, and would remain so, the doctor said, for a long
+while. Callers were still almost entirely forbidden, for the slightest
+excitement brought on confusion and forgetfulness; and she had not yet
+been downstairs.
+
+Many weeks had now gone by since Mary first learnt that her little
+Rhona was still living. Before that, through some inadvertent remark
+uttered within her hearing, she had fully believed the child to be
+dead. Gradually, and not sooner than was found needful, it had been
+broken to her that Rhona's present whereabouts was unknown. Mary bore
+the shock better than was expected, though it threw back her recovery
+for at least a fortnight. She seemed to have learnt in this illness a
+new calm, to have gained a new power of waiting. Possibly some part
+of the calm was due to her uncertain memory, and her want of power to
+realise things.
+
+Advertising had not yet been tried. Arbuthnot Wynne's conjecture, as
+to the motives which swayed poor Colonel Smyth, had been so strongly
+adopted by the three aunts, that they were quite convinced of its
+uselessness. To advertise would simply be, they said, to drive the
+Colonel deeper into retirement. Mr. Wynne recommended the attempt being
+made, but the ladies deferred following his advice. Private inquiries
+were instituted in divers directions, thus far with no results. Barbara
+would have given much to find the child, and so to still the wistful
+longing in Mary's eyes. But "that wicked man," as Clara commonly
+designated the unfortunate Colonel, had taken his measures effectually,
+and Rhona's retreat remained undiscovered.
+
+"You must not think of it as an obligation at all," Barbara kindly
+answered. "Do not distress yourself, Mary, about gratitude. I am quite
+content to have shown you that at least my intentions from the first
+were not cruel."
+
+"Cruel! O no. If only I had not been so foolish and impulsive!"
+
+"It is easy to look back afterwards, and see that we did not, either of
+us, act too wisely. But that is over now."
+
+"I hope somehow—some day—to be able to repay," whispered Mary. "When I
+am strong, and can work again."
+
+"That will not be yet. You have to submit to be taken care of at
+present. And if it is God's will for you, I am sure you will not
+murmur."
+
+She found this simple suggestion always efficacious.
+
+Mary smiled faintly. "No," she said. "Oh, how my Rhona loves His will."
+
+"And you too, Mary?"
+
+"Yes, I think so." A strained look came into her eyes, as she
+repeated—"Yes, I think so. Before my illness, there was such a
+blackness of darkness everywhere? It comes back in memory sometimes,
+and makes me shudder. I hope never to go through the same again. But
+things seem different now—the darkness is gone. I don't think I wish to
+have what God does not choose for me. Perhaps it is partly because I
+have no strength—no power to feel anything keenly."
+
+
+Two days later, Mary was permitted to make her first excursion
+downstairs. Barbara presided at afternoon tea, Mary lying upon a sofa,
+white, frail, and placidly smiling. Sue hung about the couch in a state
+of dumb devotion; and even Clara, who had thus far held out in some
+measure against the invalid, at length succumbed, showing a kindness
+equal to Barbara's.
+
+Tea was almost finished, when Mary said wistfully—"I suppose nobody has
+heard anything more of Mrs. Burrell lately?"
+
+"Why, yes," Barbara answered. "I did not care to trouble you by
+bringing up the subject, as there was nothing good to report. But Mr.
+Wynne told me that she had at last set up a new shop near her old
+quarters,—the next street, is it not, Sue? Mrs. Burrell has heard
+nothing of her niece, and cannot tell what has become of her."
+
+"It seems strange," Mary said.
+
+"More than strange. A most ungrateful girl," observed Barbara. "It is
+her simple duty to write, after all that Mrs. Burrell has done for her."
+
+"I shouldn't wonder if her silence is all the fault of that wicked
+Colonel," said Clara. "I told Mrs. Burrell that he was probably the one
+who ought to be blamed. She said she shouldn't wonder, for she always
+had had her doubts about him."
+
+"But Bertha Stephens is not a child, to be entirely under his control,"
+said Barbara. "However, we shall know more some day soon." And she
+spoke cheerfully for Mary's sake. "If other means fail, I really think
+we had better in a few days try advertising. Does Mrs. Burrell seem
+doing well in her new shop, Clara?"
+
+"Things looked prosperous, but she spoke dolefully. I should take her
+for an arrant grumbler," said Clara. "A very unpleasant old woman, in
+my opinion. The daughter is a pretty girl. She is going to be married
+soon to the young schoolmaster who took in Mrs. Burrell after the
+fire,—her nephew, isn't he? It seems a happy arrangement. I suppose the
+engagement is a satisfaction to Mrs. Burrell, but she looked uncommonly
+grim over even that."
+
+"If you please, ma'am, a gentleman wants to speak to you."
+
+The door had been opened noisily, and these words came with abruptness.
+The parlour-maid being out that afternoon, her place was temporarily
+filled by the housemaid, a new importation from the country.
+
+"Really that girl is too much for civilised nerves," muttered Clara.
+"Shut the door, Maria."
+
+"A gentleman!" repeated Barbara. "What is his name?"
+
+"He didn't give no name, ma'am." Maria stood with her fingers on the
+door-handle, unheeding Clara's order.
+
+"Then ask him."
+
+"I did ask him, and he said it was of no consequence, ma'am, and could
+he come in?"
+
+"You had better say I am engaged, and he can call again. Or
+stay,—perhaps it will save trouble in the end if I see him now. Show
+the gentleman into the dining-room."
+
+Maria retreated awkwardly with that intent, and nearly backed into the
+arms of somebody close behind.
+
+"Hallo, look out!" a gruff voice said; and then,—"I suppose we can come
+in. Stand back."
+
+"Please, sir, if you please, sir,—this way, sir," protested Maria.
+
+But her efforts being vain, she resigned herself to the inevitable, and
+looked on, open-mouthed.
+
+Those within the drawing-room saw a grey-haired and upright gentleman
+enter, leading by the hand a child in deep mourning.
+
+Barbara's first impulse was to rise and say severely,—"There is some
+mistake. I desired that you might be shown—"
+
+"How do you do, Barbara?" said the new-comer, flushing slightly under
+his bronzed skin.
+
+"Henry!"
+
+Barbara was not easily overcome, but she actually turned pale, and sat
+down, motes dancing before her eyes, and bees buzzing in her ears.
+The child was unnoticed by her in that moment's agitation. She had no
+thought except for this brother, so long absent, so suddenly restored.
+
+"Sue,—Clara,—it is Henry,—our Henry!" she muttered.
+
+Hers was not however the only recognition.
+
+"Barbara!—It is Rhona!" Clara exclaimed in amazement.
+
+At the same moment, the child's glance fell upon the sofa near the
+fire, partly sheltered from observation by a large screen.
+
+Mary already knew all, and was receiving her joy calmly. A bright flush
+rose in either cheek, and she clasped her hands, neither starting nor
+exclaiming, but lying quietly, with riveted gaze. For two or three
+seconds, Rhona had been unconscious of her presence.
+
+"MOTHER!"
+
+Mary's colourless face had flushed, but Rhona's bloom gave place to
+deadly pallor. For Mary had known the child to be living, while Rhona
+had believed the mother to be dead. No other sound came from either.
+Rhona was by her mother's side with a spring, lying over her, clasped
+and clasped, in a very agony of joy, too intense for any other manner
+of expression.
+
+The silence was absolute. Mother and daughter remained locked together
+in that wordless grasp, as if they might never part again, and the face
+of neither could be seen. Sue was quietly dropping tears behind the
+screen. Clara seemed lost in astonishment. Barbara still looked pale
+and overcome. Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth had no eyes except for Rhona.
+
+"This will not do," Barbara said, and she glanced from one to another
+with a husky laugh. "We all seem petrified. Henry!"
+
+The Colonel turned to her, as with a new idea, and stooped to bestow a
+kiss. "I declare I'm forgetting," he said apologetically. "We have not
+met for so long. It is rather a shame to take you by surprise, in this
+fashion."
+
+He paid the same brotherly attention to Sue and Clara, then turned anew
+to the sofa.
+
+"Rhona,—my little girl," he said.
+
+A moment's silence, and he repeated, "Rhona!"
+
+"Yes, make her stand up, Henry. Mary will be worse," Barbara said,
+in sudden alarm. "But how Rhona happens to be with you—! It is all a
+mystery."
+
+The Colonel left explanations till later. "Rhona, my pet!" he said
+again, and he touched her arm.
+
+She raised herself slowly, pale as ashes, and lifted her eyes to his
+with a dazed dreamy look. Then there was a flush, and a low cry, as
+Rhona flung herself upon him. "O uncle, uncle,—O uncle, it is mother,
+it is my own own sweet sweet mother!" she sobbed wildly. "I don't know
+what to do,—I don't know how to bear it,—I am so glad!"
+
+The three sisters were in tears, and not they only, for the Colonel
+himself was actually sobbing. Of all who were present, Mary alone kept
+calm. She lay placidly, with folded hands, and a smile of indescribable
+content.
+
+"It is more than I dared hope," she whispered, so low that Sue alone
+overheard. "To see her so well cared for—so bright and strong—the
+little darling! My God, how I thank Thee! Thou hast been better to me
+than all my fears."
+
+"Rhona, don't—don't now—hush, my pet," the Colonel was saying huskily.
+"You must not make yourself ill."
+
+But this was no manner of weeping to make any one ill. Rhona was soon
+able to go back to the couch, with a face of eager joy, clasping one of
+the Colonel's hands, and clinging afresh to her newly-found mother.
+
+"I don't think we shall ever be able to be glad enough," she whispered,
+"It is all so beautiful!! And to think of finding you here—with aunt
+Barbara! And oh, mother darling, I do want you to love my dear dear
+uncle. He is so good, and he saved me out of the fire, and he has given
+me such lots of things. I do love him!"
+
+"Is it Colonel Smyth?" asked Mary, turning to him with a grateful
+smile. She had heard and seen nothing as yet, beyond Rhona.
+
+"It is Henry Mordaunt—aunt Barbara's brother—your husband's uncle," the
+Colonel said, bending over her. "You shall hear all soon, Mary. Your
+little Rhona has been a dear child to me this summer."
+
+"It is all so strange,—so bewildering,—I cannot quite understand," Mary
+said patiently. "But I have my darling,—my darling,—thank God for that."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI.
+
+GATHERING UP THE THREADS.
+
+"I SUPPOSE I must not venture to say what I feel," Miss Mordaunt
+remarked, as a preliminary to the giving forth of her opinion. "But
+I certainly do think it has been a most extraordinary proceeding. To
+spend months in London,—not only in England, but actually in London
+itself, not half-an-hour's drive distant from us,—and never to let your
+own sisters know that you were on this side of the globe! It is most
+extraordinary! Not only that, but to have property left you, to take
+a new name, to retire from the army, to change your whole manner of
+life,—and still to leave us in ignorance! I do think we have reason to
+be pained, and I confess I am pained, more than you can imagine. Our
+dear William would never have treated us so. I should not have expected
+any great show of confidence from you, but this is going far indeed.
+I do think you have not acted rightly towards us, not even with due
+respect,—I am not speaking of affection."
+
+Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth paced to and fro impatiently during his sister's
+harangue. It was not the first he had had to endure, and he was
+beginning to feel irritated. Rhona had been all the evening absent from
+him, in her mother's room. He had of course yielded to the general
+wish that Rhona should at once take up her abode in the house, though
+himself bent upon sleeping at the hotel, despite all opposition. But
+after weeks of close companionship, he felt at a loss without the
+child's loving little face and voice; and his three sisters could by no
+means supply her place.
+
+There had always been friction between him and them in past days; and
+the friction began again so soon as they came together. Pleased though
+Barbara really was to have him back, she reverted at once to her old
+custom of complaining about this and wondering about that, while Clara
+trod in her footsteps. It was just what he had expected, and just what
+he had all along sought to avoid. He began to wonder that even Rhona
+had succeeded in drawing him out of his comfortable retirement.
+
+"I suppose you may venture to say what you like," he responded tartly
+to Barbara.
+
+"But, Henry,—if you only will consider! Of course you do not like us to
+be vexed, and you expect to be received just as if you had treated us
+with brotherly confidence. But if you only would consider! Think how
+it will look in the eyes of our friends! Think of Dr. Wynne! I assure
+you I feel bewildered. All these months within almost a walk of one
+another, and not a single word from you to enlighten us! What could
+have been your motive? Were you offended with us? Did anything in our
+last letters displease you?"
+
+Colonel Smyth hesitated, frowned, and finally laughed.
+
+"It's of no earthly use being put out," he said. "I always was an odd
+fellow and did things my own way. You must put up with me as I am, and
+not count me worse than the reality. The thing is done now, and can't
+be helped. I promise not to treat you so cavalierly again, and that is
+all I can do. You will have to forgive and forget."
+
+"I may forgive, but it is not easy to forget," Barbara said coldly, for
+her pride and affection were alike wounded.
+
+"No, indeed," echoed Clara, who alone beside was present, Sue having
+vanished.
+
+Colonel Smyth sat down and was silent, seemingly lost in thought.
+
+Barbara, looking at him, was struck again, as she had already been,
+with a nameless change in his face, with a certain softness of
+expression underlying the rugged outline. Her conscience gave a stab.
+Henry might have acted wrongly, but what was she about, to visit his
+wrong-doing upon his head?
+
+"Yes, we 'will' forgive and forget," she said, and rising from her seat
+she kissed him twice. "There shall be no coldness between us after all
+these years of separation. We will forgive all, and try to forget.
+Perhaps—I dare say it was so—perhaps you did not at first really mean
+to carry the thing on so long."
+
+"No; you are right there," the Colonel said, looking relieved. "I
+certainly did not intend it. I was drawn on, step by step."
+
+"There are a few points that I am not clear about yet," Barbara
+observed, after a moment's thought. She and her sisters had been put
+into possession of a good many facts that evening, but the outline
+needed filling up. "I suppose you decided to retire, after hearing that
+Mrs. Smyth had left you her property. Strange that you should have
+received so much from one who was a complete stranger to us!"
+
+"I must have mentioned Captain Smyth to you. There was a strong tie
+between us, in the fact that I was once able to save his life at the
+risk of my own. Mrs. Smyth never forgot it. Yes, I settled to leave
+the army immediately—but I had had thoughts before of doing so. Why I
+didn't write to tell you all these things I really don't know. A matter
+of laziness, I suppose. I am only surprised that nobody should have
+seen a notification of my change of name in any English paper. It must
+surely have been in some of them."
+
+"No one did, at all events. I wrote to you about Mary, soon after poor
+Arthur's death."
+
+"Yes; that letter reached me, and helped to hurry me home. You'll
+excuse my saying so now, Barbara, but I didn't like the view you seemed
+to take of Mary's position—saying she had no claim upon any of us."
+
+"Did I?" Barbara looked thoughtful. "I forget."
+
+"Something to that effect. The next letter from you reached me just as
+I was on the point of starting for England, and was full of indignation
+at Mary's flight and concealment."
+
+"I thought she had treated us wrongly."
+
+"And she thought the same of you. Oddly enough that mail brought me
+another letter, from a complete stranger, an English clergyman in
+Italy, who had been a friend of poor Arthur's. He wrote to say that
+he was very anxious about Mary,—'young Mrs. Mordaunt' as he called
+her,—that she had seemingly given offence to her husband's relatives
+in London, and was consequently alone and friendless. He was too poor
+himself, he said, to give material assistance, and he did not know
+what would become of the poor young thing,—could I help her?—and so
+on. Stay, I have the letter in my pocket-book. I can read you the last
+paragraph.
+
+   "'Mrs. Mordaunt writes to my wife in confidence, and I must not
+therefore say much more, but I cannot abstain from this effort to find
+her a friend in her great need. If you are disposed to do anything,
+please direct your inquiries towards a certain Albert Terrace in the
+neighbourhood of — Street. I entreat you not to write one word of this
+to the Miss Mordaunts, your sisters. Mrs. Mordaunt seems to dread
+inexpressibly the idea of her present retreat being discovered by them.
+
+   "'You may wonder how I am acquainted with your name and address, but I
+had much to do after the death of Arthur Mordaunt, with looking through
+his papers. By the same means, I am also aware that you have had
+thoughts of an early return to England. I trust this may be the case.
+I hardly see how you can do anything for Mrs. Mordaunt at a distance.
+Once more, I entreat you to remember that all this is in the strictest
+confidence, and that not a word of it may reach your sisters!'"
+
+"He seems to have looked upon us as terrible ogres," Barbara said, with
+an uncomfortable laugh, and then tears sprang to her eyes. "Well, I
+have done my best to convince people—"
+
+"I am sure you have, and most successfully," said the Colonel, in a
+tone of kindness. "But this will help to explain to you my silence."
+
+"Did you answer the letter?"
+
+"No. Perhaps I should have done so. I respected his confidence, and
+mentioned his letter to no one, until this evening. I would rather that
+it should go no farther."
+
+"Of course,—you may trust us," Barbara said, with a glance at Clara. "I
+think you should write to him now, for my sake, to explain how matters
+really are. Then you went to Mrs. Burrell's lodgings, on purpose to be
+under the same roof with Mary."
+
+"I went to an hotel, on my first arrival in London; and a few inquiries
+soon made me acquainted with the fact that a Mrs. Mordaunt was lodging
+at No. 3 Albert Terrace. I really had not made up my mind what to do
+next, for I was anxious to know more about Mary, before committing
+myself. But, learning that there were vacant rooms in the same house, I
+went there—on Christmas Day, I believe—not with any fixed intention of
+taking them. However, while I was in the house, I happened to overhear
+Mary's voice singing a hymn, and somehow that settled me. It was
+absurd, of course,—but the contralto was so exactly like Margaret's,
+and the hymn, one that she used to sing for the children. I knew it
+again directly."
+
+"I wondered if you had ever thought of the connection," Barbara said.
+
+"Of course I did," the Colonel answered gruffly.
+
+"And then you told Mary who you were?"
+
+"No, I did not. If I had, all this trouble might have been spared. I
+could not make up my mind to any definite course of action. Partly
+laziness, perhaps,—I didn't want to be bothered,—and there was a stupid
+feeling which you won't understand—a dislike to seeing her."
+
+"I think I do understand," Barbara said in a gentle tone.
+
+"Not that she really is so very like. The resemblance in Rhona is much
+more striking. However, one thing and another made me hold aloof and
+put off doing anything, week after week. I was beginning to pick up an
+acquaintance with the little one, and that was all."
+
+"And you were supposed all the while to be merely a Colonel Smyth! I
+wonder your letters did not betray you."
+
+"That was easily avoided. Letters went to my bankers', and remained
+there till I called for them. There was no difficulty in keeping up my
+incognito, and the only person who showed curiosity was my landlady.
+Certainly I came rather near discovery at the time that Wynne was
+in and out, but he is a thorough gentleman and asked no needless
+questions. Well—I suppose my wish for secrecy went too far in the first
+instance. One is drawn on somehow, and once fairly in for it, I felt
+less and less inclined to break out of the coil. Then Mary disappeared,
+and I found myself with the child left on my hands. She is a sweet
+creature—wins her way into one's heart. I seem to have thought of
+nothing but Rhona lately."
+
+Clara was opportunely summoned out of the room, and Barbara, looking
+earnestly at her brother, said—"You are altered, Henry."
+
+"If I am, it is the child! You would not have said so six months ago."
+
+"I never saw you so like our dear William."
+
+"Pshaw!" the Colonel said, half-touched, half-amused. "I tell you it is
+only that child! She can twist me round her finger."
+
+"She seems to have been to you a little angel unawares," said Barbara.
+"As Mary has been to us."
+
+"There was not the same need with you three good creatures. Did you
+know that I have been for years past a man of no religion—practically
+none?" In a husky tone, the Colonel added—"That little one's sweet
+words and ways have, I hope, brought me to my senses."
+
+"I know you never talked: but I always hoped you felt more than
+appeared on the surface."
+
+"I can't talk now—it isn't my way. But there used to be no feeling—and
+lately it has come," said the Colonel. "More than mere feeling, I hope."
+
+Habitual reserve checked further confidence, and both were silent for
+some seconds.
+
+"What do you think of doing next?" Barbara asked presently.
+
+"I can't part with the child, and where she is, Mary of course must be.
+I shall offer them both a home."
+
+"Ours would have been open to them." Barbara looked disappointed.
+
+"No, no, better not—you three do well together, and five women under
+one roof is too much!" The Colonel evidently meant what he said. "Not
+that Rhona is a woman yet, but she will be by-and-by. Clara would
+inevitably clash with her; and my little darling is too sensitive for
+sharp words. You have been at great expenses already—by-the-bye you
+must let me help you in that matter—and your income won't stand any
+amount of drain. Besides, you could not really wish to deprive me of
+the child—you don't know all that she is to me. No, no, my home must be
+hers and Mary's. You do not think Mary will object."
+
+"I should say she would be only thankful to accept your offer. Mary is
+hardly in a state now to object to anything—she has grown so curiously
+passive. Dr. Wynne does not think her mind can ever again be quite
+what it was before her illness. I mention this, because you ought to
+understand what you are proposing to take upon yourself."
+
+"We will look well after her, and Bertha will be an invaluable help.
+She is a thoroughly good and reliable creature. I have taken her into
+my confidence lately."
+
+"You will need a confidential servant with Mary, for some time to
+come—when she is able to be moved, I mean, which will not be yet. But
+what if Mrs. Burrell wants Bertha again?"
+
+"Mrs. Burrell has given up any rights she may have once possessed.
+Bertha promises to remain with me."
+
+"Was it your doing, or Bertha's own fault, that Mrs. Burrell never
+heard from her?" inquired Barbara.
+
+"My doing entirely. I told her I had reasons, and requested her not to
+write. Later on, I gave her some little notion of the real state of
+things. Well—I must be off. It is getting late, and I want to look in
+on Dr. Wynne and his son. But I must say good-bye to the little one
+first. Ah, here she comes—" as Rhona ran in, with shining eyes and
+brilliant cheeks. "She looks well,—eh, Barbara?"
+
+"That is excitement," Barbara answered. "But she really does seem
+stronger."
+
+The Colonel was folding Rhona in his arms. "Had a happy evening with
+mother, my pet?" he asked.
+
+"So happy—oh, so happy," Rhona answered, drawing long breaths, and
+laying her head on his shoulder. "I can't tell you how very very glad
+I am. It does seem all so beautiful. And I've been telling mother all
+about you, uncle, and she says she can never never thank you rightly."
+
+"Nobody wants thanking," said the Colonel. "Tell mother it was all a
+selfish pleasure."
+
+"I don't think I can say that, because it wasn't selfish. And oh, aunt
+Barbara—please—" continued Rhona, with a deepening colour—"I want so
+very much to tell you that I am sorry I had such naughty thoughts about
+you. I didn't know you were nursing darling mother all that very time."
+
+"My dear!" Barbara said in surprise.
+
+She checked an inclination to inquire what the child meant, and patted
+her cheek.
+
+"We will not think any more about past mistakes, Rhona. They are all at
+an end now."
+
+"Yes, we have to think about the future, not the past," added Colonel
+Mordaunt-Smyth. "I must say good-bye—"
+
+"Good-bye!"
+
+Rhona broke into his utterance with a startled intonation, absolutely
+growing pale, to the Colonel's great satisfaction. He had had some
+fear of finding himself entirely supplanted in her affections by the
+restored mother.
+
+"No, no, my darling; not real good-bye—only good-night. I will be back
+in the morning. If mother is willing, we shall not be separated. Do you
+think she will come and live with me, and bring you too? That is what I
+want—that you and she and I should make a home together."
+
+"And Bertha too?" asked Rhona breathlessly.
+
+"Yes, Bertha too. We can't do without her."
+
+"And will it be in the country, uncle?"
+
+"Well, yes, I think so—all the summer. London in the winter, probably.
+What will mother say?"
+
+Rhona sprang to the ground and fled like a little lapwing. She was back
+before they could have thought it possible.
+
+"Mother says it is the loveliest thing that could happen, and she would
+so like it, and you are the dearest dearest of uncles," Rhona cried
+rapturously, throwing herself upon him.
+
+"Then that is a compact between us," the Colonel said, smiling.
+
+
+
+                           THE END.
+
+
+
+              Printed by BALLANTYNE HANSON & CO.
+                      Edinburgh & London
+
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78795 ***
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+      Number Three Winifred Place │ Project Gutenberg
+    </title>
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+<body>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78795 ***</div>
+
+
+<p>Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image001" style="max-width: 33.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image001.jpg" alt="image001">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image002" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image002.jpg" alt="image002">
+</figure>
+<p class="t4">
+<b>Rhona was dropped into his arms.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h1>NUMBER THREE<br>
+<br>
+WINIFRED PLACE.</h1>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+BY<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t1">
+AGNES GIBERNE<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br></p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+London<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+JAMES NISBET &amp; CO., LIMITED<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+22 BERNERS STREET, W.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON &amp; CO.<br>
+At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<p class="t3b">
+CONTENTS.<br>
+</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image003" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image003.jpg" alt="image003">
+</figure>
+
+<p>CHAP.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_1">I. A STRANGER</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_2">II. MR. POWIS' VISITOR</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_3">III. MOTHER AND CHILD</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_4">IV. ANOTHER LODGER</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_5">V. COLONEL SMYTH'S ARRANGEMENTS</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_6">VI. NO FRIENDS TO THE FORE</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_7">VII. THE COLONEL AND HIS LANDLADY</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_8">VIII. A BUNCH OF GRAPES</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_9">IX. WHERE COULD SHE BE</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_10">X. IN THE FOG</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_11">XI. THE THREE AUNTS</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_12">XII. STILL ABSENT</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_13">XIII. THE COLONEL AND RHONA</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_14">XIV. AN EVENTFUL EVENING</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_15">XV. FIRE!</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_16">XVI. ACROSS THE WAY</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_17">XVII. AFTERWARDS</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_18">XVIII. THE MORDAUNT HOUSEHOLD</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_19">XIX. A LINK WANTING</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_20">XX. RESTORED HOPE</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_21">XXI. ABOUT THE AUNTS</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_22">XXII. NUMBER THREE, AND NUMBER THREE</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_23">XXIII. WYVERN HOUSE</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_24">XXIV. RHONA'S REAL UNCLE</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_25">XXV. TOGETHER AGAIN</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_26">XXVI. GATHERING UP THE THREADS</a></p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<p class="t2">
+<b>NUMBER THREE, WINIFRED PLACE.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image004" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image004.jpg" alt="image004">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_1">CHAPTER I.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>A STRANGER.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"THERE'S a ring at the door! I shouldn't wonder if it was somebody
+after lodgings! Look sharp, will you, Bertha, and don't go to sleep
+on the way. I never in all my life saw such a dawdle as that girl,"
+concluded Mrs. Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>It was a dismal afternoon in November. No actual rain had fallen since
+early morning, but the air reeked with damp, the sky was shut off by
+a dense haze overhead, and slush lay thickly on roads and pavements,
+while the thermometer stood at only one degree above freezing-point.
+Foot-passengers were hurrying to and fro, with a very evident dislike
+of the outer atmosphere, a very plain intention to get quickly through
+their divers businesses.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell's shop, No. 3 of a row, lay close to one of the greater
+thoroughfares, though actually situated in a side street. In Mrs.
+Burrell's estimation, the locality was "quiet": for though the rumble
+of traffic went on unceasingly, the said traffic did not pass her
+door. But some lodgers in Albert Terrace were wont to hold a different
+opinion.</p>
+
+<p>The shop was well stocked with wools and fancywork of all descriptions,
+with Shetland shawls, worsted comforters, dainty work-baskets lined and
+unlined, supplemented by countless ornamental knick-knacks.</p>
+
+<p>Part of the street was given up to shops, part to private houses, part
+to lodging-houses, pure and simple; not every one caring, like Mrs.
+Burrell, to combine the two vocations.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell herself was in appearance an eminently respectable and
+superior person, about fifty years of age, tall and upright in figure,
+with a sallow complexion and strongly-marked features. The curl in
+the end of her long nose, and the droop at each corner of her mouth,
+told tales of an uncomfortable temper; and her unsmiling eyes seemed
+to be ever on the look-out for something or somebody to blame. She had
+never yet learnt the happy and needful art of "shutting her eyes to
+things," had never yet realised the profound truth that other people's
+faults can no more be cured in a day than our own can be. Expecting
+absolute perfection in everybody—except of course in herself,—and
+failing to find what she looked for, she lived in a state of chronic
+dissatisfaction.</p>
+
+<p>So Mrs. Burrell's pretty daughter, Hope, and still more, her sad-faced
+orphan niece, Bertha Stephens, and most of all her over-driven
+maid-of-all-work, Hannah Hoskyns, had altogether rather a "hard life of
+it," especially in the London season. Nothing so shadows the individual
+lives in a household as the perpetual presence of even one habitual
+grumbler, male or female.</p>
+
+<p>As it was not now the season, Mrs. Burrell's "upstairs apartments"
+were empty, and had been empty for more than a fortnight. This was a
+somewhat unusual event, however. Mrs. Burrell's "connection" was so
+good, that even when London was most deserted, her rooms were often
+occupied.</p>
+
+<p>Business in the shop had been slack that afternoon. Mrs. Burrell found
+time, without difficulty, to sit down to tea with her daughter and
+niece in the small parlour behind, keeping watch through the glass door
+for possible customers. Once a young lady in sable furs appeared, and
+Hope was despatched to meet a demand for "one skein of white Andalusian
+wool." Then came the ring at the side-door, which "might mean lodgers;"
+and Bertha disappeared.</p>
+
+<p>"I never saw such a dawdle as that girl—never, in all my days,"
+repeated Mrs. Burrell. "If your father, now, had had an idea of what he
+was asking me to undertake when he made me promise to keep her—"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, mother, if we didn't have Bertha, we should be obliged to get in
+somebody else to do her work," said Hope.</p>
+
+<p>"Then I hope it would be somebody I could depend upon," responded Mrs.
+Burrell. "Which is more than I can say for you two girls. I'm sure
+the trouble and the worry and the plague I have to keep things going,
+nobody knows."</p>
+
+<p>Hope shrugged her shoulders, yawned, and drank her tea. Mrs. Burrell's
+mode of incessant faultfinding told ill upon this only daughter,
+inducing carelessness and a growing spirit of hardness, where a few
+words of kind encouragement would have made her willing to do her
+utmost. But—"nothing ever pleased mother," Hope was wont to say—"so
+where was the use of trying?" She had not been brought up by that
+mother to work from any higher motive.</p>
+
+<p>The effect of the same treatment upon Bertha was different. A higher
+motive, lacking in Hope, was present in Bertha. She did not toil the
+less hard, though certainly she toiled the more hopelessly, so far as
+regarded the satisfying of Mrs. Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>Bertha was not pretty, yet her face would have been very pleasant but
+for its singular sadness of expression. The downcast grey eyes were
+soft and pathetic, and she had a shrinking manner, as if labouring
+under a constant expectation of being blamed.</p>
+
+<p>As a matter of fact, Bertha Stephens was expeditious in almost
+everything that she undertook. But Mrs. Burrell, deceived by her
+quietness, never could believe that she was not wasting her time. Some
+people count "speed" to be synonymous with "bustle."</p>
+
+<p>"Well—here you are at last!" was the greeting she received on her
+return. "Who was it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Only a mistake," Bertha answered. "A gentleman came to the wrong door."</p>
+
+<p>"I thought it was something important, you were gone such a time."</p>
+
+<p>Bertha sat down silently, making no attempt at self-defence.</p>
+
+<p>"Have you finished putting up those curtains?" asked Mrs. Burrell, in
+a needlessly sharp manner. The question might just as well have been
+uttered kindly.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, aunt."</p>
+
+<p>"You have been long enough about it, I hope! And the spots on the
+bedroom carpet,—of course you haven't seen to them."</p>
+
+<p>Bertha looked perplexed. "Which spots?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>"As if you did not know. Don't pretend, Bertha. The best bedroom, of
+course. I showed them to you yesterday evening."</p>
+
+<p>"You showed them to me, mother, not to Bertha," said Hope.</p>
+
+<p>"Bertha knows better," said Mrs. Burrell curtly.</p>
+
+<p>Bertha evidently did not know better. She remained silent.</p>
+
+<p>"You will please to see to that as soon as ever you have done your tea.
+Anybody may call any day after lodgings, and I must have the place fit
+to be looked at. There's some one else come, Hope. Be quick."</p>
+
+<p>Reluctantly Hope rose, leaving half a cup of tea to grow cold, and made
+her way into the shop. This customer kept her longer than the last had
+done.</p>
+
+<p>Hope at length was free to turn once more towards the back-parlour. But
+hardly had she so turned, when she was arrested by a slight sound in
+her rear.</p>
+
+<p>A lady had entered, and stood there,—quite a young lady, if one might
+judge from appearances, yet dressed in deep mourning, with a black
+crape veil falling behind, and a widow's cap within the bonnet. She
+was rather above medium height and slenderly made, with small hands
+clasping and unclasping each other continually. A red spot showed in
+either cheek, the dark eyes were dilated, while the muscles round the
+delicate mouth quivered with incessant motion.</p>
+
+<p>"Can I show you anything, ma'am?" asked Hope.</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you, no. I am not come to buy," the lady said, in a hurried yet
+gentle and gracious manner. "I believe—I believe you have lodgings in
+this house to let."</p>
+
+<p>"Will you wait a moment, please? I'll call my mother," said Hope.</p>
+
+<p>The lady remained motionless till Mrs. Burrell appeared, when she
+mechanically advanced towards the counter.</p>
+
+<p>"I have been recommended to come to you," she said, in the same nervous
+though sweet voice which she had before addressed to Hope. "You have, I
+am told, rooms to let."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, ma'am," Mrs. Burrell answered agreeably. "How many would you
+please to want?"</p>
+
+<p>"It is only for my little girl and myself. Your rooms are vacant now, I
+believe—at this present moment. I could come to you without delay?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, ma'am," repeated Mrs. Burrell, for the last words had been
+uttered questioningly.</p>
+
+<p>"I mean literally without delay—this afternoon," continued the lady,
+speaking again very hurriedly. "Circumstances have obliged me—There are
+reasons why I wish to leave my present rooms at once—immediately. It is
+not easy to find exactly what I want at such short notice, especially
+as I am a stranger to this part of London."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell was silent, looking with some wonder at the speaker's
+agitated lips.</p>
+
+<p>"Indeed, I might say I am a stranger to London altogether." A faint
+smile accompanied the words, but was quickly lost in the painful
+quivering of every muscle. "Perhaps you would kindly—"</p>
+
+<p>"Would you like to come inside and sit down, ma'am?" asked Mrs.
+Burrell, as the lady came to a sudden pause, pressing one hand to her
+side. "I'm afraid you are not very well."</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you, no,—no; it is nothing. I must not waste a moment. The truth
+is, I have been a little upset to-day, and not being very strong—but it
+does not matter. If you would kindly tell me what rooms you have—"</p>
+
+<p>"Three, commonly. Sometimes I throw in a fourth," said Mrs. Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>"That would be much more than I need. But you do not let them all
+together?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, no; I like that best, ma'am, but I don't stand out for it," said
+Mrs. Burrell. "In the autumn, I had a gentleman and his wife in the
+parlour and best bedroom, and there was a single gentleman in the back
+bedroom. It's a tidy room enough, but there is no parlour belonging to
+it. I've turned the little lumber-room into a servant's room once in a
+way, but it is a trouble, and I don't care to have it to do."</p>
+
+<p>"I think the one bedroom at the back might suit us," said the lady.
+"I cannot offer high terms. It is only for myself and my little girl,
+so we could manage nicely with one room. My little girl is only eight
+years old, and I shall have to leave her alone for several hours every
+day, while I am out—teaching." The speaker's lips trembled anew, as
+if this were a state of things to which she was not accustomed. "I am
+anxious to be in a house where she will be just a little looked after,
+and where I can leave her safely. She never gives trouble or gets into
+mischief. Still I do feel uneasy when she is alone, and your clergyman,
+Mr. Powis, told me—"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, are you a friend of Mr. Powis', ma'am?" Mrs. Burrell had not
+entirely liked the aspect of affairs hitherto, but now her face cleared.</p>
+
+<p>The lady hesitated. "I cannot quite say that, but Mr. Powis mentioned
+your name to me, and assured me that we should be comfortable here."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think you need be uneasy, ma'am," Mrs. Burrell said, with
+complacency. "Though it isn't, of course, for me to say it; I never do
+have complaints as to any want of comfort. Mr. Powis often sends his
+friends to me; indeed, his recommendations have been helpful. He is
+a good man,—a very good man is Mr. Powis. He'll never fail to go out
+of his way to do a kindness to anybody, and that's what I like in a
+clergyman. It's fine to be a grand preacher, there's no doubt, but I
+like a clergyman who'll take a little trouble for the sake of folks."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell was really grateful to Mr. Powis for his frequent
+"recommendations" of her lodgings. She endeavoured to show her
+gratitude by forming one of his congregation at least once every
+Sunday. And if she rarely exerted herself to listen to his sermons, she
+rarely missed an opportunity of praising him.</p>
+
+<p>"I am sure he is a good man," responded the lady,—"though indeed I
+cannot claim more than a bare acquaintance with him. But now will you
+kindly let me see your rooms? My name is Mordaunt—Mrs. Mordaunt."</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_2">CHAPTER II.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>MR. POWIS' VISITOR.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"YOU'LL have to look sharp, and get—why, where is Bertha?" asked Mrs.
+Burrell, entering the little parlour, with an air of perturbation.</p>
+
+<p>"Gone upstairs," said Hope.</p>
+
+<p>"That girl is never at hand when I want her. And you have no business
+here, Hope. Why are you not in the shop?"</p>
+
+<p>"What did the lady want?" asked Hope, by way of answer.</p>
+
+<p>"She is a Mrs. Mordaunt, and she has taken the back room. There isn't a
+moment to be lost, for it must be ready in less than two hours."</p>
+
+<p>"Two hours!" repeated Hope.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I don't know why. She is in some sort of trouble, and obliged to
+move in a hurry. She seemed dreadfully upset and flurried, poor thing."</p>
+
+<p>"Only one lady?" asked Hope.</p>
+
+<p>"There is a child too. You wouldn't think it, to look at her, but she
+has a child eight years old. It seems odd, a lady being content with
+one room, but it's easy to see she's poor. She goes out teaching. But
+she's a lady, and no mistake, so I suppose she's been reduced. I only
+hope I shall get my money regular."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I dare say that will be all right," said Hope.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm not so sure. There's no telling beforehand. I had my doubts from
+the first, and if she hadn't come from Mr. Powis, I wouldn't have
+fitted in things so easy for her. But Mr. Powis sending any one makes a
+difference."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Powis' name might this time have made rather less difference in the
+landlady's estimation, could she, by virtue of some unwonted power,
+have taken a backward glance into the study of St. Andrew's Rectory,
+less than one hour previously.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>Mr. Powis was a tall and shy-mannered man, apt to be taken with bashful
+or silent fits, and never ready in speech. But he was, as Mrs. Burrell
+had said, and in a deeper sense than Mrs. Burrell had meant, a good
+man,—earnest and hearty in work for God, ready and self-forgetting in
+work for man. He was in appearance plain-featured, and at first sight
+not attractive. Yet people who went to him in trouble did not think him
+plain; and children were the last to count him unattractive.</p>
+
+<p>He had been busy over his sermon that afternoon, when there came an
+interruption. Could he see a lady—a stranger? Mr. Powis hesitated.
+Would some other time do equally well? He was very much occupied. The
+answer returned was—No; it must be "now." Would Mr. Powis spare just
+five minutes?</p>
+
+<p>The sermon-sheets were pushed aside, and a young fair woman in deep
+mourning appeared. She was even more tremulous and agitated then, than
+a little later at Mrs. Burrell's. He shook hands kindly and handed
+her to a chair, interested at once in her look, and foreseeing also
+at once that the five minutes were likely to prove elastic in nature.
+Mr. Powis could, however, bear an interruption patiently if there were
+a sufficient cause; and he read cause enough in the troubled face
+opposite.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt was the first to break the brief silence. Twice she tried
+in vain, voice failing her. The third attempt was successful.</p>
+
+<p>"I am a stranger here," she said faintly. "I have no friends in
+London—no friends in England. My home has always been abroad,—and now
+it is all changed. I am a widow—and an orphan. I have come to beg your
+advice."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Powis signified his readiness to advise, more by gesture than by
+utterance.</p>
+
+<p>"I must not take up your time—more than I can help," she went on
+hurriedly, with occasional pauses as if for breath. "But I have no
+friends,—none,—and I do so need one. And I have heard you preach
+once,—only once,—and I thought you would help me."</p>
+
+<p>"Take time about it. Don't distress yourself," said Mr. Powis, pushing
+his papers farther to one side. "There is no need for haste. You are
+suffering,—ill, I am afraid."</p>
+
+<p>"No, no, not ill. I have only been so cruelly agitated this morning,
+I cannot get over it. And I have no one to turn to—no one to help me.
+But you will be a friend—" and she looked up at him imploringly, like a
+child.</p>
+
+<p>"I will do what I can indeed," he said. "Tell me your difficulty."</p>
+
+<p>"I am encompassed with difficulties. I don't know how to breathe or
+how to move. And yet I must move, at once. I want to find lodgings in
+your Parish, if possible, to go into this afternoon. And I thought you
+would perhaps tell me where to inquire. I want to find a house where my
+little girl would be cared for, while I am out all day, teaching. That
+will have to be my work—teaching. Can you help me to find pupils?"</p>
+
+<p>"Wait—one thing at a time," he said slowly. "You want lodgings for
+yourself and your child." He spoke the last word wonderingly. "I
+suppose she is quite tiny—poor little one."</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona is close upon nine years old, and in mind is twice that. She
+has always been my friend and companion. You think me younger than I
+am!"—for he had uttered an exclamation.</p>
+
+<p>"You look hardly over twenty."</p>
+
+<p>"I am twenty-seven. I was only seventeen when I married. My husband
+was a clergyman, a chaplain in Italy. Before that I lived in the south
+of France, with my parents. So England is a strange land to me. I was
+an only child, and my parents are gone, and six months ago my husband
+was taken. I have only my little Rhona left, and 'very' little to live
+upon. So it is needful for me to work."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Powis made a sound of commiseration, and then thought silently.
+"Your husband's relatives," he said at length. "Are there none? Or will
+they do nothing?"</p>
+
+<p>A rush of colour suffused her pale face. "No, no,—I can ask nothing of
+them. I must work for myself."</p>
+
+<p>"But perhaps if they knew and realised the state of your affairs—"</p>
+
+<p>"No, no," she said feverishly. "I cannot go to them—again. Oh no, it is
+impossible. If you knew all, you would say the same. They have always
+disliked me, and we have always been strangers. I must keep out of
+their way."</p>
+
+<p>"You have not seen any of them since your coming to England?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—I 'have!'" she said with an effort. "I cannot again. That is at
+an end. It is quite at an end. I stand alone now, and I must stand
+alone. By-and-by my Rhona will work for me, but now I have to work for
+her. Will you not help me to find pupils? That is all I ask."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Powis again studied the question seriously, in his deliberate
+fashion, playing with a paper-knife.</p>
+
+<p>"I have not told you my name," she said. "It is Mary Mordaunt. I trust
+you to take no steps whatever without my consent—I mean as regards
+my husband's relatives. If you hear of any Mordaunts at any time, or
+come across them, do not reveal where I am. I want only to get a quiet
+corner for myself and my child, and just enough work to eke out a
+living. You see I do not expect great things!" And she smiled sadly.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you think you have strength for what you propose?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes, yes!—I am stronger than you would suppose. Only I cannot
+stand agitation. Since Arthur's death, I have been subject to this
+tremulousness—a kind of throbbing from head to foot. The least emotion
+brings it on, and my feelings have been cruelly tried to-day. But I do
+not mind work—any amount! And I know I have a gift for teaching. When I
+am peacefully alone with Rhona—away from discords—I shall be perfectly
+well."</p>
+
+<p>Then Mr. Powis thought of Mrs. Burrell, and he told his visitor all
+about her.</p>
+
+<p>"Let me know if you decide to go there," he said. "But about the
+question of teaching—"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, about that!" she said earnestly.</p>
+
+<p>"I am rather in a difficulty, knowing so little of you." He was touched
+with her almost girlish simplicity in the matter. "People are usually
+rather particular in their inquiries."</p>
+
+<p>"But you shall know more—I will tell you anything you wish. I think
+it will be easy to satisfy you. And there is one kind old friend, a
+French 'pasteur,' who will confirm all I say, if you care to write to
+him. My father was in the Indian army till he retired, and we settled
+down abroad. And my education has been a very thorough one. It used to
+be thought that I might have to teach one day—before I was engaged, I
+mean. I could undertake all the plain branches, and music and singing
+and drawing—only not German. French and Italian are almost the same to
+me as English."</p>
+
+<p>"And—excuse me—your religious opinions?"</p>
+
+<p>"When I heard you preach, it was just what my husband would have said,"
+she answered, with a luminous gleam in her eyes. "I have always thought
+the same as Arthur. You can ask me any questions you like—another day."</p>
+
+<p>"When was it that you heard me?" he asked, rising as she rose.</p>
+
+<p>"Three Sundays ago. I have only been in London a few weeks. Some one
+spoke of you; and Rhona and I wandered off together. It was a very long
+walk, too long for either of us, and I could not attempt it again. But
+when I found myself in perplexity and trouble, my first impulse was to
+come to you."</p>
+
+<p>"You cannot recall the text of the sermon, I suppose?"</p>
+
+<p>Her lips could hardly form the words,—</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'A Father of the fatherless, and a Judge of the widows, is God in His
+holy habitation.'"<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, I remember," he said, as two burning tears fell. "Poor thing! But
+you will not say again, as you did just now, that you have no friend."</p>
+
+<p>"I never say such things to Rhona," she answered brokenly. "I would not
+for worlds utter a word to disturb my child's faith. Rhona seems to
+live in an atmosphere quite above all doubts, and she does not know the
+difference between herself and me. I do believe, but I am at a lower
+level. I cannot see—cannot realise. Your sermon helped me,—if it would
+but last. Nothing lasts, except the darkness and the sorrow. Perhaps,
+if I were to hear you every Sunday, I might feel differently. I must
+not wait longer now. I have to find the lodgings, and to bring Rhona
+away quickly from where we are now. Good-bye, and thank you for all
+your kindness."</p>
+
+<p>"We shall see more of you, Mrs. Mordaunt. You must come and make my
+wife's acquaintance, for she is tied to her sofa, and cannot go to
+you," were Mr. Powis' parting words.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_3">CHAPTER III.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>MOTHER AND CHILD.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>MRS. BURRELL'S apartments, when empty, were kept always in readiness
+for use at short notice.</p>
+
+<p>Still, a good many minor arrangements had to be made, and the two hours
+proved by no means too long a time for all that needed to be done. Mrs.
+Burrell had scarcely finished a final light dusting of the room, when a
+cab stopped at the side-door, through which lodgers went in and out.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell was speedily there, wearing the agreeable manner which she
+rarely failed to put on towards strangers. It was a pity that she did
+not oftener wear the same manner in her own little home-circle.</p>
+
+<p>The cab bore upon its roof a goodly amount of luggage. Mrs. Mordaunt
+entered the house first, with a quiet step and graceful bearing.
+Every trace of the nervous agitation, visible two hours earlier, had
+vanished. Close behind her came a delicate small-limbed child bearing a
+bird-cage swathed in brown paper, and having a face of rare beauty.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell involuntarily exclaimed, "My! What a pretty creature!"</p>
+
+<p>And the wonderfully soft dark eyes were lifted to hers, with an
+expression which seemed to signify grave rebuke.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell was for the moment struck dumb. Bertha, standing behind,
+was absolutely thrilled by the sight of that little fair face, with its
+peach-bloom tinting and its broad serene brow. Her lonely heart went
+out with a bound, and clung to the vision of childish loveliness.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, shall I go upstairs and see our room, while you have the
+boxes brought in?" were Rhona's first words, uttered in a voice which
+rivalled Mrs. Mordaunt's for sweetness.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, certainly, darling. Some one will show you the way."</p>
+
+<p>"Bertha can go," said Mrs. Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>The child gave her a glance, and then went slowly up the first flight,
+clasping her burden tightly, and declining assistance.</p>
+
+<p>"No, I do everything myself for Fay," she said, in her serious voice.
+"Is that the room? Mother described the house to me as we came, so I
+thought I should know. Please open the door, because my hands are full.
+Oh, what a nice cosy room! And such a bright fire!"</p>
+
+<p>Rhona deposited the cage on a table, and looked round with flushing
+cheeks. "So nice!" she repeated. "And a bookcase for our books!"</p>
+
+<p>Then she walked to the window, and was silent. A small court-yard lay
+below, and a high blank wall rose opposite. Rhona sighed twice heavily,
+as if with a feeling of oppression, and turned away.</p>
+
+<p>"But I like the room itself," she said. "It seems cosy. Mother will be
+able to rest here. There isn't any noise."</p>
+
+<p>"It is always quiet at the back of the house," said Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"I am glad of that. Mother does feel the noise so much. Please, will
+you help me get the brown paper off my cage?"</p>
+
+<p>Bertha obeyed, looking once or twice at the child's fading colour.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona began by helping her, but left off suddenly, and sat down on
+a chair close to the table, leaning an elbow on it, and resting her
+broad forehead on one of her little hands, while the dark eyes watched
+Bertha's movements earnestly.</p>
+
+<p>"Please don't be too quick. Fay is so easily frightened," she said, in
+a low voice.</p>
+
+<p>"I think you are tired, Miss Rhona," Bertha said.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—oh, very," Rhona answered, with another long breath. "This has
+been such a dreadful day. I can't bear to see mother worried."</p>
+
+<p>Then without changing her position, but with a look of interest, she
+added,—"Are you the landlady's daughter?"</p>
+
+<p>Bertha shook her head. "Then you must be the niece. Mother said there
+were two. Have you lived here always? Is the landlady kind to you? Have
+you any father or mother?"</p>
+
+<p>Bertha made another negative motion. "Mother died last summer, and
+father years ago, and I have nobody else belonging to me," she said
+huskily. "I have only been here six months. It isn't home."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona's eyes were full in a moment, not overflowing, but brimming with
+unshed sympathetic tears. "I am so sorry,—oh, so sorry," she said,
+putting her hand on Bertha's arm. "My father died too, and that is
+why we are in such trouble. We used to live with him in Italy, and it
+was so lovely. But God took father away, and then we had to come to
+England. He took your mother too, didn't He? I think it must be almost
+worse for you than for me, because I have darling mother still."</p>
+
+<p>Bertha was strangely comforted by the child's pity. All these past
+months she had been nursing her grief, struggling on in uncomplaining
+sorrow, knowing herself to be unwelcome under her aunt's roof, yet
+having no other home. Mrs. Burrell clearly disliked her, and from
+Hope she met with little more than indifference. Under a simple sense
+of duty, Bertha had striven persistently to do her best, but joy and
+loving-kindness seemed to have faded out of her life. Now, suddenly, a
+little sunbeam had fallen across her way.</p>
+
+<p>"So mother and I can both feel for you,—oh, so much," continued Rhona,
+a checked sob rising in her throat. And then, with a look of pain, she
+put her hand to her brow. "I can't bear to see anybody unhappy; it
+makes me 'ache,'" she added pitifully. "Poor Bertha! I dare say it was
+just as bad for you to come away from your home to Mrs. Burrell's, as
+it was for us to leave dear Italy. I don't mean exactly 'bad.' Mother
+and I couldn't complain, because God's will is always right. But we
+were very very sorry, and that is not wrong, for the Lord Jesus was
+sorry, and He wept. Mother did cry so dreadfully at first, and then I
+always liked to think about His tears. Because He could understand it
+all so well. Some people don't seem able to understand at all."</p>
+
+<p>"And you don't like London, Miss Rhona?" asked Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"No," said Rhona sadly. "Not yet. Perhaps some day I shall, but
+everything is so different. If only we could have gone on living
+in Italy, and if mother need not work! Only that isn't God's will;
+and mother says we must be willing,—we must not want to choose for
+ourselves. When that feeling comes of wanting Italy so much, it must be
+temptation. Don't you think so?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know," faltered Bertha. Mrs. Burrell might be wanting her all
+this time, and she knew it; yet she stood as if fascinated, drinking in
+every word.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes, you do. Everything is a temptation that makes us want to have
+things different from God's will," said the child, with a curious flash
+of her eyes. "He loves us so much, and He always knows what is best.
+How can we know? We just have to be patient now. But by-and-by,—oh,
+won't it be different?"</p>
+
+<p>"By-and-by, when you are grown up, Miss Rhona?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I did not mean that at all. I didn't mean growing up. I meant the
+great wonderful 'by-and-by,' when mother and I shall see my own father
+again, and the Lord Jesus will be our King for ever. And we shall be
+'with Him' then," added the child, in tones of awe-struck realisation,
+while her lips were grave, and her eyes shone. "Don't you know? Don't
+you remember—</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty'?<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you think very often about that time when you are sad?"</p>
+
+<p>Bertha was positively pale and trembling with undefined feelings.</p>
+
+<p>She said, "No, Miss Rhona, I don't."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona looked earnestly at her before speaking. Then there was a low,
+"Poor Bertha! It is much worse for you than for us."</p>
+
+<p>Bertha involuntarily asked, "Why?"</p>
+
+<p>"I think I'll tell you another time," said Rhona gently. "I am so tired
+now, and Fay wants his seed; and they are bringing up the boxes. But I
+am glad we have come here. I do like you so much."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell's voice was audible outside, containing some smothered
+indignation. "Bertha! What are you after? Just come and help, will you,
+and be quick."</p>
+
+<p>The child's tired eyes gave a flash of half-comical meaning. "I should
+think Mrs. Burrell was cross sometimes," she said softly. "But go, you
+nice Bertha—don't stop."</p>
+
+<p>Fay had to wait longer for his seed. There was a bustle in the room for
+some minutes, boxes being carried in and placed here or there. When the
+business was accomplished, they found that Rhona had coiled herself up
+in the corner of the hard sofa, and was sound asleep. One little hand
+supported her cheek, and a look of sorrow rested still upon the brow.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell had gone downstairs.</p>
+
+<p>And Bertha, lingering to see if anything more were needed, murmured
+involuntarily—"She's a beautiful child, ma'am."</p>
+
+<p>"Poor little pet!" the young mother said sadly. "It is such a baby-face
+in sleep, yet she is years beyond her age in mind."</p>
+
+<p>"She doesn't look strong," said Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"No, she feels everything so acutely. They tell me her brain is far too
+active. She ought to have fresh country air, and not be allowed to read
+or think too much. But—" the pause following was expressive.</p>
+
+<p>Before either could speak, Rhona stirred, and—"Oh, poor Bertha!" broke
+from her.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt gave one surprised glance at her companion.</p>
+
+<p>Bertha volunteered no explanation.</p>
+
+<p>"I think we will have our tea before I begin to unpack. Just tea and
+bread and butter, if you please," said Mrs. Mordaunt.</p>
+
+<p>Bertha disappeared.</p>
+
+<p>And Mrs. Mordaunt, with a sudden movement, knelt down beside the couch,
+her hands locked together. "O Rhona—my little Rhona, my own little
+darling!" she murmured passionately. "Thank God, I have you still."</p>
+
+<p>For a moment her face was hidden. Then she looked up, to find Rhona's
+eyes fixed upon her.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, are you crying? Has anything fresh happened?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, no, darling. I am only a little upset by all we have gone through.
+It is over now. See what a nice comfortable corner we have found."</p>
+
+<p>"You don't think they will find us out and come here, mother?" asked
+Rhona anxiously.</p>
+
+<p>"No, indeed, pet. How could they?" asked Mrs. Mordaunt, smiling, and
+smoothing the child's hair tenderly. "But we have had an exciting day,
+and I don't wonder that this little head is hot."</p>
+
+<p>"I had such a pain before I went to sleep, and it isn't gone yet," said
+Rhona wearily. "Bertha was telling me about herself. She has no home
+and no father or mother, and she doesn't look happy. I do wish nobody
+had any troubles!" And the child sighed.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_4">CHAPTER IV.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>ANOTHER LODGER.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"YOU may as well get something to do, Hope, and not sit wasting your
+time like that," said Mrs. Burrell with some sharpness.</p>
+
+<p>It was the evening of Christmas Day; consequently shops were closed,
+and business was at a standstill. Mrs. Burrell did not, like many of
+her neighbours, go in for Christmas festivities. She counted such
+doings a waste of time and of money. Beyond the presence of her
+favourite nephew, Neil Burrell, a young Parish schoolmaster, who
+usually spent his holidays under her roof, there was little to mark the
+date.</p>
+
+<p>Snow had fallen heavily for some hours, and when evening came, the
+weather proved to be such that no one could venture out,—not even Hope,
+under her cousin Neil's guardianship. She was vexed at the deprivation,
+and sat discontentedly before the fire, while her mother and Bertha
+plied their needles, and Neil busied himself with a book. He was a
+quiet intelligent young man, more given to reading than to talking, as
+a rule.</p>
+
+<p>The drawing-room apartments were empty still. Mrs. Burrell lived in
+daily expectation of fresh lodgers, and hitherto she had been daily
+disappointed.</p>
+
+<p>"It is Christmas Day," Hope answered, without turning her head. "I
+don't see any need to sew on Christmas Day."</p>
+
+<p>"There's no need to waste your time, whatever day it is," rejoined Mrs.
+Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>Hope gaped listlessly. "I wish something would happen. It is so stupid,
+spending Christmas just like any other day. Except of course that we
+shut up, and that Neil is here. But Neil only sits and reads."</p>
+
+<p>Neil good-naturedly laid down his book. "How is the poor lady upstairs
+getting on, aunt Burrell?" he asked, by way of conversation.</p>
+
+<p>"What makes you call her 'poor'?" Hope inquired.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I don't know. She can't be very rich to live in only one
+room,—and she carries trouble in her face."</p>
+
+<p>"I am sure I should be troubled about that child, if I was her," said
+Mrs. Burrell, adjusting a seam.</p>
+
+<p>Bertha asked,—"Why?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why? It's easy to see she isn't long for this world," said Mrs.
+Burrell. "I never came across such a child. The way she talks, it isn't
+natural. It's like an old woman that has had her fill of life,—and
+she scarcely nine years old! I don't mean to say she is going to die
+directly. But you mark my words,—she will never grow up."</p>
+
+<p>"People can't tell beforehand," said Neil, noting Bertha's distress.</p>
+
+<p>"She would be a pretty child, if she wasn't so grave," said Hope.</p>
+
+<p>"I think her lovely," murmured Bertha. "It is a little angel's face."</p>
+
+<p>"That's just what I say," Mrs. Burrell remarked conclusively. "She has
+the look of one who isn't long for this world. You can believe me or
+not as you like. Just you wait and see. I know!"</p>
+
+<p>The bell at the side-door tingled furiously.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is that, I wonder?" Hope said.</p>
+
+<p>"Bertha can answer it," said Mrs. Burrell. "Hannah is busy upstairs. Be
+quick, and don't keep people waiting."</p>
+
+<p>"I heard a cab," said Neil.</p>
+
+<p>The others ascribed this to imagination. Yet when Bertha opened the
+door, letting in a rush of icy air and snow-flakes, there in very truth
+was a cab, dimly visible. Bertha shivered, but stood her ground. A
+gentleman descended with deliberation, picked his way across the snowy
+pavement, and entered.</p>
+
+<p>"You can wait," he said peremptorily to the cabman, and then to Bertha,
+with equal peremptoriness, "Shut the door."</p>
+
+<p>Bertha obeyed, not without an instant's hesitation. She found herself
+confronted by an elderly man, muffled up to the eyes in wraps. The
+said eyes surveyed her sharply, from beneath a pair of overgrown grey
+eyebrows.</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Burrell's?" he asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"I wish to see the lodgings,—vacant now, I am told."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir. I'll call Mrs. Burrell," Bertha answered, in accordance with
+repeated instructions.</p>
+
+<p>"Stop. How many rooms?"</p>
+
+<p>"Drawing-room and best bedroom," said Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"Humph! No other?"</p>
+
+<p>"I think a small servant's room could be fitted up. Mrs. Burrell does
+it sometimes."</p>
+
+<p>"That would do. A box-room, not for a servant. Any other lodgers?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir; a lady."</p>
+
+<p>"No babies?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir, only one little girl."</p>
+
+<p>"Past the crying age?"</p>
+
+<p>Bertha could have smiled. "Yes, quite," she said.</p>
+
+<p>"Doesn't race about or make a racket?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir. I never knew a quieter child."</p>
+
+<p>"How old?"</p>
+
+<p>"About nine," said Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"Too young. Much too young," said the gentleman, with an odd
+expression. "Well, well, the rooms may do, perhaps."</p>
+
+<p>"I will call Mrs. Burrell, if you please," began Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"Stop a moment—stop a moment. No such hurry. Parlour faces south, eh?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir, and the bedroom too."</p>
+
+<p>"Cooking good?" He lowered his voice to a confidential tone. "Be
+honest and speak out. It's no earthly use my coming if the cooking
+isn't good. I shouldn't stay a week. Good cooking is an essential with
+me—absolutely an essential."</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Burrell is a first-rate cook," said Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"Come, that promises well. Does it all herself, hey?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir, but she sees to it all, and does a good deal."</p>
+
+<p>"Come, that's fair. Knows how to roast and stew and bake, and all the
+rest of it? Soup and fish; curries—'ragoûts'—everything of that sort,
+eh?"</p>
+
+<p>"I think Mrs. Burrell could undertake whatever you are likely to want,"
+said Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"Good. You look as if you were speaking the truth too."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell suddenly appeared on the scene, inwardly wrathful at not
+having been summoned.</p>
+
+<p>"You can go!" she said in an undertone to Bertha, when some words of
+explanation had been uttered, and a private glance of displeasure
+was shot sideways. Then with a genial and smiling air, Mrs. Burrell
+addressed herself to the task of escorting her visitor upstairs.</p>
+
+<p>"That isn't a bad-looking girl," he remarked.</p>
+
+<p>"She's one of the best girls that ever was," said Mrs. Burrell, with an
+alacrity which would have amazed Bertha. "Just one of the old-fashioned
+sort, thorough in her work, and don't mind how much she has to do, and
+always has a pleasant manner."</p>
+
+<p>"Knows how to wait at table?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir. Bertha always waits on the drawing-room lodgers."</p>
+
+<p>"Ha! So this is the parlour. Well—it might be worse. Tolerable as to
+size. You don't call that daub a picture, I hope. Better have bare
+walls than daubs. Never mind; I have pictures of my own, so it doesn't
+matter. Bedroom over this, I suppose. The girl said it faced south. One
+of these windows ought to be a bow. How large is the third room? Big
+enough to hold lumber? Yes, yes,—I'll see them both directly. May as
+well tell me your terms first."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell obeyed, and found no objections offered.</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose you could have all made ready for me in a couple of
+days. Hotel life does not suit me, and I want to be settled for a
+time. No,—on second thoughts I shall not be able to come till next
+Thursday—if I decide to have your rooms. By-the-bye, you don't have any
+piano-strumming near?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir; not even next-door."</p>
+
+<p>"Neither side? Rare that, in London. And you are not musical
+yourselves, I hope?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir," repeated Mrs. Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>"If I come, I am likely to stay. I don't care for changes."</p>
+
+<p>At this moment, to Mrs. Burrell's horror, the sound of a soft
+"contralto" came floating across the passage, through the shut door of
+the back bedroom.</p>
+
+<p>"Mercy! What's that?" exclaimed the gentleman.</p>
+
+<p>But when Mrs. Burrell would have spoken, he held up his hand,
+authoritatively imposing silence. They stood silent; the gentleman
+listening and the landlady chafing. Every word was distinct.</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+<br>
+"'For ever with the Lord!'<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Amen; so let it be!<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;Life from the dead is in that word,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;'Tis immortality.<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;Here in the body pent,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Absent from Him I roam,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;Yet nightly pitch my moving tent<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A day's march nearer Home.<br>
+&nbsp;<br>
+&nbsp;"My Father's House on high,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Home of my soul! how near<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;At times, to faith's foreseeing eye,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Thy golden gates appear!<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;Ah! Then my spirit faints<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To reach the land I love,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;The bright inheritance of Saints,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Jerusalem above."<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell fidgeted, but fidgeted in vain. Her possible lodger
+stirred not a finger.</p>
+
+<p>There came at length a slight cough.</p>
+
+<p>And then a child's voice said,—"Don't sing any more, mother darling."</p>
+
+<p>The mother replying,—"Perhaps I had better wait a few minutes, Rhona.
+This London air seems to make me husky."</p>
+
+<p>"Montgomery!" muttered the gentleman.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell stared, and after a moment's hesitation, her perplexity
+found vent in,—"Beg pardon, sir?"</p>
+
+<p>"Montgomery! Wrote it, of course," said the gentleman impatiently.
+"Your walls appear to be uncommonly thin."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think they are, sir. And that is the first time I have heard
+the lady's voice, though she has been here more than a month. And she
+has not any piano."</p>
+
+<p>"So much the worse," the gentleman made answer unexpectedly.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell stared afresh and was mute, while conducting him upstairs.
+He surveyed the two remaining rooms almost without a remark, went back
+to the drawing-room, and stood there absently, drumming on the table
+with the fingers of one hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Very well. Next Thursday," he said, waking up suddenly.</p>
+
+<p>"You decide to take the rooms, sir?" asked Mrs. Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>"Of course. Did I not tell you so just now?"</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell wisely refrained from answering in the negative.</p>
+
+<p>He pulled out a piece of paper, wrote something, and handed it to her.</p>
+
+<p>"My name and present address. I shall send some of my luggage on the
+morning of Thursday, and come myself after luncheon. Mind you have
+the rooms well aired,—and fires laid, but not lighted till I arrive.
+Dinner at eight o'clock. I will send you word what to get for me.
+And—by-the-by, you need not say a word to Mrs. Mordaunt about her
+singing. That is not strumming, you know."</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir," assented Mrs. Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>"Good evening. Ahem! Did you say—?" And he paused again, with a rather
+curious expression. "Has she a husband living? Does he happen to be
+musical too?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Mordaunt is a widow, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"All right. Good evening."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell looked at the paper in her hand, read aloud,—"Colonel
+Smyth," and returned to the back-parlour.</p>
+
+<p>"What made you stand all that time talking to the gentleman?" she
+demanded of Bertha. "Gossiping about Mrs. Mordaunt! As if she was any
+concern of his."</p>
+
+<p>"I didn't!" Bertha answered in surprise. "He was asking about the
+rooms, and he would not let me call you sooner."</p>
+
+<p>"You mean to tell me you were not speaking of Mrs. Mordaunt?"</p>
+
+<p>"I told him there was a lady in the house, and a little girl, and
+I said she was not noisy. That was all," Bertha replied. "He asked
+questions, and I had to answer."</p>
+
+<p>"He didn't ask her name, I'll be bound," said Mrs. Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>"No, and I did not tell it him," said Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell turned upon her sharply. "Well, I did think you ware a
+truthful girl, anyway."</p>
+
+<p>Bertha's pale face flushed. "I am speaking the truth, indeed I am," she
+said. "I did not know it mattered much either way, but I am sure I did
+not say Mrs. Mordaunt's name—quite sure."</p>
+
+<p>"It doesn't matter, except that I hate gossip," said Mrs. Burrell. "And
+I hate to have a thing denied when it's been done. Why, the gentleman
+had her name as pat as could be."</p>
+
+<p>"Bertha wouldn't deny what she knew she had done," said Neil
+persuasively. "The gentleman may be an old acquaintance of Mrs.
+Mordaunt."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think he can be," said Bertha. "He did not even know whether
+we had any other lodgers in the house."</p>
+
+<p>"Well then, either you or aunt must have let slip the name, without
+thinking," said the young man.</p>
+
+<p>"Not I!" retorted Mrs. Burrell. "Gossip isn't in 'my' line. And I don't
+mean it to be in Bertha's either. So you mind!"</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_5">CHAPTER V.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>COLONEL SMYTH'S ARRANGEMENTS.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>THURSDAY came, and a supply of heavy luggage arrived, followed later by
+Colonel Smyth himself.</p>
+
+<p>Divested of outdoor wraps, he showed as an elderly man, disposed to
+stoutness, yet of upright and military carriage. He had closely cropped
+hair, iron-grey in hue, and there was a certain fierceness about
+the outline of his grizzled moustache, calculated to intimidate the
+womankind. Moreover, his glance was severe, his manner was curt, his
+voice was peremptory, and he appeared to be altogether of a particular
+and impatient disposition.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell, Hope and Bertha, not to speak of Hannah Hoskyns, were
+hard at work for hours, attending to the Colonel's requirements.
+Happily for them, shop-business was slack that afternoon; yet somebody
+had to remain always within call. Moreover, preparations for the
+Colonel's late dinner took considerable time.</p>
+
+<p>Even Neil was pressed into the service of the military man. That which
+had to be done, whether in the way of moving boxes, hanging pictures,
+or aught else, was done at once; for the Colonel would on no account
+consent to defer operations till the morrow.</p>
+
+<p>"Sharp was the word," as Mrs. Burrell privately declared, in much
+dudgeon. And if anybody failed at a glance to see and carry out the
+Colonel's will, very sharp was the blame. "I'm sure, if I had known
+what he was going to be like—! I don't know what in the world we shall
+do, if he keeps on much longer. It's enough to drive us all frantic."</p>
+
+<p>At length, the rooms were arranged; furniture was placed as the
+Colonel desired, "daubs" had given place to artistic views, lumber had
+found its way to the lumber-room, and countless fidgets had received
+attention. Books remained to be unpacked, but Colonel Smyth would trust
+no hands save his own about his beloved books. This point reached, he
+subsided for a while, and the ordinary work of the house might receive
+attention.</p>
+
+<p>"Talk of trouble," Mrs. Burrell groaned. "That man gives ten times as
+much trouble in an hour as Mrs. Mordaunt does in a week."</p>
+
+<p>"Men always do," Hope averred, out of her limited experience.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>In truth, the occupants of the back bedroom had given little enough of
+trouble that afternoon. The young widow had spent the greater part of
+her morning in a long walk, the object of which was a possibility of
+regular employment as daily governess in a private family. But the hope
+had proved delusive.</p>
+
+<p>Two hours of teaching every morning, with twenty pounds yearly by way
+of remuneration, seemed something worth grasping, in addition to her
+most slender income. Mr. Powis was actively interesting himself among
+his friends on Mrs. Mordaunt's behalf, and he had succeeded in finding
+two music-pupils, each for one hour weekly, at very low terms. It was
+something to make a beginning, he said, and Mrs. Mordaunt acquiesced.
+But as weeks passed with no further advance, difficulties loomed
+increasingly, and patience was sorely taxed.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt was not only a highly-cultivated but a
+highly-accomplished woman, thoroughly well fitted for the work of
+teaching. Yet this availed her little in London, without friends or
+recommendations. Mr. Powis spoke for her warmly, but Mr. Powis was only
+a recent acquaintance, and he had a character for being sanguine.</p>
+
+<p>Since their simple early dinner, the mother and child had spent an
+undisturbed "tête-à-tête" afternoon. Mrs. Mordaunt was busied with some
+fine needlework. And Rhona sat close beside her, threading needles,
+and chatting often as if with a wish to wile away the long hours, but
+her fair brow looked grave with a reflection of her mother's evident
+sadness. This morning's disappointment had fallen upon them heavily.</p>
+
+<p>Increasing darkness presently made needlework an impossibility. Lights
+were due; but though busy feet went to and fro in the house, no one
+entered. Mrs. Mordaunt laid carefully aside the delicate white cambric
+over which she had been employed, glad to take a few minutes' rest, for
+the morning's excursion had left her unnerved and wearied.</p>
+
+<p>As the passing minutes grew into a full half-hour, she rang the
+bell, once and twice in vain. A third effort brought Hope, dusty and
+flurried, to ask what was needed.</p>
+
+<p>"Candles, if you please, and I shall be glad of tea early," Mrs.
+Mordaunt said in her gentle way, contrasting not a little with the
+Colonel's dictatorial air.</p>
+
+<p>But whether or no Hope marked the contrast, she was speedily distracted
+by fresh demands on the part of the Colonel, and forgot all about Mrs.
+Mordaunt's needs, while Bertha was not permitted an instant's freedom.
+Mother and daughter had to sit idly in the fire-light, and tea bade
+fair to be unusually late instead of unusually early.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, I think they ought to attend to us," said Rhona soberly. "I
+don't mind your having to rest a little longer, but I do want you to
+have a cup of tea."</p>
+
+<p>"Everybody seems to be busy about the new lodger," said Mrs. Mordaunt.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—he's a Colonel," remarked Rhona. "Colonel Smyth, Bertha says. I
+wonder if we shall know him."</p>
+
+<p>"Not likely," Mrs. Mordaunt said, her lips hardly forming the words.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, you are so tired. Couldn't we ring again?" asked the child
+anxiously.</p>
+
+<p>"Better not yet. We must have a little patience, darling."</p>
+
+<p>"Then put your head down on the sofa-pillow,—so—sweet mother," Rhona
+said lovingly, as she twined a slender arm in one of Mrs. Mordaunt's,
+and bent over her, with wistful eyes. "Is that nice? Was it a very very
+long way this morning?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, rather. But I don't mind the actual distance so much, Rhona.
+It is these noisy crowded streets which try me,—and the terribly
+unprotected feeling. I cannot shake off the nervousness of that, or of
+having to speak to strangers about myself. Sometimes I feel quite ill
+with the effort,—yet I ought to be able to do what other people do.
+I am afraid you have a poor weak silly mother, darling." She did not
+often betray her feelings thus to her child, for she had a dread of
+agitating Rhona. But occasionally a passing impulse proved too strong
+for her usual principle of action.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona's pained voice in answer immediately opened her eyes to the
+mistake.</p>
+
+<p>"O mother! Don't say such things. Please don't,—it makes me so unhappy,
+You 'know' I understand. Father always took such care of you, and you
+never had to do anything alone till—till—" the poor child could hardly
+speak, for struggling sobs. "O mother! I do wish I were old enough to
+take care of you. Couldn't you let me walk with you another time? I
+should like it so much; indeed I should. And I could wait outside the
+house for you, I shouldn't mind how long. O mother! Do let me, and then
+you won't feel quite so lonely perhaps."</p>
+
+<p>"My pet, you 'do' make me ashamed of myself," Mrs. Mordaunt said,
+sitting up, and taking into her arms the little slight figure,
+quivering with distress. "Hush, darling,—don't cry, or you will make
+yourself ill, and that always gives me such a heart-ache. I will not
+call myself silly again, if it grieves you. But you know, I have to
+conquer these feelings of nervousness and weakness, darling Rhona. If I
+did not, I should be wrong, and foolish too. I 'have' to stand alone;
+and if it is God's will for me, He can give me strength. If dear father
+were here, he would wish me to do God's will bravely. So now you are
+not going to be unhappy any more. Let me see you smile!"</p>
+
+<p>The smile came, but it was dim in kind. Tears flowed in one sense
+readily with Rhona, if her feelings were stirred or hurt for others.
+But in another sense, they did not flow easily. Unlike most children,
+she could not weep without positive physical pain and after exhaustion.
+For some minutes, neither spoke; and Rhona's head lay silently on her
+mother's shoulder.</p>
+
+<p>"They seem quite to have forgotten us," Mrs. Mordaunt said at length,
+speaking cheerfully. "We shall be glad of our tea when it comes, shall
+we not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—very," Rhona said, sighing. "Mother, isn't it funny how much
+harder it seems to be patient about little things than big things? I
+wonder why. I think I feel generally pretty patient about our great
+troubles,—leaving the dear Italy home and all that. But I 'do' get
+vexed when you want your tea so much, and they won't bring it. I get
+vexed if things are uncomfortable, and there is no real reason."</p>
+
+<p>"There is always a reason," said Mrs. Mordaunt.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes,—the people of the house are busy. But that isn't a good
+reason. They ought to remember us."</p>
+
+<p>"But perhaps the good reason lies behind," said Mrs. Mordaunt, softly
+laying her hand on Rhona's. "When a great trouble touches us, we know
+it comes from God, and we lean on Him, and He comforts us. But when
+there are little worries, we think they only come from man, and we
+forget that the least things may be part of our discipline, and so we
+are easily upset and vexed."</p>
+
+<p>"Such a little thing as tea being late,—is that a part?" asked Rhona
+slowly. "Mother, in our last lodging, when the woman was so careless,
+and cooked everything badly, I used to see how patient you were. Was
+that why?"</p>
+
+<p>"That was why I tried to be patient, darling, though indeed I was not
+always. But I am sure that not even a pin's prick of worry can reach
+one of His children, without His permission. And if so, it follows that
+the little pin-prick is from Him, as much as the greatest sorrow,—and
+then it must follow that we have to accept all patiently."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona folded her hands.</p>
+
+<p>"I didn't see that before," she said quietly. "Then it is not wrong of
+them to keep us waiting, if they are just doing God's will."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, that is another part of the question," said Mrs. Mordaunt, almost
+smiling. "Neglect of duty is wrong in any case. It may be God's will
+that you and I should have our patience tried, but certainly it is not
+His will that anybody should be careless or forgetful. There is the
+same difficulty—if it is a difficulty—in great troubles, Rhona. Sorrow
+may come through another person's wrong-doing, and yet may come to us
+straight from God, though the wrong-doing could not possibly be as He
+wills. For instance,—suppose a thief came and stole everything we have
+here. He would not be doing God's will,—and yet the trial of losing our
+things would be sent straight to us from God."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes,—I see," Rhona said. "I shan't mind little worries so much, if
+I think about them like that. Only I do wish the tea would come. Oh,
+here is Bertha at last."</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_6">CHAPTER VI.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>NO FRIENDS TO THE FORE.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>LESS than half-an-hour later, Bertha reappeared.</p>
+
+<p>"If you please, ma'am, could Mr. Powis have a word with you?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly. Show him in. And, Bertha, you can take away the tray."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt flushed slightly, as she heard the clergyman's
+approaching step. Her hand made a quick movement, as if to thrust out
+of sight the delicate needlework upon which she was employed. She
+checked the impulse, however, and continued sewing until he entered.
+What need to be ashamed?</p>
+
+<p>"I have apologised before now for receiving you here—continental
+fashion," she said, rising. "You know it to be my only reception-room."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Powis deprecated any apology on her part. He was at first in one
+of his constrained moods, saying that he could not possibly stay, yet
+taking a chair, and seeming then at a loss for remarks. Mrs. Mordaunt
+saw his eyes travel questioningly round the room, dimly lighted with
+one candle, and she drew his attention to the sofa, where Rhona had
+curled herself up in her favourite corner, and had fallen asleep. He
+said "Ah!" softly, and drew his chair nearer.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt broke out suddenly—"London air does not suit her."</p>
+
+<p>"No," he answered in a tone of consideration. "The child looks frail."</p>
+
+<p>"She is just that—not ill, but frail. Sometimes I think I shall have to
+go away—to take her into the country. But—where?"</p>
+
+<p>"You have no friends in the country?"</p>
+
+<p>"None. And none in London either, for the matter of that, except you."</p>
+
+<p>"My wife wishes to be your friend too, Mrs. Mordaunt. Will you not let
+her? She cannot come to you."</p>
+
+<p>"I ought to have been to call, I know. It is neglectful. Forgive me. I
+seem to have no heart for anything."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Powis turned towards her with a look of interest. "Still so much
+depression," he said kindly, emerging from his fit of bashfulness.</p>
+
+<p>"It is not mere depression. It is deadness," she said, in a low voice,
+with clasped hands, her eyes resting on Rhona's face. "I seem to see
+nothing, to feel nothing, to know nothing, except that Arthur is gone.
+It is a kind of spiritual paralysis. I have only power of feeling in
+connection with Rhona. Everything else is dull and dead."</p>
+
+<p>"I think not entirely," he said.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—entirely. You would hardly imagine how far it goes. My spiritual
+senses are in a state of blank. I cannot describe it. I can talk to
+Rhona—read the Bible with her, and speak of Christ. I know it all, and
+I find myself speaking as if I felt it all. But there is no feeling.
+When her dear little face lights up, there is no real response in my
+heart. And yet I cannot let her know how things are with me—I dare not.
+She suffers so intensely if she sees me grieved."</p>
+
+<p>"There is no need," said Mr. Powis. "If Christ the Physician is
+acquainted with your state, you are not compelled—believe me, you are
+not compelled—to tell your symptoms to everybody around."</p>
+
+<p>"But it seems almost hypocrisy to talk without feeling."</p>
+
+<p>"I think not, I think not in your case. Numbness is not death.
+Sometimes we may be fully assured of a truth without the present power
+to feel. A severe blow may result in want of sensation. I think you
+have been stunned."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—paralysed," she said in a low voice.</p>
+
+<p>"Christ Jesus cured paralytics," said Mr. Powis.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt's eyes shone. "Thank you," she murmured.</p>
+
+<p>"No lack of real feeling there, poor thing," the clergyman thought, but
+he did not say so.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona suddenly opened her eyes, and after one bewildered glance, she
+sprang up to greet her kind friend, and was speedily seated on his knee.</p>
+
+<p>"I must not wait," he said a minute or two later. "Mrs. Powis has two
+or three friends to tea, and she expects me back early. But—the fact
+is, Mrs. Mordaunt,—I came to see,—to inquire—to find out if anything
+had resulted from that lady,—from the hope of teaching, I mean." He was
+suddenly embarrassed and hesitating again. "That which you were to ask
+about this morning."</p>
+
+<p>"It has fallen through," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "Rhona and I are sadly
+disappointed. Mrs. Hayes had just decided to have a resident governess."</p>
+
+<p>"Disappointed,—yes, no doubt," Mr. Powis said, a slow smile creeping
+over his face. "But sometimes,—yes, sometimes, disappointment turns out
+to be in the end the best, the very best for us."</p>
+
+<p>"I am sure of that," Mrs. Mordaunt could reply.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother said she shouldn't wonder if something else quite as nice was
+waiting for her somewhere," remarked Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"It often is so,—often, with those who trust a Father's care," said
+Mr. Powis. "Will you, if you please, Mrs. Mordaunt,—will you kindly
+read this note? I am very glad you have had the little disappointment
+to-day."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt read of a lady, with three children, desiring to find a
+daily governess, who should teach for four hours every morning, remain
+to early dinner, walk with the children for an hour and a half every
+afternoon except Saturday, and receive the sum of fifty pounds per
+annum. "I should imagine from your description that Mrs. Mordaunt would
+exactly suit me," the lady wrote. "I have no one else in view. Would
+you kindly arrange for an early interview between her and me? I am
+anxious to have the matter settled, that lessons may begin again next
+week. I object to long holidays for the children."</p>
+
+<p>"O mother! Isn't it beautiful?" Rhona exclaimed. "If the lady this
+morning had settled to have you, we couldn't have seen about this."</p>
+
+<p>"No. In that case I should not have mentioned Mrs. Howard," said Mr.
+Powis.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>It seemed to Mrs. Burrell a very odd, not to say uncomfortable
+coincidence, that neither of her two lodgers—the young widow and the
+elderly Colonel,—rejoiced in relatives or friends.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt made no secret of the fact in her own case. She told Mrs.
+Burrell frankly that her girlish home had been in France, that her
+married life had been spent in Italy; that consequently, she had had no
+opportunity of cultivating acquaintances in England. That having been
+herself an only child with parents now dead, both of whom were also
+only children, she possessed no living relatives of her own; and that
+as for her husband's relatives—</p>
+
+<p>"There were some," she said hesitatingly, with a faint blush,—"but the
+terms on which they would wish to hold intercourse were such as she
+could not possibly consent to." With a sad smile she added,—"So you
+see, Mrs. Burrell, you will not be much troubled with callers while I
+am here. My only friend in London is Mr. Powis."</p>
+
+<p>It was hardly wise to say so much, but being young and lonely, the
+temptation to seek a little sympathy was urgent. Mrs. Burrell rather
+objected to the state of affairs thus revealed, yet felt flattered by
+the confidence reposed in her.</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me, ma'am, how melancholy!" she said more than once; and to
+do her justice, she sincerely pitied Mrs. Mordaunt. "For it's a
+forlorn position, there's no denying," she remarked afterwards to her
+daughter,—"and that young thing wants a protector. It's my belief she
+isn't long for this world; and whatever is to become of the child
+when she is taken, nobody knows. Why, there would be nothing but the
+workhouse. To be sure, she might be got into some sort of orphanage.
+But that kind of thing calls for a deal of interest and expense. I dare
+say Mr. Powis would do all he could, and that wouldn't be much; for
+everybody knows Mr. Powis hasn't got enough for his own children, let
+alone a stranger's."</p>
+
+<p>Naturally the Colonel was less communicative towards his landlady than
+Mrs. Mordaunt. Yet, strange to say, he seemed to be in much the same
+condition with respect to relatives and friends.</p>
+
+<p>Weeks went by, and nobody came to see him. Apparently too, he
+corresponded with nobody. Certainly not a letter had been brought to
+the house addressed to "Colonel Smyth" since his arrival.</p>
+
+<p>He seemed content in his solitude. Every morning, after a hearty
+breakfast, he sallied forth, and did not return until luncheon-time.
+Every afternoon, he shut himself up, and either read or wrote or slept
+till about five, when he took another ramble, returning in time for
+dinner. Dinner was a serious matter in Mrs. Burrell's estimation; for
+though the Colonel usually contrived to make a very good meal, and
+sometimes condescended to allow that his landlady did "pretty well" in
+the culinary line, yet he rarely failed to indulge in complaints as to
+each separate item of food, no small trial to the temper of a good cook.</p>
+
+<p>He paid his bills regularly, and that spoke in his favour. Still there
+was about him a slight flavour of mystery, aggravating to a landlady's
+feelings. There was no knowing who were his friends, or what were his
+occupations. He read much, and wrote a little, but all his books were
+locked up in the two glass bookcases, and all his papers were locked
+up in desks and drawers. The Colonel's keys were never visible, and
+nothing was ever left accidentally open. Mrs. Burrell would have prided
+herself in taking never a peep, if a peep had been in her power, but
+she objected to its not being in her power. She did not like "being
+distrusted."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel, however, caring little for her likes or dislikes, went on
+in his own fashion.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt was, soon after Christmas, started in her new vocation
+of daily governess. She found another acquaintance in the children's
+mother, but it was an acquaintance only, not a friend. Mrs. Howard
+rarely appeared in the school-room; and when she did appear, although
+kind, she was stately.</p>
+
+<p>The young widow proved to be not only an accomplished but a most
+painstaking teacher; and the children soon repaid her trouble with
+warm affection. Mrs. Howard was fully satisfied, and that was all. She
+gave no thought to the home-life or possible home-cares of the gentle
+instructress.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt woke vividly to the change in her own position, shrank
+into a shell of reserve, and sensitively declined any further
+acquaintances offered by Mr. Powis, deferring still her long-talked-of
+visit to the clergyman's invalid wife. She pleaded her occupations and
+her lack of a sitting-room, and begged that no one might be asked to
+call, forgetting that for Rhona's sake, she ought to have been willing
+to put aside her own feelings in the matter.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_7">CHAPTER VII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>THE COLONEL AND HIS LANDLADY.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>THE Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt had never yet seen one another.
+Neither of the two evinced any particular curiosity as to his or her
+fellow-lodger. Still it was singular that weeks should pass without an
+accidental encounter on the stairs or in the street.</p>
+
+<p>Once, the doors of their respective apartments opened at the same
+instant. But before Mrs. Mordaunt could catch a glimpse of the Colonel,
+he had beaten a sharp retreat.</p>
+
+<p>"What a funny man he must be, mother!" little Rhona said, laughing. "He
+seems to be quite afraid of you."</p>
+
+<p>She had met him herself twice, and Colonel Smyth had looked steadily,
+with evident interest, at the child's fair face, but not a word had
+been exchanged.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona's life at this time was a lonely one. From nine o'clock every
+morning until about half-past four in the afternoon, she had to employ
+herself as best she might in her mother's absence. There was nothing to
+be seen from the window, and her books were not many in number. Every
+day she had some simple lessons to prepare, set her by Mrs. Mordaunt
+the evening before; and when these were done, she read and re-read
+Rollin's "Ancient History," Mackintosh's "History of England," and a
+few more volumes of a like nature. Now and then Mr. Powis brought her
+a story-book for perusal, and had he understood what a boon he was
+conferring, he would have done so oftener.</p>
+
+<p>The little delicate plant soon showed signs of drooping, under lack
+of fresh air and sunshine. Not so much to the mother's eyes, for
+Mrs. Mordaunt's return was always the signal for flushing cheeks and
+eager talk. But Bertha knew, as no one else did, how often the child
+sat listlessly, curled up in her sofa corner, too languid to employ
+herself, spending hour after hour in wistful dreams of the dear Italian
+home or tired longings for her mother.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt often took her for a little stroll in the afternoon, when
+her own day's work was done, little equal as she might be to this extra
+exertion. And sometimes Mrs. Powis' nurse, with half-a-dozen small
+children, called to escort her in a longer ramble. But London streets
+wearied rather than refreshed Rhona. And the afternoon stroll grew
+quietly shorter week by week, suiting the lessened powers of mother and
+child.</p>
+
+<p>For Mrs. Mordaunt had never been strong, and her strength was now
+severely taxed. The walk to and fro, between Mrs. Burrell's and Mrs.
+Howard's, was far too long when supplemented by a considerable ramble
+with her pupils, and often by a little turn with Rhona. Also, she had
+the stress of four hours' teaching, and another hour at night with
+Rhona, not to speak of the continual weight at her heart whenever she
+was absent from her child. Rhona never complained, but Mrs. Mordaunt
+realised only too well the long and lonely days which had to be passed
+through. Moreover, the having to venture out in all weathers, after
+almost a lifetime in sunny southern climes, and yet more the continual
+struggle with her own nervous and shrinking timidity—a timidity
+natural to her, and fostered by a hitherto guarded and sheltered
+existence,—these things told heavily upon her. But she hardly knew how
+much her health was suffering. She was only bent upon keeping on.</p>
+
+<p>Sometimes it occurred to her that the distance between her lodgings
+and her work was too great, and that she might be wise to search for
+a room nearer to Mrs. Howard's. Yet for Rhona's sake, she dreaded the
+thought of a move. During her long daily absences, the remembrance of
+Bertha was an unspeakable comfort. Mrs. Burrell was, in a general way,
+kindly disposed towards the child, but Bertha would have done anything
+for her. Busy as Mrs. Burrell kept her niece, Bertha rarely allowed an
+hour to pass, without glancing in, if but for one moment, to see if
+the child were happy. Besides, Mrs. Mordaunt was earnestly desirous
+to remain in Mr. Powis' parish. She felt that if anything happened to
+herself, he would be a friend to Rhona.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>One foggy evening, the Colonel caught a cold, which after some days of
+neglect proved rather severe. He spent a whole morning over a blazing
+fire. Then masculine patience failed, and he sallied forth, in despite
+of rain. Naturally, the cold was worse next day. And Mrs. Burrell,
+being summoned by his express wish, found him doing the sick man in
+deplorable wise, rolled up in a big shawl, and coughing incessantly.
+Mrs. Burrell, accustomed to take a shady view of matters, thought him
+very bad, and told him so; whereat the Colonel's face grew longer, and
+his voice grew thicker.</p>
+
+<p>"There's a very bad sort of throat going about," Mrs. Burrell said, by
+way of further encouragement. "Wouldn't you like to see a doctor, sir?
+We've got one living close by, quite handy."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth growled a protest. "Only one doctor in the world whose
+opinion I value a rap."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, sir, couldn't we get him?" asked Mrs. Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>"No!" the Colonel said indignantly, forgetting at once his hoarseness
+and his reserve. "I wouldn't have him know I am in London,—on any
+account."</p>
+
+<p>Then, seeing by his landlady's face that he had committed himself to
+something,—he did not exactly know what,—Colonel Smyth added, with a
+return of hoarseness,—"That is to say, I should not mind his knowing.
+But it might go farther."</p>
+
+<p>"To be sure, sir," Mrs. Burrell said, as if she understood, which
+certainly she did not. "And you wouldn't like a word sent to any friend
+or relation neither,—some one, I mean, sir, that might come and help
+you get agreeably through a few days of illness, if it was to turn out
+to be anything."</p>
+
+<p>The fish rose to the bait, but in such wise that Mrs. Burrell rather
+repented throwing her line. "Thanks, Mrs. Burrell!" the Colonel said
+sharply, in a voice of remarkable clearness. "You seem to take a great
+interest in my private affairs. I am much obliged to you for your
+solicitude. For the future, however, I recommend you to attend to your
+own concerns rather than mine. You may as well understand once for all
+that I have no friends and no relatives—"</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me, sir, how melancholy!" Mrs. Burrell said to him, as she had
+once said to Mrs. Mordaunt, gratified curiosity predominating over
+annoyance.</p>
+
+<p>"Will you be so good as to hear me out, instead of cutting me short?"
+demanded the Colonel. "I was about to say simply that I have no friends
+or relatives, whom it would give me at this moment any special pleasure
+to see, except—but it does not matter. If I choose to enjoy a few weeks
+or months in quiet, that is my own concern. I do not pretend to have
+no relations in the world—plenty of them, no doubt, to come and bicker
+over my goods when I am dead. But I have not the least intention of
+dying yet, so you really need not trouble yourself."</p>
+
+<p>"I am sure, sir, I hadn't any idea of giving offence," Mrs. Burrell
+said, half-irate, half-apologetic. "But you see, sir, you 'do' look
+bad; and I thought—if it was to chance to be one of them throats—"</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel coughed obediently to the suggestion, but repeated, "I am
+not going to die yet, Mrs. Burrell."</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir, to be sure," assented Mrs. Burrell; "though I suppose, as one
+may say, nobody knows beforehand when his time is. And there was Mr.
+Green, in the next street, carried off by a throat, only ten days ago."</p>
+
+<p>"Who is Mrs. Mordaunt's doctor?" asked the Colonel unexpectedly.</p>
+
+<p>"She don't have one, sir, though to my thinking there's need. If
+anybody ever did look like a downright ghost, it's Mrs. Mordaunt when
+she comes back of an evening. And then there's the child."</p>
+
+<p>"Where does Mrs. Mordaunt come back from?"</p>
+
+<p>"She goes out teaching, sir," Mrs. Burrell answered, though convinced
+that what she said came as no news to the Colonel. "Every day except
+Sunday. And that child left alone from half-past nine—or I'm not sure
+it isn't nine—of a morning, till near five. It isn't Mrs. Mordaunt's
+fault."</p>
+
+<p>"Every day from half-past nine till nearly five," repeated the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"That's about it," said Mrs. Burrell, "and Saturdays no better; for if
+she's back sooner from Mrs. Howard's, she goes out again to give music
+lessons. It's my belief she's just killing herself. And the child sits
+there alone, hour after hour, as patient as a lamb,—never a tear nor a
+grumble. I get her down into our little parlour once in a way, but Mrs.
+Mordaunt seems to have a dread of the child making acquaintances. And
+Miss Rhona is always content. It isn't natural. I doubt she's too good
+for this world."</p>
+
+<p>"Stuff and nonsense, my good woman," said the Colonel testily. "There
+is no such thing as being too good for this world. Bad people die quite
+as often as good ones."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell could not dispute the assertion, though of course she held
+fast to her own opinion. To do her justice, she was not yielding to a
+mere spirit of gossip, but was moved by an honest desire to interest
+the Colonel in Rhona, for the child's benefit. Being somewhat offended,
+however, at the term "good woman" as applied to herself, in what she
+counted a slighting manner, she showed signs of beating a retreat.</p>
+
+<p>"Stop a moment. What is the matter with the child?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know as there's anything particular, sir, only she looks pale,
+and don't seem to have any spirit. And she talks,—to hear her talk,
+it's like a dying person."</p>
+
+<p>"Humph! Stuffed full of religious notions, I'll warrant," muttered the
+Colonel. "Children are regular little parrots."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir. But it isn't a parrot-like sort of way that Miss Rhona has.
+She's a child of wonderful feeling, and understands for all the world
+like a grown person."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel sat plunged in thought, his brows drawn together. Mrs.
+Burrell hesitated two or three seconds, then withdrew, shutting the
+door behind her.</p>
+
+<p>That recalled Colonel Smyth to the present position of affairs, and he
+went back to the consideration of his cough. He did not, however, cease
+to consider Rhona also.</p>
+
+<p>No immediate results followed upon the conversation. But in a few
+days, when his cough had vanished and he was abroad again, he began to
+institute a system of nods and smiles, exchanged between himself and
+Rhona, when they chanced to meet, which was not often.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona learnt to look out for these occasional glimpses of the Colonel,
+as a pleasant excitement in her life.</p>
+
+<p>No words were as yet spoken. And still, it never came to pass that the
+Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt had an encounter.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_8">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>A BUNCH OF GRAPES.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"MOTHER," Rhona said wistfully one morning; "I wish you had not to go
+to Mrs. Howard's."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt was vaguely conscious of the same wish. She had been
+very weary for many days past, and this day an indescribable weight
+of dizziness and confusion oppressed her. Breakfast had been a mere
+make-believe. Rhona's eyes watched her mother wistfully. She did not
+know what was wrong, but she could plainly see that all was not right.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, I do so wish you hadn't to go," she repeated.</p>
+
+<p>"I must," Mrs. Mordaunt said, stooping to kiss the child.</p>
+
+<p>"But you are not well. I know you aren't. Wouldn't Mrs. Howard let you
+off for just one day? Do you think she would mind? It is so cold and
+foggy. Look how thick the air is,—all yellow."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes; I must not mind that. I am really getting used to the London
+atmosphere," said Mrs. Mordaunt, trying to speak cheerfully.</p>
+
+<p>"We never had fogs in Italy, mother."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt put her hands to her brow with a sudden movement. "O
+Rhona! Don't talk to me of Italy just now. I can't stand it. Don't make
+me look back."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona stood in silence, watching her mother's preparations. They were
+not so expeditious as usual. Twice she stopped, with a bewildered
+expression, as if unable to remember what had to be done next; and she
+would have forgotten her cloak altogether, if Rhona had not brought it.
+Mrs. Mordaunt was not naturally forgetful, and Rhona had a sense of
+something unusual.</p>
+
+<p>A good-bye kiss was as always exchanged, and Mrs. Mordaunt moved away.
+At the door she paused, and came back.</p>
+
+<p>"My darling," she said, bending over Rhona,—"did I speak crossly just
+now? I did not mean it, Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>"O mother! No,—as if you 'could' be cross!" said Rhona eagerly, pulling
+Mrs. Mordaunt down upon the sofa, and clinging to her. "You are never
+never cross for one moment, darling mother; only you are so tired
+to-day."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—I am tired," said Mrs. Mordaunt dreamily. "I think this fog
+oppresses me, for I feel as if I hardly knew what I am doing this
+morning. It must be a kind of stupid headache, I suppose. Perhaps
+having to attend to lessons will rouse me. I could not rest all night,
+and that is so wearying."</p>
+
+<p>She laid her head down on the arm of the sofa, closed her eyes, and
+remained still.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona watched her wonderingly.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, you look as if you were going to sleep," she said at length.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt sprang to her feet, with an incoherent exclamation, and a
+white scared look.</p>
+
+<p>"O Rhona! You startled me so!" she said hurriedly. And then, with an
+attempt at a smile, "I—I think I forgot where I was. How stupid of me!
+I must have been almost asleep for a minute. My head feels so strange.
+But I must start at once, and walk fast."</p>
+
+<p>"Couldn't we ask Mrs. Burrell to send word that you are not fit to go
+to-day?" pleaded Rhona, distressed at her mother's manner. "I am sure
+Mrs. Howard wouldn't mind. You do look so very pale."</p>
+
+<p>"No, no, my pet, it will never do to let Mrs. Howard think me an
+invalid. I was only startled for a moment, and the strange feeling
+seems going off. Perhaps walking will do me good. If this fog lasts,
+the children will not be allowed to go out, and I shall get home early.
+That is one good thing about bad weather. Good-bye, my darling."</p>
+
+<p>"Good-bye, 'sweet' mother," Rhona said passionately.</p>
+
+<p>She stood, smiling, while her mother went out, and watched her over the
+balusters. But when the front door was opened and shut, a change came
+over the child's face. She went back heavily into the room, her little
+hands clasped, and large tears filling the dark eyes. Rhona would not
+give way willingly, and she took out her lesson books without delay.
+But the French translation made slow advance, and more than one bright
+drop splashed down into the fresh writing, making a smudge upon the
+page.</p>
+
+<p>A tap at the door caused her to look up.</p>
+
+<p>"Come in," she said, expecting Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>Instead of Bertha, a sunburnt hand appeared, bearing a bunch of grapes;
+the hand being followed by some grizzly moustaches.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is it?" Rhona asked, rather alarmed. Then in a changed tone, "Oh,
+I am so glad. Please come in."</p>
+
+<p>"All alone?" asked Colonel Smyth, gratified at the manner of his
+reception.</p>
+
+<p>"Quite," said Rhona. "Mother is always away all the morning, and most
+of the afternoon. Won't you sit down, please?"</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth disregarded the request, and stood looking fixedly at the
+child.</p>
+
+<p>"Lessons a trouble?" he inquired.</p>
+
+<p>"No," faltered Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"Something is, that's plain. Dear me, look here—why, it's a downright
+blot. Mother will be angry, I expect?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mother is never angry—never," said Rhona. Then with a sudden movement
+she turned away, and her little hands went over her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Come, come; that will never do!" said the Colonel decisively.</p>
+
+<p>And before Rhona knew what was coming, she found herself seated on his
+knee, with his arm round her, and her head on his shoulder.</p>
+
+<p>For two or three minutes not a word was spoken. Rhona gave one long
+sobbing breath, and then remained motionless,—greatly comforted.</p>
+
+<p>"Better now?" asked the Colonel presently. "What is it all about?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mother!" Rhona evidently thought no more explanation was needed.</p>
+
+<p>"Ah!" the Colonel said, as if he understood. "But I would not cry about
+it if I were you. Crying does nobody any good. Do you like grapes?"</p>
+
+<p>He held up the luscious bunch. Rhona allowed herself to be raised to
+a sitting position. "Yes,—thank you," she said wistfully. "We used to
+have them in Italy, but we don't now."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, we will leave them here, and you can dispose of them at your
+leisure," said the Colonel, rising. "Come and take a peep at my room
+first."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona followed at once, much interested. He took her round step by
+step, pointing out pictures, showing Indian curiosities, opening
+drawers full of tropical shells, bits of coral, or impaled insects.
+Rhona said little, but her eyes grew large and shining with eagerness,
+and the wan look passed from her face. The Colonel's attention seemed
+drawn to her irresistibly.</p>
+
+<p>"Better now, my dear?" he asked a second time, as she stood gazing into
+a pink-lined shell from some Eastern strand.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes, thank you," Rhona answered gratefully.</p>
+
+<p>"Look here," said the Colonel abruptly, laying his and on the top of
+her head,—"I've a notion you read and think too much. Little girls of
+your age have only to laugh and skip."</p>
+
+<p>It was not a childlike look that she gave him, with her soft serious
+eyes. "But I am mother's only friend now," she said. "So I 'must'
+think."</p>
+
+<p>"What made you come away from Italy?" asked Colonel Smyth.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother had not enough to live on there," said Rhona. She was usually
+as discreet and reserved as any grown person, but the Colonel had
+charmed her into confidingness. "We didn't know what else to do; and
+mother thought the aunts would help us, perhaps."</p>
+
+<p>"The aunts," repeated Colonel Smyth.</p>
+
+<p>"The three aunts in London," said Rhona. "Mother has nobody belonging
+to her except me, but they are my father's aunts." She spoke in a
+curious staid manner.</p>
+
+<p>"Three Miss Mordaunts, eh?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," Rhona answered. "But I don't like the aunts. One was just a
+little kind, and the others were so cross. They wanted to take me away
+from mother, and make me live with them. As if I 'could!'"</p>
+
+<p>"Of course you couldn't," said the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother has nobody else,—and father told me I must never never leave
+her. I think it would kill mother to lose me."</p>
+
+<p>"Of course it would," assented the Colonel, looking deeply interested,
+yet speaking absently.</p>
+
+<p>"And when mother found out what they really meant, she was so
+frightened that she hunted for these lodgings, and we came off as quick
+as possible, and didn't tell anybody where we were going."</p>
+
+<p>"Ran away, in short," said the Colonel, with a chuckle.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh no, I don't think it was running away, because the aunts had no
+right over us," said Rhona seriously. "God gave me to mother, and they
+ought not to have wanted to take me from mother. If they would have
+had her too, it would have been all right, but they were so unkind to
+mother. Only think—if she had to live all alone, or among strangers!
+But we knew aunt Barbara and aunt Clara would be angry, and perhaps
+aunt Susanna too; and mother was afraid, so we came away quietly."</p>
+
+<p>"What was their reason for being unkind to your mother, my dear?"</p>
+
+<p>Rhona reflected. "I am not sure that I ought to say more," she replied.
+"Mother thought she knew, and of course she told me her thoughts. But I
+almost think mother will say I have talked too much already about our
+affairs. And, please, she would not like you to tell anybody else about
+us and the aunts, because we don't wish them to know where we are."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel was a good deal diverted at the old-fashioned preciseness
+of manner. "You are safe with me, my dear," he said. "I have no friends
+just now to talk with; and if I had, your information should go no
+further. Now I have an engagement, so I must say good-bye. But you ask
+your mother's leave this afternoon, and I will take you for a walk
+to-morrow."</p>
+
+<p>"May I? Oh, that would be nice," said Rhona. "Only, won't you come and
+see mother, and ask her yourself?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, no—I think not—on the whole," said Colonel Smyth. "Some day I
+may peep in on you again, if she doesn't forbid it. I dare say you feel
+lonely sometimes when your mother is away."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona was silent, and the Colonel awaited an answer.</p>
+
+<p>"It is not exactly loneliness," she said in a soft reverent voice,
+peculiar to herself. "God is always here, you know."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth positively started.</p>
+
+<p>The words came with a certain assured sweetness, not at all as if the
+child were merely repeating what she had been taught to say, but rather
+as a simply assertion of that which in her own experience was true.</p>
+
+<p>"So I cannot be really alone," she added. "But I do long often to have
+more of mother. And it is nice to have somebody come in for a little
+talk. I think I am fond of talking."</p>
+
+<p>"You shall talk to me as much as you like," said the Colonel, stooping
+down, and letting his grey moustache brush her forehead. "Good-bye,—and
+mind you don't think any more about anything for the rest of the day."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona reckoned that if the fog continued, her mother would get away
+from Mrs. Howard's in time to reach home before three.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>The fog did continue. At noon, it lightened slightly. But by half-past
+two, it had grown again yellow and dense. There could be no doubt
+whatever that Mrs. Howard would keep her children indoors that
+afternoon.</p>
+
+<p>Yet three o'clock and half-past three came, and Mrs. Mordaunt did not
+appear. Four o'clock, and she remained absent.</p>
+
+<p>The next hour passed wearily to Rhona, who was sadly disappointed.
+No doubt, Mrs. Howard had kept her governess to amuse the children
+indoors. Rhona thought this rather hard. She did so want her mother to
+have a little extra rest for once.</p>
+
+<p>Five o'clock passed, and still the minutes went relentlessly by, while
+Rhona sat waiting. She was no longer able to employ herself with books
+or work.</p>
+
+<p>Bertha presently came in, and said,—"It is quarter to six, Miss Rhona.
+Your mamma seems late to-day. Will you wait for her, or have tea now? I
+do think you want it."</p>
+
+<p>"I'll wait, please; it is no matter about me," said Rhona. "Bertha, I
+can't think what keeps mother so long. She is always home before this."</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose she has to pick her way slowly," said Bertha. "We haven't
+had such a fog all the winter through. Perhaps the lady has made her
+wait because of the weather."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh no, that isn't like Mrs. Howard at all. And mother would be sure to
+come."</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps she has missed a right turning somewhere," suggested Bertha.
+"That would make her late. But there are always people about, so she
+could ask her way. I wouldn't worry, if I was you, Miss Rhona. I must
+go now, for there's aunt calling, but I shan't wait long before I bring
+you a cup of tea."</p>
+
+<p>She kept her word, and the cup of tea came, while Mrs. Mordaunt still
+remained away. Rhona could eat nothing, but having disposed of the tea,
+she sat patiently in the sofa corner, with her little hands clasped,
+and her large eyes bent ceaselessly on the door.</p>
+
+<p>Half-an-hour later, Bertha reappeared, carrying a neat
+purse-pocket-book of dark morocco, rather large for a lady's use.</p>
+
+<p>"Miss Rhona," she said, and she looked anxious,—"isn't this your
+mamma's?"</p>
+
+<p>Rhona raised herself upright, and took the purse. "Yes," she said
+gravely. "That is mother's. It used to belong to father."</p>
+
+<p>"She must have dropped it as she was going out this morning. Hannah
+found it just now, lying in a corner of the hall, close to the front
+door. I think there is money inside, Miss Rhona, but you wouldn't know
+how much there ought to be."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes; I know," said Rhona, in the same serious tone. She counted slowly
+the contents of the two pockets, and glanced through a few papers. "It
+is all right. But—"</p>
+
+<p>"I am glad she didn't drop it outside," said Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"But mother has been thinking all day that the purse was lost," the
+child said sadly. "I am so sorry; for she was tired enough before. And
+if the fog was ever so bad, she wouldn't have been able to get into an
+omnibus, because she has no money with her—not one penny."</p>
+
+<p>"She could take a cab, and promise to pay here," suggested Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona shook her head. "That would cost too much," she said. "Especially
+when mother would be thinking that she had just lost her purse. Poor
+darling mother!"</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_9">CHAPTER IX.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>WHERE COULD SHE BE?</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"HEY? What? I don't understand," said Colonel Smyth sharply.</p>
+
+<p>"If you please, sir—"</p>
+
+<p>"What do you mean by coming in like that without knocking? Insufferable
+impertinence!" growled the Colonel, in angry tones.</p>
+
+<p>For he had been indulging himself in a lengthy evening siesta, and
+like the rest of the world, he objected much to be caught napping out
+of authorised hours. The Colonel sat bolt upright, and made believe to
+have been absorbed in the book which lay open on his knee.</p>
+
+<p>"If you please, sir, I did knock,—several times," Bertha answered, "but
+I could not make you hear."</p>
+
+<p>"The noise in the street, my good girl, always that wretched rumble
+going on. And when one has an interesting book into the bargain,—but
+mind you knock another time loud enough to get an answer. Well—what do
+you want?"</p>
+
+<p>"It is half-past nine o'clock, sir, and Mrs. Mordaunt hasn't come
+back," said Bertha. "Mrs. Burrell thinks you might perhaps be able to
+advise us what to do."</p>
+
+<p>"Not come back! Mrs. Mordaunt! Where from? What is she about?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nobody knows, sir. She went to her teaching in the morning as usual,
+and that is the last seen of her. Miss Rhona expected her home about
+three o'clock. We are afraid she must have lost her way in the fog."</p>
+
+<p>"Not at all surprising if she has,—a comparative stranger to London! No
+doubt she will have taken shelter somewhere."</p>
+
+<p>"Miss Rhona is so frightened," said Bertha. "We can't persuade her to
+go to bed."</p>
+
+<p>"Frightened! The child! Of course she is, poor little mite. Thoughtless
+of the mother, not to manage differently."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth considered; then asked,—"Where does she go to her work?"</p>
+
+<p>Bertha named the square.</p>
+
+<p>"Humph! Easy enough to miss a turning in the fog between that and
+this. I wouldn't answer for coming straight myself. Probably they have
+kept her for the night,—most humane thing they could do under the
+circumstances."</p>
+
+<p>"Miss Rhona thinks her mother is sure to have started for home, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"Miss Rhona knows no more about the matter than anybody else. Children
+are always positive," said the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"And there is something else too," Bertha continued, after a slight
+break. "Mrs. Mordaunt dropped her pocket-book in the hall, as she went
+out this morning, so she has no money with her."</p>
+
+<p>"People don't commonly carry money in pocket-books, my good girl."</p>
+
+<p>"This is a particular kind of pocket-book-purse," said Bertha,
+preserving her quiet manner. "Miss Rhona knows her mother has not
+a penny with her besides. And if anything was to happen to Mrs.
+Mordaunt,—such as being knocked down or run over in the fog,—there
+would be nothing about her to show who she is, or where she lives."</p>
+
+<p>"Umph! I don't like that," muttered the Colonel. "Not of course that
+one need suppose anything 'has' happened to her. Still, people have no
+business to go about in London, without their names and addresses in
+their pocket."</p>
+
+<p>"She thought she had, you see, sir. But I have not put this idea into
+Miss Rhona's head. There is no need to frighten her more."</p>
+
+<p>"Of course not—of course not. I'll come and see the child if you like."</p>
+
+<p>Bertha opened the doors with alacrity, ushering the Colonel into Mrs.
+Mordaunt's room. He expected to find Rhona sobbing and distressed,
+with ordinary childish show. Instead of which, he came upon a calm
+and tearless little face, white as marble, with the large eyes widely
+opened, and only a slight quiver round the lips, telling of strong
+feeling below.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, my dear, so mother hasn't come back yet," said the Colonel,
+sitting down beside her.</p>
+
+<p>"No," said Rhona, looking up in his face. "And I can't go and find her!
+If only I were old enough! Bertha says I must not go out; and I am
+afraid mother would not let me."</p>
+
+<p>"Pshaw, my dear; nobody could find anybody such a night as this. You
+would be lost yourself, before you reached the end of the street,"
+said the Colonel, with an uneasy conviction that Rhona would look upon
+him as the right person to search for Mrs. Mordaunt. "Much worse than
+looking for a needle in a haystack, and you know how hopeless a matter
+that is. Mother has no doubt missed her way in the fog, and wisely
+taken shelter somewhere."</p>
+
+<p>"But she has nowhere to go," objected Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"Plenty of places in London," said the Colonel. "There are always
+shops; and anybody would give one shelter on a day like this. I should
+not wonder for my part, if Mrs. What's-her-name has kept your mother
+for the night."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh no, I am sure she would not," the child said decidedly. "And mother
+would not stay. She would be quite quite certain to try to get home."</p>
+
+<p>"You see, one can't possibly do anything except wait," explained the
+Colonel, putting down a mental suggestion that one might do something
+else. "If your mother is there, she is all right. And if she has taken
+shelter in a shop, she is all right too. And if she really has tried
+to find her way home, and has wandered out of the road,—why, it comes
+to the same thing, for she will 'have' to take shelter somewhere until
+the morning. She might in such a case be anywhere, far or near. Hunting
+for her would be an absolutely hopeless matter. It is a thousand pities
+that she didn't take a cab, and drive straight back, while she was
+able,—I doubt if even a cabby could find his way far now. But she is
+not used to London yet, and perhaps the idea did not occur to her."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother might think of that, but she would not do it," Rhona said.</p>
+
+<p>And the story of the purse followed.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth listened, as if he had not heard the same before, and
+Bertha stood patiently near the door, without uttering a word.</p>
+
+<p>"Come, that explains a good deal," he said. "One may almost look upon
+that fact as a satisfaction, my dear, seen in one aspect. Having no
+purse, she would not, of course, get into an omnibus, and thinking her
+purse lost, she would not like to venture on a cab. No doubt she has
+tried to walk home as usual, and has missed her way, and some friendly
+individual has given her shelter."</p>
+
+<p>It was all very simple and encouraging, if only Rhona could have been
+sure.</p>
+
+<p>"So now, my dear, you will be a good sensible little maid, and go to
+bed and sleep soundly till she comes back in the morning," pursued
+Colonel Smyth.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona shuddered. "Oh, not to bed!" she said. "Oh no,—not to bed. I
+never went to bed without mother's kiss. I'll wait here."</p>
+
+<p>"But you can't sit up all night," remonstrated the Colonel. "I do not
+in the least expect your mother to return before daylight. The fog has
+been tremendous the last two hours. Wherever she is, there she will
+have to stay."</p>
+
+<p>"I think she wouldn't wish you to stay up, Miss Rhona," said Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"Ah,—just so," said the Colonel, catching at the suggestion. "Mother
+wouldn't wish it. You have to do exactly what she would like if
+she were here, and of course she would tell you to go to bed. Why,
+look!—you haven't eaten the grapes yet. Your mother shall have some
+more, so don't keep these. I promise to send somebody early to-morrow,
+to ask about her at Mrs. Howard's. But most likely, she will appear
+before we can send. Don't distress your little heart; mother is old
+enough to take care of herself, after all."</p>
+
+<p>"God will take care of her," said Rhona, in a low voice.</p>
+
+<p>"Very well, my dear, put it any way you like," answered the Colonel;
+and he said good-night in a hurry.</p>
+
+<p>"Bertha, it is nearly ten o'clock," said Rhona slowly, when he was
+gone, and her look was very pitiful.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Miss Rhona; I do think your mamma must have taken shelter
+somewhere, just as the Colonel says."</p>
+
+<p>"I wish I knew," Rhona answered, sighing deeply. "I do wish I really
+knew. But I'll go to bed now, because mother would like it. I don't
+want any help, Bertha, only please come back presently, just for a
+minute."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Miss Rhona. Would you like to have me in the room to-night? I
+could sleep on the sofa."</p>
+
+<p>"No, thank you," replied Rhona. "Mother might come in any time,—only
+please come to see me the last thing. And if mother rings at the front
+door, you'll be 'sure' to hear?"</p>
+
+<p>Bertha could see how strongly the child's self-command was strained,
+and she dreaded that sleep might prove an impossibility.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, indeed, dear," she said, "I will be sure. But I don't expect your
+mamma back before to-morrow."</p>
+
+<p>"You don't know and I don't know," said Rhona. "Only God knows. And He
+can take care of my own sweet mother."</p>
+
+<p>Bertha lingered yet, though aware that she was required elsewhere.
+"You'll ask Him, won't you, Miss Rhona," she said.</p>
+
+<p>"I am asking Him all the time,—every minute," said Rhona. '"It is the
+only thing I can do. O Bertha! If I were a big strong man like the
+Colonel, I wouldn't sit indoors, and leave mother out in that dreadful
+fog, with nobody to help her."</p>
+
+<p>"You see, Miss Rhona, the Colonel doesn't believe she is out in the fog
+now; and he doesn't know where to go."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, but I would try," said Rhona plaintively. "And if my father were
+here, he would go. There is nobody now to take care of mother."</p>
+
+<p>"Except—" Bertha said in a low voice.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—except God. I mustn't forget," said Rhona. And then with a sigh,
+she rested her head against Bertha, murmuring, "O Bertha! It 'does'
+ache so."</p>
+
+<p>Bertha hardly knew whether the "aching" referred to head or heart;
+perhaps it was to both. "Yes, I know," she said sadly. "But you'll get
+into bed now, Miss Rhona, and try to go to sleep."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona answered in the affirmative, though with a sound of hopelessness.
+An hour later, when Bertha came softly in, the child was lying quietly
+with clasped hands, and wide-open unresting eyes. Further on, when once
+more she stole down for last glimpse, she found the same. So the hours
+of the night dragged by.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>Morning dawned, clear and sunshiny, the dense pall of yellow fog having
+vanished like a dream. Some mistiness still hovered over the great
+city, but this was soon dispelled.</p>
+
+<p>"There will be nothing to keep mother from coming home early this
+morning," said Rhona, as Bertha stood by her side. The child seemed
+less affected by her long night-vigil than Bertha had feared. She
+looked pale and heavy-eyed, but the eyes themselves were full of peace.</p>
+
+<p>"You have not had much sleep, dear," Bertha said pityingly.</p>
+
+<p>"I couldn't," Rhona answered. "I did so long to know where mother was.
+The first part of the time seemed almost more than I could bear. I
+could only just pray and pray that she might be safe. And then I had
+such beautiful thoughts of how the Lord Jesus loves mother,—oh, such
+love! It made me so happy."</p>
+
+<p>"He loves you too, Miss Rhona," Bertha said gravely.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—oh, I am sure of that. But the other thought was what comforted
+me. I had a feeling of mother lying in His arms, and being taken care
+of until He brings her back to me. I do hope He will bring her very
+very quickly. Bertha, I am going to get up now, so as to be ready."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, dear," Bertha said, and she turned away, lest Rhona should see
+the tears in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth's morning meal did not take place till nine o'clock. But
+at eight, he came to Mrs. Mordaunt's room, hat in hand. Rhona had been
+dressed for an hour, and was taking her breakfast.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, are you going to look for mother?" she said eagerly.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm just thinking of asking at Mrs. Howard's door, my dear, whether
+she is still there, and if so when we may expect to see her. You poor
+little white-faced mite! Come, cheer up; we shall soon have her back
+now, I don't doubt. You don't call that scrap of dry toast 'breakfast,'
+I hope! Here, my good girl,—" he turned to Bertha, who had brought in
+the small tray—"just get for the child some of that cold chicken which
+I had yesterday. She wants feeding up—looks like a wraith already,"
+muttered the Colonel. "Mind, Rhona, you are to eat a good meal."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think I am hungry, but I'll try," Rhona said gently. "How kind
+you are."</p>
+
+<p>"Pshaw! You are the first person that ever thought so. I'm capable of a
+feeling of humanity, perhaps. Good-bye. I shall soon be back again."</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>There was much looking out for the Colonel's return, downstairs as well
+as upstairs. He entered at length by the shop, instead of through the
+usual side-door, having been absent considerably more than an hour, and
+asked of Mrs. Burrell, "Not come back yet?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Mordaunt? No, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"I am afraid it is a bad business," said the Colonel. "She left Mrs.
+Howard's early yesterday—two o'clock in the afternoon."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell uttered a sound of dismay and commiseration.</p>
+
+<p>"The fog was hardly at its worst then, certainly not so bad as an hour
+later. Mrs. Howard advised her to start immediately after luncheon, on
+account of it, and recommended an omnibus. She says she saw little of
+Mrs. Mordaunt, but thought her looking extremely ill. And the children
+say she seemed confused and unlike herself all the morning. I asked if
+she had discovered the loss of her purse while there, and it appears
+not; at all events, she did not allude to it.</p>
+
+<p>"Really I do not know how to tell that poor child. We must do so
+gently; merely suggest that she has probably found shelter somewhere,
+and may return at any moment. If she has simply wandered out of her
+way, and taken shelter for the night, she would return early, of
+course. I made a good many inquiries of policemen and in shops, all to
+no purpose. Nobody appears to have noticed her. And in London, how can
+one expect that any one should—such a day as yesterday?"</p>
+
+<p>"I hope she hasn't been run down in the fog," Mrs. Burrell said, with a
+lugubrious expression.</p>
+
+<p>"I hope not, but it is by no means unlikely. Mrs. Howard showed
+feeling. I told her she ought to have sent the poor thing back before
+luncheon, or else have kept her altogether—and she wishes now that she
+had done so. No good blaming folks after the event, however. A good
+deal seems to hinge upon that unfortunate dropping of the pocket-book.
+If it had been in her pocket, the news of an accident would have
+reached us before this. As things are, if she were knocked down and
+stunned, they would not know where to send word, until she came to her
+senses again."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel went slowly upstairs, heralding his approach by creaking
+boots.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell remained behind, and might perhaps be excused for a wonder
+how the rent of Mrs. Mordaunt's room was to be paid, if Mrs. Mordaunt
+did not return.</p>
+
+<p>"There could be nothing for that poor child but the workhouse," she
+said.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_10">CHAPTER X.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>IN THE FOG.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>AS stated by Mrs. Howard, the young widow had left her house at two
+o'clock in the afternoon. It was very foggy even then, though not so
+dense as a little later.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt hardly knew how she had dragged through the weary hours
+of that long morning. It had been hard to keep her attention in any
+degree fixed upon the children's lessons.</p>
+
+<p>Julia, the eldest girl, remarked more than once, "I am sure you are not
+well, Mrs. Mordaunt."</p>
+
+<p>And she answered, with a faint smile, "Only a bad headache, dear. I
+shall be better by-and-by."</p>
+
+<p>But the headache grew worse, as time went on.</p>
+
+<p>At luncheon, she could eat nothing. And even Mrs. Howard, usually a
+most unobservant person, noticed her extreme paleness.</p>
+
+<p>"I should advise you to get home early," she said, with unwonted
+kindness. "The children cannot, of course, walk out, and if the fog
+were to increase, you might have difficulty in finding your way."</p>
+
+<p>"It is bad enough now," Julia said, as they rose from table.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. I really think you would be wise to take an omnibus for once,
+Mrs. Mordant, rather than to trust to your own powers," said Mrs.
+Howard.</p>
+
+<p>"It would be the best plan—perhaps," replied Mrs. Mordaunt, with the
+same effort after attention, which even the children had observed over
+their lessons. She had repeatedly failed to answer questions, until
+twice or three times addressed.</p>
+
+<p>Now she went back mechanically into the school-room. But instead of
+putting on bonnet and cloak, she sat down at the table, and rested her
+forehead on her hand.</p>
+
+<p>The children cast wondering glances.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sure the fog gets more yellow every minute," Julia said at length.
+"Mamma advised you to make haste."</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly—thank you—I am forgetting," Mrs. Mordaunt exclaimed, and she
+started up nervously, as in the morning with Rhona. "How strange! I
+fancied I was at home. I thought—"</p>
+
+<p>She stopped and gazed round, as if in perplexity.</p>
+
+<p>"Did you? How funny!" said Julia. "Here is your bonnet, Mrs. Mordaunt.
+Can't you find your gloves?"</p>
+
+<p>"My gloves! Oh yes; I knew there was something," said Mrs. Mordaunt
+faintly.</p>
+
+<p>"Annie has them. Look,—here they are. I do think you are dreadfully
+tired to-day; aren't you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. I must try to get rested before to-morrow," said Mrs. Mordaunt,
+speaking in a more natural voice. "Good-bye, dear."</p>
+
+<p>The children kissed her as usual, and then from the window watched her
+leaving the front door, and passing away into the fog.</p>
+
+<p>"Poor Mrs. Mordaunt! She looks as if she could hardly walk," Julia said
+pityingly.</p>
+
+<p>Some little distance had to be traversed before an omnibus could be met
+with. Once at the right spot, she might be carried to the very corner
+of Mrs. Burrell's street, within a few yards of the house-door.</p>
+
+<p>As yet, Mrs. Mordaunt had not discovered the loss of her purse.
+Generally she would have done so in a very short time. But this day,
+she was so oppressed and confused that much might pass unnoticed.</p>
+
+<p>A crossing lay before her, easy enough to an experienced Londoner, but
+presenting serious difficulties to one so timid and so little used to
+London streets. Mrs. Mordaunt often waited at this spot fifteen or
+twenty minutes, before venturing to trust herself among the throng of
+vehicles. Sometimes she found a friendly policeman to escort her over.</p>
+
+<p>To-day, no policeman came within sight, and the fog made matters worse
+than usual. She had a sensation of being suffocated by the thick air;
+while the incessant noise brought on such dizziness and confusion of
+brain that she scarcely knew what she was about. Twice in desperation
+she started, and twice rushed back, barely in time, as a heavily-laden
+omnibus loomed suddenly through the mist, almost upon her.</p>
+
+<p>Trembling from head to foot, with wildly beating heart, she
+waited,—still on the wrong side of the road,—noting how every omnibus
+seemed full, and wondering whether she should obtain a seat, even if
+she could get across. An easy matter usually, at that time of the day,
+but people evidently preferred trusting to others' sagacity, rather
+than to their own.</p>
+
+<p>Each moment the fog was thickening. Should she try again to cross, or
+should she walk towards home, and seek a less crowded spot farther on?
+By so doing, she would lose the possibility of a certain short cut,
+which might prove desirable, in case the omnibus plan was a failure.</p>
+
+<p>A sudden doubt swept through her mind. Had she crossed already, or had
+she not? On which side of the road was she really standing? Where lay
+her home?</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt staggered back against the wall, unnoticed and panting
+for breath, as she strove to regain her self-command. But the confusion
+of memory would not right itself. She found herself in a state of utter
+bewilderment. If only the ceaseless rush of sound would stop for one
+moment, that she might think. All clearness of recollection was gone.
+How weird and unnatural seemed this world of yellow fog, with dim
+lights and figures looming past, ever coming and vanishing! Who cared
+what became of her? A terrible wave of desolation passed over the poor
+young thing; and still she could hear the throbbing of her own heart,
+above all outer noises, and still she vainly sought to disentangle the
+confusion of brain.</p>
+
+<p>What was it she had to do? Where should she go? In which direction lay
+her home? "Had" she a home?</p>
+
+<p>It was at this moment that she put her hand into her pocket to feel for
+the purse which always lay there. The movement was a purely instinctive
+one, connected with her wish to get into an omnibus. The loss of her
+purse became, however, at once apparent.</p>
+
+<p>A deadly coldness crept over her from head to foot. In that purse was
+all the money on which she could count, to support herself and Rhona
+for a month to come. Doubtless she had been very imprudent to carry so
+much in her pocket. But the danger of leaving money in lodgings had
+seemed to her inexperience the greater of the two.</p>
+
+<p>"I must have dropped it somewhere on my way," she muttered.
+"Perhaps—perhaps at Mrs. Howard's. I must go back at once." That it
+could have been absent from her pocket all day, did not occur as a
+possibility.</p>
+
+<p>Momentarily aroused by the shock, and forgetting her bewilderment about
+the crossing, she retraced her steps, earnestly scanning the footpath
+as she went. It would have been an almost hopeless search, in such a
+fog, even had the purse been really dropped thereabouts.</p>
+
+<p>After walking the length of a street, she was seized with dread lest
+she might have passed it by; and she went slowly a second time over the
+same ground. Then she resolved to return straight to Mrs. Howard's. But
+confusion and faintness were resuming their sway, and unconsciously,
+her next turn was a wrong one.</p>
+
+<p>With the lost purse prominent in her mind, she pressed forward,
+persistently searching right and left, often turning back to hunt anew,
+and becoming entangled in a labyrinth of strange streets.</p>
+
+<p>Gradually, it dawned upon her mind that she ought by this time to have
+reached Mrs. Howard's. Before she had time to feel alarmed, she struck
+upon a thoroughfare which in the fog seemed to her identical with the
+one she had already tried to cross. To recognise surroundings was not
+possible, but she had dim glimpses of cabs and omnibuses proceeding
+cautiously past.</p>
+
+<p>"Singular," she murmured, "I thought I was going just the other way.
+But this fog is so confusing. Well, I cannot get into an omnibus now,
+and I am so tired, I must go straight home. Perhaps I shall find the
+purse to-morrow at Mrs. Howard's."</p>
+
+<p>That suggestion came soothingly, but it did not remain in her mind. No
+longer troubled by a doubt as to which side of the road she was on,
+she resolved not to attempt crossing till later, and started without
+delay in what she believed to be the direction of Mrs. Burrell's house,
+little dreaming that each step was carrying her farther away.</p>
+
+<p>Fog and darkness closed her in, yet still she pressed forward, though
+with faltering limbs. There were certain landmarks by which she felt
+sure of recognising, even in such fog and darkness, the nearness of
+the right street. But somehow, as minutes passed, she forgot to look
+for them. The recollection of her lost purse was again uppermost in
+her thoughts. A vague feeling that something had to be found before
+she might go home, urged on her weary feet. And for once, the poor
+young mother had no remembrance of Rhona. She knew nothing of the lapse
+of time, nothing of the distance traversed. For a while she was only
+conscious of her loss, and of the ceaseless impulse to press forward;
+but these were slowly merged into a sense of terrible heart-sinking, of
+a dragging weight at every limb, of an irresistible longing for rest.</p>
+
+<p>Only to be at home! Only to be able to lie down somewhere! That at last
+was the one desire. Mrs. Mordaunt had forgotten her purse, forgotten
+Rhona, forgotten everything except just the agonising need for repose.
+Each step taken, it seemed to her that she could not possibly take
+another. Where she was going or wished to go, she had no power to
+think. The outer fog seemed to be stifling her very breath; and the fog
+within her brain had deadened all consciousness except of exhaustion.</p>
+
+<p>She walked on still, but moaned faintly from time to time, and
+staggered often. Oh for some quiet corner, wherein to be alone and
+still!</p>
+
+<p>"Cab, ma'am?"</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt had passed beyond the busy neighbourhood of shops,
+unknowingly, and was among private houses, where foot-passengers were
+few. She had come a long way, longer than would have been possible
+under ordinary circumstances, and the feverish excitement which had
+borne her on was all but at an end.</p>
+
+<p>A "four-wheeler" had stopped, and the man bent over inquiringly from
+his box. "Cab, ma'am?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," she said, and he descended.</p>
+
+<p>The cab would be a place to rest in, and further than this, her
+thoughts could not go. Lost purse and lack of means to pay were
+forgotten. She stumbled feebly, stepping in, and the man gave a helping
+hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Awful day, mum," he said, with a look at the white face. "Where to,
+please?"</p>
+
+<p>"Where to?" repeated Mrs. Mordaunt. "To—"</p>
+
+<p>There was a pause, and the man waited. All power of thought had passed
+from her.</p>
+
+<p>"To—to—Number Three—" and again a pause. "Number Three, Winifred
+Place," she said, speaking mechanically, yet in a clear and natural
+voice.</p>
+
+<p>But that was not Mrs. Burrell's address. Only the number was right.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_11">CHAPTER XI.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>THE THREE AUNTS.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>WHILE Rhona watched and waited through that foggy afternoon, and while
+Mrs. Mordaunt was wandering about, no one knew whither, three ladies
+sat over their tea at No. 3, Winifred Place, close to Burton Square.</p>
+
+<p>These were "the aunts" of whom Rhona had spoken confidentially to
+the Colonel. For over thirty years, they had lived in this prettily
+furnished West-End abode. It had been purchased in more prosperous
+days, when the Miss Mordaunts had a father living, and plenty of money
+at command. Much less money lay now within their reach; yet they
+preferred exercising any amount of economy in small things, to the
+giving up of their London home.</p>
+
+<p>Whatever form this necessary economy took, it did not appear to touch
+the comfort of their outward condition. There was about them a general
+air of cosiness and satisfaction, as they sat round a little basket
+table, dallying with tea and cake, after the fashion of dames who have
+plenty of leisure at command.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Mordaunt, a well-dressed woman, fifty-five in age, occupied the
+principal arm-chair, holding herself with the pose of one who knew or
+believed that her personality was of some consequence in the world. She
+wore an elaborate cap and rich ruffles, and her slender arched nose
+suffered from the incongruity of a low and narrow forehead. Barbara
+Mordaunt, the eldest of nine sisters, only three of whom were still
+living, had always been reckoned good-looking, though her good looks
+were not enhanced by the expression of self-complacency.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Susanna Mordaunt, known in familiar circles as "poor Susie," or
+"poor dear Sue," lacked only three of Barbara's years, but lacked
+altogether her imposing presence. "Poor Susie" was, and ever had been,
+small, plain, and afflicted with painful shyness. She rarely ventured
+to hold an opinion of her own, contrary to Miss Mordaunt's; or if she
+held one, she rarely ventured to let it appear. Susie Mordaunt had been
+the snubbed member of the family; nevertheless, she bore an expression
+of content, unmixed in her case with self-satisfaction.</p>
+
+<p>Between Susanna and the youngest sister, Clara, lay a gap of nearly
+twenty years, bridged over by the six remaining sisters, none of whom
+now survived. Two of the six had been married, one to an Irishman, one
+to a Scotchman, and they had left two widowed husbands—Mr. Malony in
+Ireland with ten children, and Mr. Macpherson in Scotland with nine
+children; the large family being in each case accompanied by scanty
+means.</p>
+
+<p>Clara Mordaunt, though on the wrong side of thirty, looked young still,
+being tall, slender, and almost pretty, with a repetition of Barbara's
+marked yet delicate features, and with a better forehead.</p>
+
+<p>In addition to the nine Mordaunt daughters, there had been two sons,
+one a little older than Barbara, still living, one a little younger
+than Barbara, many years dead.</p>
+
+<p>Henry, the eldest, the greater part of whose life had been passed in
+India, was a somewhat singular man. As a boy, he had been unpopular in
+his own home; and later on, a severe disappointment had affected his
+character unfavourably. He had never married; he wrote home seldom; and
+for eighteen or nineteen years, his face had not been seen in England.
+Sometimes, in one of his brief and rare epistles, he spoke of retiring.
+But again, if pressed to do so, he would ask, what was the use? All his
+interests were in connection with India and the army; and in England,
+he would have nothing to do.</p>
+
+<p>William Mordaunt, the second brother, gentle and yielding in nature,
+had been the idol of his nine sisters. And when he died, the general
+devotion was transferred to his only son, Arthur Mordaunt,—that same
+Arthur whose widow and child were now residing at Mrs. Burrell's.</p>
+
+<p>But Arthur Mordaunt was of a different stamp from his father. The
+devotion of his numerous aunts implied also their management of him,
+and he had no notion of being so managed. When they wished him to
+become a lawyer, he wished to become a clergyman; and his will carried
+the day. When they desired him to settle down in England, he desired
+to go abroad; and his determination proved the strongest. When they
+would fain have had him marry a "sweet girl" of their own selection, he
+preferred to choose for himself; and choose for himself he did, despite
+all advice and opposition.</p>
+
+<p>There came slowly between him and them a widening gap of separation,
+the result of all these pullings in opposite directions. "The aunts,"
+headed and represented by Barbara, could not get over his disdain of
+their "sweet Lucy," could not believe that his Mary was a desirable
+wife for him.</p>
+
+<p>Gradually the correspondence between him and them languished and
+ceased. His whole heart was wrapped up in his Mary, and they almost
+ignored her existence. No actual quarrel took place, but there was a
+falling apart.</p>
+
+<p>When Arthur Mordaunt was suddenly taken, more than two years had
+elapsed since the last letters exchanged between him and the Miss
+Mordaunts. Even the news of his death failed for a considerable time
+to reach them. This fact was less strange than it might seem; for Miss
+Mordaunt had an aversion to daily papers, and the small "weekly," in
+which alone she indulged, gave scant information. Mary Mordaunt ought
+doubtless to have written, but she did not.</p>
+
+<p>The unexpected arrival of Arthur's young widow and child in London
+was a severe shock to the three aunts, who once had so dearly loved
+their nephew. Sorely as he had afterwards disappointed them, they
+had not ceased to love him. But none of the three—except perhaps
+"poor Susie,"—felt the slightest disposition to welcome Mrs. Mordaunt
+with cordiality. Things could not now be helped, it was true; yet
+undoubtedly she had been the main cause of Arthur's indifference
+to "that dear Lucy Miles" in the past, and of his subsequent long
+expatriation. Mary Mordaunt's beauty and grace did not incline the
+heart of Barbara any more favourably towards her, but rather the
+reverse. There were associations in connection with her very charms,
+which turned their sweetness into acidity.</p>
+
+<p>The child, however, was Arthur's child, and William's grandchild;
+consequently, the affections of all three aunts went warmly out towards
+Rhona. Not that the warmth appeared in manner. Miss Mordaunt prided
+herself on a calm and passionless demeanour; and Miss Mordaunt had ever
+been Clara's model, while Susie's natural disposition had been, with
+much perseverance, snubbed into something of the same outward shape.
+But though little was said, much was felt.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona Mordaunt might have no doubt whatever in her little heart that
+the conduct of "the aunts" was purely and simply unkind. Rhona,
+however, knew nothing of their real motives. She could not penetrate
+the workings of Barbara Mordaunt's mind, or see how much of a real wish
+to do right existed there, side by side with much self-deception as to
+what was right.</p>
+
+<p>Those who knew the Miss Mordaunts well were often struck by a certain
+peculiarity in their modes of action. It was observable that they
+never seemed able to take any view of a subject except from their own
+particular standpoint. It was observable also that they never deemed
+it necessary to explain to others their reasons for action. Susanna
+Mordaunt might have been an exception, but she was in chains to her
+sisters' opinion on all points. Where Barbara went, there Clara went,
+and there Susanna was dragged meekly in their rear.</p>
+
+<p>They were "a very united trio," friends said, not disapprovingly, but
+sometimes with a smile.</p>
+
+<p>It was of course right that they should be "united;" yet strong
+affection is by no means inconsistent with freedom of thought. Barbara
+and Clara Mordaunt, so far as was in their power, checked all freedom
+of thought in Susanna.</p>
+
+<p>It had appeared to Barbara a thing desirable that their home should
+become the home of little Rhona Mordaunt. Several arguments helped to
+this conclusion. She wished it for her own sake; she wished it for the
+sake of her dead brother and nephew; she wished it for the child's
+sake; she wished it above all for Clara's sake. The elder sister was
+often troubled by Clara's listlessness and want of regular occupation.
+It seemed to her that a bright intelligent child in the house, to be
+petted and cared for, might supply the lacking occupation, and might
+arouse Clara from her growing habits of indolence and inertia.</p>
+
+<p>Clara, without fathoming all her elder sister's motives, fell in
+cordially with the idea; and Susanna not only fully agreed, but would
+have liked to give a home to Rhona's mother as well.</p>
+
+<p>In this desire, Susanna outstripped the others. Barbara had not the
+slightest intention of offering an asylum to the friendless Mary
+Mordaunt.</p>
+
+<p>"For a few days, it would be all very well," she said, "but for a
+permanency, never!" She counted such a step impossible, seen from a
+pecuniary point of view; and she counted it undesirable, seen from
+every other point of view.</p>
+
+<p>With the young mother in the house, Rhona could in no sense become
+their child, and the required occupation for Clara would still be
+wanting. There would be inevitable clashings of authority, and the
+peace of their home might be lastingly broken up.</p>
+
+<p>Moreover, Mary Mordaunt had no particular claim upon them. She must,
+of course, expect to work for her own living. And to support herself
+alone would be a far easier matter than to support herself and Rhona.
+So reasoned Barbara, coveting the possession of the lovely and
+thoughtful child. It really did appear to her, seen purely from her own
+standpoint, the kindest and most natural step, under the circumstances,
+that she should offer a permanent home to her nephew's child, thus
+setting the young mother free, not merely to toil under the drudgery of
+a daily teacher's life, but to accept a situation of resident finishing
+governess, such as she was well qualified to undertake.</p>
+
+<p>"Why, she might make at least a hundred guineas a year," Barbara said.</p>
+
+<p>This being Miss Mordaunt's view of the question, she made her proposal
+in straightforward terms, under the pleasant conviction that she was
+doing a generous deed. It scarcely even occurred to her, when she
+thought with secret pleasure of the child's presence in the house, how
+keen must be the opposite feeling of Rhona's mother at the bare idea of
+losing that presence. She only saw the matter from her own side.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Mordaunt's startled and unqualified refusal came to the sisters
+with something of a shock, and roused feelings nearly allied to anger.
+Mrs. Mordaunt, though never ungentle, was greatly agitated; and Miss
+Mordaunt was betrayed into some strong expressions of displeasure.</p>
+
+<p>"You are acting very foolishly, Mary, in refusing what is so plainly
+for the child's benefit," she said, as she took her departure at the
+close of a long and emotional interview.</p>
+
+<p>Mary Mordaunt was palpitating and quivering like an aspen leaf;
+while Miss Mordaunt had a flushed appearance, and reined up her head
+frequently, with an air of injured dignity.</p>
+
+<p>"I think you ought at least to be grateful for what is so kindly
+intended, and not be betrayed into such a show of temper. However, I
+shall not yet look upon the matter as settled. You are speaking hastily
+now, and it is better that you should have time to weigh it quietly.
+After a few hours' consideration, you will probably see things as I
+do myself. To-morrow morning, I will come again, at this time, for a
+little more conversation on the same subject. I shall not see you again
+to-day."</p>
+
+<p>Barbara had little doubt that, by means of continued pressure, she
+should in time be able to bend Mary Mordaunt to her will. She left her
+sister-in-law alone for the remainder of the day, restraining Susanna
+and Clara also from going to the lodgings. Nothing was farther from
+the thoughts of any one of them, than that the young widow should
+take sudden flight before nightfall, leaving no clue by which her
+whereabouts and that of the child might be traced. But so it was.</p>
+
+<p>When Barbara Mordaunt made her call next morning, as appointed, soon
+after half-past ten, she found the small sitting-room and bedroom
+empty. Mrs. Mordaunt had "paid up her week," the landlady said, and
+had settled all her little bills. But she had offered no word of
+explanation as to the unexpected move. For Barbara there was not a note
+or even a message.</p>
+
+<p>"One would suppose the silly young thing was running away from a set of
+vipers," Miss Mordaunt said indignantly to her sisters, an hour later,
+for once excited and upset. "I never heard of such a thing in my life!
+To treat her best friends in such a way! But it just shows her to be
+unworthy of our kindness. Did she suppose we were going to steal the
+child without her consent? Foolish woman! She ought to know better what
+is for Rhona's interest."</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>So strong indeed was Miss Mordaunt's displeasure at poor Mary's unwise
+flight, that her sisters seldom ventured to allude to the subject. As
+weeks passed by, the very names of "Mary Mordaunt" and "little Rhona"
+were unheard among them.</p>
+
+<p>But on this foggy afternoon, the absent ones were much in the mind of
+Susanna; she could not have told why.</p>
+
+<p>And as they sat long over their tea, she broke out—"I do wonder what
+has become of poor Arthur's wife and child,"—the next moment growing
+alarmed at her own temerity.</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose they are where they have chosen to go," said Miss Mordaunt,
+with a composure which might have been taken for hardness. "We have
+no responsibility in the matter. Mary is not a girl, to be under our
+control."</p>
+
+<p>"Only she is so young,—hardly more than a girl in age. It does seem to
+be our duty to find her again, if possible."</p>
+
+<p>"I do not see any question of duty in the matter," rejoined Miss
+Mordaunt. "If Mary chooses to write, she is at liberty to do so.
+Otherwise, we are not bound to trouble ourselves."</p>
+
+<p>Certain words darted into Susie's mind,—"Am I my brother's keeper?" But
+it was an understood family axiom that "Barbara always knew best." And
+Susie put the words aside, yet found herself continuing, with a meek
+persistency—</p>
+
+<p>"Sometimes I can't help wondering—if we were just to advertise—"</p>
+
+<p>"Advertise!" Miss Mordaunt's eyebrows took a journey more than half-way
+up her low forehead. "My dear Susie! What will you propose next? This
+is capital tea, Clara, though I do not like the Assam flavour."</p>
+
+<p>"But they might be in want," said Susie.</p>
+
+<p>"They might, of course,—and that might bring Mary to her senses. I
+doubt if anything else is likely to do so. When people are thoroughly
+wilful, they commonly have to pay for it. However, Mary has something
+to depend upon, and no doubt she has friends in London. When she
+requires our aid, she will come and ask it."</p>
+
+<p>"You would not send her away, sister?" Susie spoke beseechingly.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Mordaunt's eyebrows repeated their former movement. "I should be
+sorry to make any promises beforehand. Mary has treated us so far with
+scant civility. If she were willing to apologise—"</p>
+
+<p>"O Barbara! It was only the thought of losing her child. She is so
+sweet—so gentle—"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, as long as she can have everything her own way. I am not hard
+upon her, Susie, but you must not expect unreasonable things. What has
+put this into your head to-day?"</p>
+
+<p>Susanna looked ashamed, and murmured something about "the fog."</p>
+
+<p>"Sue would have taken in Mary as well as Rhona," remarked Clara
+carelessly. "Fancy! Having her always about—never a moment to
+ourselves."</p>
+
+<p>"Susie knows better," said Miss Mordaunt. "She is as well aware as I am
+that we could not possibly afford the additional expense. Rhona alone
+would have involved considerable need for increased economy."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes, of course," Susie said hurriedly. "Only if it 'had' been
+possible—"</p>
+
+<p>"Which it was not," Clara said decisively. "Why, we can't now afford
+more than three shillings a pound for our tea, and when dear papa was
+alive, we always gave six shillings."</p>
+
+<p>"Which it was not," added Miss Mordaunt, almost simultaneously with
+Clara. "Why, Susie, I explained the whole matter to you one day lately,
+and made it perfectly clear."</p>
+
+<p>Explaining is not always making clear, and so Susie might have
+answered. Anything connected with figures or prices fell always to a
+jumble in her brain. She only ventured, however, to remark, "Of course
+you know much best,—only I cannot help being sorry for poor Mary. She
+has such a sweet face; and Rhona too."</p>
+
+<p>"Sweet faces are often deceptive—as we know," said Miss Mordaunt. "Mary
+has evidently been made too much of, and is in fact thoroughly spoilt.
+The child is very pretty, I grant, though I could wish she were more
+like Arthur,—less of a Willis. If we had her to ourselves, we could
+train her into our ways, but I should be sorry indeed to undertake
+her, with the mother at hand to counteract all our efforts. However, I
+really see no use in all this talk. If Mary chooses to let us know her
+address, she can do so any day. Till then, we have nothing to do but to
+let her alone. Can you tell me, Clara, how long it is since our last
+letter from Henry? It seems to me that he is keeping us this time even
+longer than usual."</p>
+
+<p>Clara shrugged her shoulders. "Henry is a sort of outside-the-world
+being to me," she said. "I sometimes wonder if he really is my brother."</p>
+
+<p>"You don't mean that, and I do not like to hear you say it," responded
+Miss Mordaunt. "Remember Keble—</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+<br>
+"'No distance breaks the tie of blood,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;Brothers are brothers evermore.'"<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes, of course," said Clara, to whom the couplet had been so often
+quoted as to have lost its force. "I don't suppose distance does affect
+the tie,—but coldness and silence do."</p>
+
+<p>"It is Henry's way. He was always so different from our dear William."</p>
+
+<p>The three faces had a saddened look of recollection for a moment.</p>
+
+<p>"Well,—but about Henry's letters," said Clara. "We have heard
+absolutely nothing since last March; and then only a scrap of paper,
+scrawled over. And before that, we had a letter,—nine months earlier.
+And before that, a gap of two years."</p>
+
+<p>"But Henry promised not to treat us so badly again," said Barbara, who
+always felt herself bound to make excuses for the oldest member of the
+family. "And in his last, he seemed to hold out hope of coming home
+before long. I feel sometimes that we really ought to meet."</p>
+
+<p>"He ought to retire and live with us," said Clara decisively. "It is
+not as if there were any money-difficulty. Most unmarried brothers as
+well off as Henry is, would be delighted to share what they have with
+their sisters. But he never seems to dream of such a thing."</p>
+
+<p>"We must not blame him. He may have reasons—difficulties—unknown to
+us," said Barbara.</p>
+
+<p>Clara started suddenly up, and went to the window. "A cab stopping
+here! How black and thick it is! I can see nothing. But I am sure I
+heard wheels. Yes, and there is the bell."</p>
+
+<p>A long parley appeared to take place at the front door. "What can Janet
+be about?" Miss Mordaunt asked once or twice. "We shall have the house
+full of fog."</p>
+
+<p>Clara had left the window and returned to her seat near the fire. "A
+mistake probably," she said. "Anybody might go wrong, such an evening."</p>
+
+<p>The maid-servant at length appeared, wearing a bewildered look.</p>
+
+<p>"If you please, ma'am, there's a cab come, and the man says he has
+brought the lady home."</p>
+
+<p>"Brought the lady home!" echoed three voices, in varied pitches of
+astonishment.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, ma'am. I told him we didn't expect any lady, but he wouldn't go.
+He says she told him '3, Winifred Place' as plain as could be. And he
+wants his fare."</p>
+
+<p>"The lady had better give it him," said Clara. "What nonsense!"</p>
+
+<p>"The man must be drunk," said Miss Mordaunt.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think he is, ma'am. He speaks quite quiet and sensible."</p>
+
+<p>"Then it is a mistake. You had better ask the lady's name."</p>
+
+<p>"If you please, ma'am, he did go and speak to the lady, and he couldn't
+get no answer. And he said he didn't mean to go away without I or
+somebody would look at her. He didn't know if it was a swoon or death,
+he said."</p>
+
+<p>"Poor thing! Some stranger taken ill," said Miss Mordaunt. "The wisest
+thing he can do is to carry her to the nearest hospital. You did not go
+outside in the fog, I hope, Janet."</p>
+
+<p>"I went to the cab-door, ma'am, and he held the lantern," said Janet,
+shivering at the recollection, yet gratified with her own cautious
+manner of breaking the news. "And please, ma'am,—it is Mrs. Mordaunt."</p>
+
+<p>Barbara, Susanna, and Clara were on their feet simultaneously.</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Mordaunt! Why did you not tell me at once?"</p>
+
+<p>"Please, ma'am, I thought you would be startled. It frightened me like,
+to see her."</p>
+
+<p>Janet was a confidential servant, of long standing, and she pretty well
+understood the condition of family affairs.</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Mordaunt!" repeated Barbara. "And the child?"</p>
+
+<p>"She's alone, ma'am. Miss Rhona nor nobody isn't with her. And she do
+look bad."</p>
+
+<p>Miss Mordaunt for once forgot to be dignified. She hurried into the
+passage, fluttered and agitated, and stood at the open door, regardless
+of the rush of fog, inquiring where the cabman had found his "fare."
+He gave particulars briefly, as to time and place, volunteering the
+information that the lady had appeared to him, when first he addressed
+her, to be ill. Since telling him where to go, she had not spoken, and
+seemed to be unconscious.</p>
+
+<p>"Sister, I hope it isn't anything infectious," whispered Susie, in a
+timid voice, edging up behind. "Don't you think—perhaps—the hospital—?"</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly not," said Barbara. "That would not be returning good for
+evil. She has come to us in distress, and for to-night at least, she
+shall stay. You need not go near her, if you are afraid. Cabman,—"
+Barbara raised her voice,—"can you bring the lady in?"</p>
+
+<p>The task proved not an easy one, but he accomplished it.</p>
+
+<p>Barbara went before into the study, and signed him towards the sofa.</p>
+
+<p>Mary Mordaunt lay there, as he placed her—silent, lifeless, deathly
+pale.</p>
+
+<p>Clara had grown almost as colourless.</p>
+
+<p>"What does it mean? Where can the child be?"</p>
+
+<p>"I cannot tell. Clara, do not come in if it alarms you." Barbara spoke
+gently this time, not as she had spoken to Susie, for then there had
+been a grain of contempt. "I think Mary must have fainted. It may be
+nothing worse than a faint. When she comes to herself, she will tell us
+about Rhona. But we must have the doctor to see her, and he will say
+what is the matter. You had better pay the cabman, and ask him to leave
+a message at Dr. Wynne's. I am sure Dr. Wynne will come at once, if
+possible."</p>
+
+<p>"In this fog?"</p>
+
+<p>"Doctors never think about weather," Barbara answered quite sincerely.
+"I should not like any needless delay."</p>
+
+<p>Every remedy that she could suggest was tried, and tried in vain.</p>
+
+<p>More than an hour passed, and then the doctor arrived,—an elderly man,
+of strong bodily and mental build, with silver-grey hair, and quiet
+eyes. He had been a friend of the Mordaunt family for over forty years.</p>
+
+<p>Under his superintendence, stronger means were employed for the
+restoration of the poor wanderer. And by-and-by, the watchers were
+rewarded by seeing the soft dark eyes unclose.</p>
+
+<p>"She does not know us," Barbara said, in disappointment.</p>
+
+<p>"Speak to her," said Dr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>"Mary!" Barbara's voice was rarely to be heard in so tender an
+utterance. "Mary dear,—don't you know me? Mary, where is your little
+Rhona?"</p>
+
+<p>But the question passed unheeded, and there came no sign of recognition.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_12">CHAPTER XII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>STILL ABSENT.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"ALWAYS wasting your time up in that room! I tell you what it is,
+Bertha,—I won't have you go on so any longer, and that's a fact. I
+don't mean to have everything in the house go to wrack and ruin for
+want of proper care, just because you haven't eyes nor ears for anybody
+except that child. It is all very well to pay proper attention, and
+I'm as sorry for her as the rest of you, but I just 'won't' have you
+running in every half-hour to dawdle and gossip. You've got your work
+to do, and I expect to have it done,—if not, you'd best look out for
+a home elsewhere, and the sooner the better. Look at the dirt left in
+this corner. I never knew anybody so careless before. There's no manner
+of dependence to be put upon you."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell was, as she would herself have described it, "out
+of sorts" that morning; and she found some relief in venting her
+uncomfortable sensations thus. The present condition of things affected
+her peace of mind; and since no one could be lawfully blamed for their
+said condition, she took refuge in blaming Bertha with undue severity
+for certain unwonted, touches of neglect.</p>
+
+<p>There could be no doubt that Bertha was a little infatuated about the
+fair child upstairs. She was ready—metaphorically—to kiss the ground
+on which Rhona trod, and for Rhona's sake, she could even slur over
+certain duties. The blame, though disproportioned to the offence, was
+not altogether undeserved.</p>
+
+<p>"So you mind!" continued Mrs. Burrell. "Mind!—You don't go to Mrs.
+Mordaunt's room again in a hurry, without I send you."</p>
+
+<p>"Good-morning, Mrs. Burrell. Anything gone wrong?"</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell's wrathful look changed suddenly, as she found herself
+face to face with the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>Bertha passed on silently, and the landlady said in aggrieved
+explanation,—"Only that girl, sir. But young things will be young, and
+one can't look to have them different."</p>
+
+<p>"Scolding won't make them old before their time," said the Colonel, and
+he too left Mrs. Burrell to her own reflections.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>A whole week had gone by, and still Mrs. Mordaunt remained absent.
+Not a word from her or about her reached any one. Colonel Smyth had
+inquired and advertised in vain. Possibly the advertisements might
+have been successful; for though the Miss Mordaunts read few papers,
+they had relatives and friends not so self-denying. But Colonel Smyth
+perhaps did not feel himself at liberty to reveal Mrs. Mordaunt's abode
+to her husband's relatives, if the doing so could be avoided; and he
+couched the advertisements in vague language.</p>
+
+<p>Though Mrs. Mordaunt had not returned, the child was still at Mrs.
+Burrell's, living in the back bedroom. Thus far, she had not needed to
+appeal to anybody's generosity. Mrs. Burrell supplied all her wants,
+conjecturing that the contents of the purse would be amply sufficient
+to meet this week's expenses, and possibly the expenses of a week or
+two beyond. But afterwards?</p>
+
+<p>That was the question which fretted the landlady's mind. Suppose Mrs.
+Mordaunt did not return, what was to be done with the child? It was
+not of course to be supposed that she—Mrs. Burrell—could keep on Rhona
+Mordaunt indefinitely, without remuneration. The idea was absurd. No
+one could expect it of her. But she did greatly wish that other people
+would allude to the necessity for some early change, instead of leaving
+the suggestion to spring from herself.</p>
+
+<p>A whole week! What could have become of the poor young widow? Everybody
+was asking this question, though nobody seemed to trouble his brains as
+to its effects, possible or probable, upon Mrs. Burrell's pocket.</p>
+
+<p>In the Colonel's mind, little doubt existed that Mrs. Mordaunt had
+been run down in some crowded thoroughfare, and killed on the spot,
+thus finding in the great metropolis a nameless grave. Almost the only
+alternative, according to his view of the case, was that she might have
+wandered away in the bewildering fog to the brink of a certain canal,
+not so very far distant, and there, with one sudden splash and one
+brief struggle, have ended her sad short life. Mr. Powis held much the
+same opinion. But nobody had ventured to suggest such ideas to Rhona.
+She was daily and hourly watching still, with unshaken hope, for her
+mother's return.</p>
+
+<p>"I should think it can't be very much longer," she had said that
+morning to Bertha, while taking her simple breakfast. The child looked
+sadly pale and thin, and her dark eyes wore a touchingly wistful
+expression. "It can't be very much longer, Bertha. Colonel Smyth
+thinks she must have been knocked down and stunned in the fog." Rhona
+was always recurring to this idea, as if to reassure herself. "Just
+stunned, and that might not mean she was so very very much hurt. He
+says she might be carried to a hospital, or taken into somebody's
+house,—and if she were stunned, she couldn't tell them her name or
+where she lived."</p>
+
+<p>"Colonel Smyth has asked at some of the hospitals, has he not, dear?"
+asked Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, and he can't hear anything. But you see, they would not know her
+name, so she might be somewhere without their finding her. O Bertha! If
+only she had not dropped her purse."</p>
+
+<p>"God will take care of her," said Bertha in a low voice.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—I try not to forget that. Of course He knows all—everything.
+Mother says we must trust Him. Bertha, don't you think it must be just
+as Colonel Smyth says? He understands better than we do."</p>
+
+<p>"I dare say he does, dear." Bertha found it hard to meet the child's
+gaze.</p>
+
+<p>"So it can't be a very great deal longer, before she comes," continued
+Rhona. "When people are stunned, it doesn't generally last longer
+than a week, does it? I asked Colonel Smyth, and he said there was no
+knowing."</p>
+
+<p>"I shouldn't think it did—often," faltered Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"And every single day is nearer her coming back," said Rhona. "I
+don't think I ever had such a week,—oh, so long. The minutes seem to
+creep—creep. And I am always thinking I hear mother's step,—and yet she
+never comes. If only I just knew where she is, I could bear it better.
+I 'could,'" repeated the child, with an indescribably pitiful look.</p>
+
+<p>"I am sure you do bear it all wonderfully, dear," said Bertha. "But you
+must eat some breakfast now."</p>
+
+<p>"I could eat, if mother came back. It doesn't seem as if I could
+now," the child said wearily; and then heavy tears fell, not with a
+burst of weeping, but in slow large drops, like the beginning of a
+thunder-shower.</p>
+
+<p>Bertha could not but stay to comfort the lonely child; and that was how
+she came in for a scolding from Mrs. Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>All this time, the Colonel continued to pay frequent visits to Rhona,
+showing great interest in her well-being. He entered her room at least
+three times a day, and he sent her many little delicacies from his own
+table, but he did not ask her to take meals with him. Thus far—with
+the caution, perhaps, of an old bachelor—he seemed desirous to avoid
+committing himself, and anxious to eschew responsibilities. But the
+question of Rhona's future haunted the Colonel at least as much as it
+haunted Mrs. Burrell. Something would have to be done soon, and he knew
+it.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>Three more days of waiting exhausted Mrs. Burrell's patience. She found
+her way into the back bedroom, soon after breakfast, and stood uneasily
+within the door, one hand fidgeting the antimacassar over a chair-back.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona was seated at the table, writing a French translation. There
+was a singular fortitude about this frail child. She seemed bent upon
+keeping on exactly in the same lines of conduct and occupation which
+her mother, if present, would have had her pursue. The opening door
+caused a tremulous start as if from an electric shock, followed by a
+look of bitter disappointment. It was so a dozen times a day.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell meant to be very kind. She began by asking how Rhona was,
+hardly prepared for the reply,—</p>
+
+<p>"I shall be quite well when mother comes back."</p>
+
+<p>"But, Miss Rhona—" said Mrs. Burrell</p>
+
+<p>"I can't till then. Of course I can't. It makes me 'ache' so, to have
+her away all this time," the child said sadly. "But she is sure to come
+soon. Don't you think so?"</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell was at a loss. She could say neither "yes" nor "no," with
+those eyes upon her,—eyes which seemed to have gained in size and
+brightness, the last few days, and in a kind of intense watchfulness.</p>
+
+<p>"Miss Rhona, I don't want to trouble you," the landlady remarked, after
+a pause. "But your poor mamma always settled with me every week for the
+week's expenses. And it is two days after the usual time,—two days and
+more."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes, yes,—I oughtn't to have forgotten," said Rhona hurriedly, her
+face working. The long strain of suspense was telling greatly upon the
+child. "I have enough, in mother's purse,—quite enough for this week,
+and next week, and more. Mother would want me to pay, I am sure." She
+drew the large purse with some difficulty out of her pocket.</p>
+
+<p>"It don't matter just this moment," said Mrs. Burrell, feeling
+uncomfortable. "I'll bring the bill to-morrow. You see I'm only a widow
+myself, and obliged to work for my livelihood. If I could afford to
+keep you without pay, I'm sure I should be glad enough. But that is
+just what I can't do."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh no, and there is no need," said Rhona. "Mother will be back in a
+day or two. She is sure to come very soon now."</p>
+
+<p>"But if she didn't, Miss Rhona?"</p>
+
+<p>"If she didn't!"</p>
+
+<p>The dark eyes turned an appalled look upon the landlady.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, Miss Rhona, you needn't be vexed," said Mrs. Burrell,
+misunderstanding the expression. "Of course nobody can tell what has
+become of your poor mamma,—if we could, there 'd be no need to wonder.
+And if she don't come back soon, I don't see what you're to do."</p>
+
+<p>"I can't do anything. I can only just wait," Rhona answered, her face
+taking its most unchildlike expression. "I must wait till God brings
+mother back to me."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, of course, Miss Rhona." Mrs. Burrell spoke rather pettishly.
+"Yes, of course,—that's all very proper and nice, I don't doubt,—but
+people can't live upon waiting, nor upon hopes. I suppose you haven't
+got enough in your poor mamma's purse to keep you for very long. I've
+been thinking whether there aren't any friends or uncles or aunts of
+yours, who would take you in and give you a home, so that I should have
+my room free to let to somebody else, if it was to happen that your
+mamma 'didn't' come back;—for a good long while."</p>
+
+<p>The appalled look returned as a flash; and in deference to it, Mrs.
+Burrell added the last five words after a break, originally intended
+to be a full stop. But the break was too long, the first intention too
+distinct. Rhona read her real meaning.</p>
+
+<p>A pause followed. Mrs. Burrell was uneasy at the effect of her own
+words. Rhona sat still, with her little hands loosely folded, uttering
+not a sound, but staring fixedly at the landlady, while a grey hue
+overspread her face.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't mean anything particular, so you needn't be frightened," Mrs.
+Burrell was constrained to add. "You see you're only a child, Miss
+Rhona, and you don't understand. But people must look forward and
+arrange things, or, dear me, how ever could the world get along?"</p>
+
+<p>Rhona neither stirred nor spoke, and her fascinated gaze remained
+unchanged.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell winced under it. She thought Rhona was trying haughtily to
+stare her out of countenance.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't see that you've any call to look at me like that,—I don't
+really, Miss Rhona. It isn't like a young lady. I'm sure I have been a
+good friend to you, and anybody would say so. I'd do more if I could,
+but the fact is I'm not well off, and I don't mind saying it. I have
+got myself and my own girl to consider, not to speak of a niece put
+upon me as it was. And it's no use to say I'm not enough burdened
+already, for I am.</p>
+
+<p>"I didn't mean to put it into your head about your poor mamma never
+coming back,—though to be sure everybody is saying it, and the Colonel
+most of all—but I don't see how you are to go on week after week and
+nothing settled. I thought maybe the Colonel might do something, but
+he don't seem disposed. And if there's relations they ought to be
+told,—that's 'my' opinion. Your poor mamma said one day that there was
+some she didn't want to have to do with. But if there's no other home
+for you, and they are willing to take you in, I don't really see as
+you've got much choice. That's all I have to say, and it's my duty to
+say it. But I didn't mean to startle you, of course, Miss Rhona. Do
+wake up, and look natural, and stop staring,—it's enough to give one
+the creeps, I declare, to see you."</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_13">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>THE COLONEL AND RHONA.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>COLONEL SMYTH tapped thrice during the delivery of Mrs. Burrell's
+speech, and receiving no answer, he peeped in and entered.</p>
+
+<p>"Nobody spoke, so I thought nobody was here," he said. "How is the
+little maid this morning? Why, Rhona! Hallo!"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sure I didn't mean any harm," began the now alarmed landlady.</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel cut Mrs. Burrell short. He strode past, caught up the
+stony-faced child, carried her to the window, and flung it open.</p>
+
+<p>"Water!" he said in a loud peremptory voice.</p>
+
+<p>And Mrs. Burrell brought a tumbler, "all of a tremble" herself, as she
+afterwards declared.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth forced a few drops through the clenched teeth, and dashed
+some lavishly into the rigid features.</p>
+
+<p>"What is the meaning of this?" he asked fiercely.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sure, sir, I hadn't any idea of making Miss Rhona ill," Mrs.
+Burrell said, in a voice half-aggrieved, half-apologetic. "I'm sure I
+didn't say anything much. It wasn't to be expected I could go on day
+after day, and not a word said,—keeping a child without pay that has
+nobody belonging to her."</p>
+
+<p>"Pay!" said the Colonel, with flashing eyes. "Bring your bill to me
+to-morrow morning. You hear?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir," Mrs. Burrell answered, pallid between contending emotions,
+as indignation fought with prudence.</p>
+
+<p>"And if you say one word more to this child about the matter—I leave
+that day week. You understand?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir," repeated Mrs. Burrell, trembling with anger, yet by no
+means forgetful that the Colonel was a lodger worth retaining. "I'm
+sure I hadn't the least wish to say what I oughtn't to Miss Rhona. I
+only just said her poor mamma had always settled with me every week,
+and so she did,—and I only just asked her what she meant to do if Mrs.
+Mordaunt wasn't to come back soon—as I've heard you say you didn't
+think she was like to do, poor thing."</p>
+
+<p>"Hold your tongue!" commanded the Colonel. "The child is coming to."</p>
+
+<p>A gasping cry told of returning life; and then there was a burst of
+agonised sobs and hysteric laughter.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth would not have believed this ordinarily quiet and gentle
+child to be capable of so wild an outbreak. The pent-up billows of
+the last ten days had their way at last. Once and again, the paroxysm
+seemed dying away, only to return with renewed violence. Rhona was
+evidently conscious, for she shrank and shuddered at Mrs. Burrell's
+touch, and clung to the Colonel as if for protection.</p>
+
+<p>Some measure of embarrassment might under the circumstances have been
+natural to an elderly bachelor, whose acquaintance with childish
+tears had been hitherto of the slightest. But the embarrassment, if
+felt, did not appear. Those little clinging fingers sent a curious
+thrill of pleasure through the Colonel's hardy frame. He would not
+have her out of his arms. And when the landlady suggested and brought
+eau-de-Cologne, he applied it himself, clumsily yet tenderly. Then as
+the rending sobs of distress changed into moans of sharp bodily pain,
+always more or less the accompaniment of tears with Rhona, he paced the
+room, bearing the slight creature in his arms, now and then touching
+her forehead with his moustached lips, till the moans too died away,
+and Rhona was asleep.</p>
+
+<p>"Best thing for her, poor mite!" the Colonel muttered.</p>
+
+<p>He allowed the much-exercised landlady to depart, and carried Rhona
+into his own sitting-room. There, laid on a comfortable sofa, with a
+shawl spread over her, she spent many hours in unconsciousness. The
+Colonel had his own luncheon, without disturbing the sleeper; and his
+usual walks were foregone that he might keep watch beside the couch.
+He had a book in hand, but he read little. Ever and anon his glances
+wandered to the small delicate face, with its broad saddened brow, and
+long lashes lying on white cheeks.</p>
+
+<p>From time to time, Rhona stirred uneasily, and more than once she
+clasped her hands with a muttered—"Mother!" But still she did not wake.</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel put down his book, and gazed steadily at Rhona. A curious
+far-away look came into his own eyes, as he did so,—a look of sorrowful
+recollection. The Colonel's rugged features were strangely softened by
+it.</p>
+
+<p>"Wonderful likeness!" he murmured. "Why didn't I let myself see Mary
+Mordaunt sooner? Folly, to put off. As if I ever meant her to go on so
+any length of time! Poor thing!—And she might have been spared this.
+I shall never forgive myself. A young lonely thing like that, with a
+double claim on me. Why should it be worse to see Margaret's child than
+Margaret's grandchild? And I was thirsting for it all the while. If the
+look in her eyes had been like this child's, I couldn't have resisted
+it. Well, well, well,—no use to worry myself now. There's only this
+poor little one to see after."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel actually gave vent to a heavy sigh. He went slowly to a
+drawer, unlocked it, and drew out a small morocco case, containing
+a miniature likeness. Then for two minutes he stood at the foot of
+the couch, comparing in a succession of glances the girl-face in the
+picture and the child-face on the pillow.</p>
+
+<p>"I believe it will almost serve for a likeness of Rhona herself a few
+years hence," he said, as he locked up the little case.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>He bent low, and spoke the word gently. Colonel Smyth was not commonly
+counted gentle, but all the dormant tenderness in his nature was drawn
+out towards this child.</p>
+
+<p>She started instantly into full consciousness, almost instantly into
+full recollection. One "Mother!" burst from her lips at the moment of
+awaking, and then, with a low, "Oh, I forgot!" she hid her face.</p>
+
+<p>"Come, my dear, you are to take this," said the Colonel. "I thought you
+would like sandwiches better than anything else,—not so much trouble
+to get through. Don't feel hungry, do you? But you are going to eat to
+please me."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona silently submitted, so far as making the attempt was concerned,
+though success was small. He had soon to take away the plate. She gave
+him one soft grateful look, and then lay again with closed eyes, and
+a look of patient suffering. The Colonel was very much at a loss how
+to deal with the child. He drew a chair to her side at length, and sat
+down.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona, can you bear a few words?" he asked. "I am afraid Mrs. Burrell
+has been bothering you, and I want to set matters right. Try not to
+cry, my dear—" as two heavy drops fell.</p>
+
+<p>"I wouldn't if I could help," said Rhona gently.</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Burrell said something about bills, didn't she? I have told her
+she is to bring the bills to me, and not to say another word to you."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona looked at him anxiously, and tried to raise herself.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't move, my dear,—what do you want?" asked the Colonel, as she fell
+back.</p>
+
+<p>"I can't sit up," said Rhona. "I wanted to get out mother's purse."</p>
+
+<p>"If you like to put the purse in my charge, I will keep it for you
+safely, and not spend a penny in it till—" the Colonel paused. "Till
+your mother comes home," he had been about to say. But he did not
+believe Mrs. Mordaunt ever would come home. Was it true or false
+kindness to buoy up the child with hopes which would probably never be
+realised?</p>
+
+<p>He knew how she was looking at him, waiting for more; but the sentence
+remained unfinished.</p>
+
+<p>"I should like to give it to you, please," Rhona said at length, in a
+tone of indescribable sorrow, which went to the Colonel's heart. Not
+for years had his sympathies been so stirred.</p>
+
+<p>"Remember, Rhona," he said, as he helped her to get out the
+purse—"nobody really knows. Your mother may come back yet. We must not
+make up our minds too hastily."</p>
+
+<p>"But you don't think—you don't 'think'—" the child said in a low voice
+of agony, tears running down her cheeks.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth hesitated again. He could not say "Yes." He would not say
+"No." Something else was in his mind to be said; only he had not meant
+to commit himself so soon. But Rhona's face was too much for him, and
+prudent considerations went to the winds. What he did was to lift her
+again on his knee, folding her round with his strong arms, and letting
+her head lie on his shoulder, while he asked in a tone husky with
+strong feeling,—</p>
+
+<p>"Will you be my own little girl, just till mother comes back? Perhaps
+she will yet,—nobody knows. Shall I take care of you till then?"</p>
+
+<p>Rhona clung to him silently, weeping still, yet with a lessened sense
+of forlornness.</p>
+
+<p>"You don't want to go to those aunts of yours, do you?—The Miss
+Mordaunts that you told me about."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh no, no, no," sobbed Rhona, with sufficient childish energy. "Oh no,
+no,—they were so unkind to my sweet mother."</p>
+
+<p>"Then you shall not. We will keep out of way for the present. And you
+will be my little girl now,—just till mother comes back. Do you think
+you can manage to call me 'uncle,' instead of 'Colonel Smith?'"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't mind," Rhona whispered. "I mean, I'll try,—if you like."</p>
+
+<p>"I should like it much best."</p>
+
+<p>"I'll try," repeated the child. "Only you are not my uncle."</p>
+
+<p>"Never mind that. Perhaps some day you will wake up and find that I am.
+Queerer things do happen."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't see how I could, because I haven't got any uncles," said Rhona
+soberly. "Father had no brothers, or mother—mother—either."</p>
+
+<p>"Never mind, my poor little one," the Colonel said soothingly. "You
+will not object to having a new uncle now, at all events. And mind,—you
+have to tell me everything you want, just as if you really belonged to
+me. You understand?"</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"So Miss Rhona is to take her meals with the Colonel," said Mrs.
+Burrell, having received orders to that effect, later in the day.
+"Going to see after her till Mrs. Mordaunt comes back, he says! Well,
+of course it's no business of mine, so long as my bills are paid. But
+Mrs. Mordaunt won't come back, and he'll be tired of her before a month
+is over. 'I' know what gentlemen are. 'I' should have said she ought
+to have gone to her own relations, and not be put upon a stranger. Of
+course it isn't my business. And the Colonel will manage things his own
+way. The way he spoke to me this morning, I shan't soon forget." Mrs.
+Burrell was sore still, and disposed to view the Colonel's actions with
+jaundiced eyes.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_14">CHAPTER XIV.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>AN EVENTFUL EVENING.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>THE Colonel found himself in for a month of nursing, or of something
+nearly approaching thereto. It was a novel position for him. He
+had always abhorred invalids and eschewed sick-rooms, with the
+self-indulgence of a man whose own comfort is his prime consideration.</p>
+
+<p>And here he was suddenly, not far from his sixtieth year, after a
+long and undisturbed bachelor-life, with a frail little creature on
+his hands, broken-hearted at losing her mother, positively ill from
+mental stress, entirely dependent on the Colonel's generosity, and
+unconsciously able to turn him to right and to left with one glance of
+her sweet sad eyes.</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel succumbed to the new condition of things, once and for all;
+and Mrs. Burrell had no choice but to follow suit. She was privately
+wrathful at times, declaring to her daughter and niece that "everything
+in the house had to give way to that child, whether or no!" meaning,
+doubtless, "whether or no she herself approved."</p>
+
+<p>But she attempted no open resistance; not even when Colonel Smyth
+desired that Bertha should sleep in the back bedroom with Rhona, and be
+considered her special attendant. He offered additional remuneration
+for the same; and Mrs. Burrell liked the remuneration though not the
+arrangement. Bertha undertook her share of the matter with silent
+rapture, and a warm affection sprang up between her and the child.</p>
+
+<p>"You nice Bertha!" Rhona would call her often, in grateful tones.</p>
+
+<p>Of course the Colonel was direfully ignorant as to children's needs and
+sick people's ways. Hothouse grapes in profusion were all very well,
+but he was impressed with the necessity for lollypops and bulls-eyes
+for infant delectation. And his anxiety to "feed up" Rhona upon the
+rich soups, stews and curries, in which he himself delighted, was only
+equalled by his astonishment at finding them rejected.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother wouldn't let me," in the child's languid voice, always put an
+end to persuasions.</p>
+
+<p>But he gave way reluctantly, and found her tastes enigmatical.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona had no appetite and no spirit. She lay day after day upon the
+sofa, sometimes in her own bedroom, more often in the Colonel's
+sitting-room, always greeting him with a smile, but unable to employ
+herself. She had evidently accepted the thought that her mother would
+not return; and with this acceptance, all interest in life seemed to
+have died away.</p>
+
+<p>After the first storm of sorrow, there were no more outbreaks; only she
+would often lie with closed eyes, slow tears stealing from beneath her
+lashes, while the broad brow was dented with pain. French exercises
+were no longer attempted; and even story-books, though gratefully
+received, were not read.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell recommended calling in a doctor, but the Colonel was
+averse to this.</p>
+
+<p>"There was nothing the matter with the child, only fretting," he said.
+"She would get over it in time."</p>
+
+<p>He did not realise that persistent fretting might at last end in
+positive illness; and he had an odd feeling that to summon a doctor
+would imply a need for anxiety. Colonel Smyth did not wish to be made
+anxious about Rhona, for she was twining herself round his heart. It
+was curious to see how he shortened his daily walks, and absented
+himself from his usual outdoor resorts that he might spend hours beside
+the child.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Powis came in now and then to visit her, though not greatly
+encouraged by the Colonel. But as yet, Rhona could say little to either
+of them. She seemed to want only to lie still.</p>
+
+<p>It came to the Colonel's hearing one day, as a result of his inquiries,
+that just about the date of Mrs. Mordaunt's disappearance, the body of
+a woman had been found in a certain canal,—a young woman, dark-haired,
+slender, dressed in mourning, apparently most respectable, perhaps
+even a lady, but having about her no name or address. The place was at
+a considerable distance where the body was discovered, but higher up
+in its course that same canal passed within a mile and a half of Mrs.
+Howard's house. The poor young woman had received Parish burial; and
+beyond these facts the Colonel could find out little. He had, however,
+small doubt from that hour that his conjecture as to drowning in the
+fog was correct, and thenceforth, he began to count little Rhona indeed
+his own.</p>
+
+<p>It was not his intention that Rhona should ever hear this sad tale. But
+his resolution to keep silence was shaken.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona, I wish I knew what would do you good," he said one afternoon.</p>
+
+<p>He had taken her on his knee, and she was lying in his arms, sadly
+silent as usual. The stir of her eyelashes showed that she was not
+sleeping. Colonel Smyth had a strange sense of pleasure in the feeling
+of the little head resting on his shoulder. He began to wonder how he
+had managed to live alone so many years.</p>
+
+<p>"I wish I knew what would do you good," he repeated. "I don't like to
+see my little girl always so white and tired."</p>
+
+<p>"I shan't be tired—some day—perhaps," murmured the child.</p>
+
+<p>"But I want to know of something that will make you less tired now," he
+said.</p>
+
+<p>"There isn't anything—except—" Rhona said.</p>
+
+<p>He felt the sigh which finished her broken utterance.</p>
+
+<p>"My little pet, I should like to see you happier," said the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think I am exactly unhappy," said Rhona, with a singular
+sedateness. "I think I am happy."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth lifted her up, and looked earnestly into the pale face,
+with its large wistful eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"No, no, no," he said. "That is not happiness. I want to see you merry
+and gay like other children—able to jump, and laugh, and play. But
+it is too soon yet, isn't it? Now, now, don't cry—" as two or three
+glittering drops fell. "Crying always brings on the pain in this poor
+little head, and that makes you feel so dull."</p>
+
+<p>"I can't help it when I think of mother," whispered Rhona, with an
+evident struggle to speak. "It is so—'so' dreadful not to know. If only
+I just knew! If only I just knew!" And she wrung her hands together.</p>
+
+<p>"Just knew?" repeated the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"Where she is!" Rhona answered, with bitter tears. "If only I could
+know!"</p>
+
+<p>"It is worse being uncertain than not knowing,—even if you had to be
+sure of the very worst?" the Colonel said questioningly.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—oh yes," sobbed the poor child. "I can't bear not to know. I do
+so want to go to her—and take care of her—if she is ill."</p>
+
+<p>"You poor little mite, you want taking care of yourself," said the
+Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>And then he debated the matter silently, plunging at length into a
+sentence, without much idea of how it was to end—</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona, your mother was a good woman, very good,—and she was lonely and
+had a great many troubles, I suspect. Suppose it was as we fear, that
+some accident had happened in that fog, and so she never could come
+back. I don't say it is so, but suppose it were? Mother would be safe
+in heaven then, wouldn't she? Don't you think she would be very happy
+there, much happier than she was here?"</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel felt uncomfortable at his own words; for certainly the very
+last happiness he desired for himself was the happiness of heaven.
+But he guessed rightly that no other line of argument would avail to
+comfort Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"She wouldn't be glad to leave me," the poor little lips faltered.</p>
+
+<p>"But she would be happy there, Rhona—I suppose—with your father, you
+know. People are always happy in heaven," said the Colonel, vaguely
+trying to administer the right sort of spiritual consolation.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes,—yes," Rhona answered. "If only I knew!"</p>
+
+<p>"It would make you feel easier in mind to picture your mother as in
+heaven, instead of perhaps suffering among strangers," suggested the
+Colonel. "Then I can tell you more than you know yet. Can you bear to
+hear the worst, my little girl? There was somebody found drowned in a
+canal, soon after that foggy day, and she was dressed in black and had
+no name upon her. I think it must have been your mother, Rhona. I think
+she must have lost her way in the fog, and have wandered to the canal
+and fallen in. They say that drowning is a very painless death,—much
+more painless than being run over, for instance. And now she will never
+have any more troubles, you know."</p>
+
+<p>The child heard in absolute silence. He could not detect even a quiver
+of her eyelids. The Colonel waited silently the space of two minutes,
+and then grew alarmed. Had she fainted?</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona, my dear! Rhona!" he said. "You are not asleep, my dear?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh no. I am so glad you have told me," Rhona answered in a low
+unchildlike voice, full of sorrow, and joy. "I am so glad I know,—so
+glad I know."</p>
+
+<p>"And you will not fret so much, my little girl," said the Colonel. "You
+are going to belong to me now, and I am going to take care of you for
+mother's sake. You will try to love me, Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes, I do love you," Rhona answered in same strange voice, and she
+sat upright on his knee, deathly pale. "I am so glad."</p>
+
+<p>"Not glad of what I have told you! Impossible, my dear," expostulated
+the Colonel, not liking the unnatural light in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh no!"</p>
+
+<p>He did not know what to make of the child. "Put your head down here,
+and try to go to sleep," he said coaxingly.</p>
+
+<p>She went back to her former position in obedient fashion, but presently
+he heard her murmur,—"God's will—"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—" said Colonel Smyth uneasily.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother said I must love His will,—every bit of it. I couldn't till
+now."</p>
+
+<p>"People are not expected to like trouble, Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>"No, not trouble," Rhona replied in sweet grave tones. "But God's will."</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose that sometimes comes to the same thing," said the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona did not attempt to disentangle the matter for him; perhaps
+she did not even see his difficulty. Her next remark startled him
+considerably.</p>
+
+<p>"I wish it was time for me to go too!"</p>
+
+<p>"To go to bed?"</p>
+
+<p>She fairly smiled. "Oh no. I meant, to go to heaven."</p>
+
+<p>"My dear, you must not talk like that. It is positively wrong," said
+the Colonel. "I never heard of such a thing! A little girl of your age
+wanting to be dead! It is quite wicked."</p>
+
+<p>"Is it? Mother didn't tell me so," soberly answered Rhona, less
+affected by the Colonel's energetic protest than he had intended her to
+be.</p>
+
+<p>A happy thought struck the Colonel. "I am sure your friend, Mr. Powis,
+would say the same. You talk of liking God's will, and then you want
+to die in a hurry before your right time. Why, the two things are
+incompatible. Of course it is not the Divine Will that everybody should
+die directly trouble comes. People must show submission and bear up
+courageously, or the world would come to a standstill. You ought to
+wish to live, and to do your duty in your station, and to be—ahem—a
+useful member of society," concluded the Colonel, looking down with a
+rather odd feeling upon the pure and peaceful little face.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," answered Rhona meekly. "I suppose I didn't think of all that.
+I only wanted so much to be with mother. But I should like to be a
+'useful member' very much,—only I don't exactly know what it means."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel's lips twitched under his moustache.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona had her most thoughtful look.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I know—" she said after a pause. "There's a chapter in the Bible,
+with ever so much about members, and one member feeling with the rest.
+Mother talked about that sometimes. She said all the members might be
+useful in their own ways."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel grunted a monosyllabic answer.</p>
+
+<p>"But I don't see how I can be useful to you," said Rhona gently.</p>
+
+<p>"You shall mend my gloves for me, some day,—when you are well. I have
+never had anybody to do that for me since—"</p>
+
+<p>"Since you were at home and your own sisters did it?" suggested Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"No, not my sisters. I meant somebody else," said the Colonel, in a
+constrained voice.</p>
+
+<p>"Was it a great friend? Somebody that you loved very much?" asked
+Rhona, deeply interested.</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel's sunburnt face changed a little. "Yes," he said. "But that
+is a long while ago."</p>
+
+<p>"And was she very fond of you?" asked Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"I thought so—at one time," muttered the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"And did she always go on mending your gloves as long as she lived?"
+pursued the child.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh dear, no,—not nearly so long. She grew tired of me," said the
+Colonel, with a thin disguise of outside indifference, penetrated at
+once by Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>She gave him one sorrowful look, and then clasped his arm.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't like her at all. She ought not to have got tired. You are so
+good and so kind. But I shall always, always like to mend your gloves,
+uncle. And I shall always love you."</p>
+
+<p>"You are my own dear little girl!" whispered the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>He sat up late that evening, alone in the drawing-room, with a book
+on his knees which he could not read. Memories of olden days were
+stirred,—memories of one, once dear to him, nay always dear, though
+the love which still lived in his heart was mingled with bitterness.
+Colonel Smyth was one of those rare specimens of mankind, with whom to
+be once deceived is to be always deceived, once disappointed always
+disappointed. Not that his had been an unhappy life. He had found
+other interests, had made other friends. But no second woman could
+fill the place once held in his heart by a certain Margaret Willis;
+no later love could usurp the place of his first love. His brother
+officers had found him brave and true; not a religious man, even in
+profession, but morally irreproachable; and among them he had been
+as a rule popular. Towards women, however, his ordinary manners had
+been marked by a brusquerie which in the opinion of some amounted even
+to bearishness,—until little Rhona won her way into his affections,
+putting aside all barriers.</p>
+
+<p>"Would she be like the rest of them?" he sometimes inquired mentally,
+jumbling "the rest of them" dismally together in the grey light of his
+own early disappointment. Would she ever become fickle and uncertain,
+ever learn to rejoice in her womanly power to wound? He put this
+question to himself now, sitting alone in the lamplight, and his own
+answer was an emphatic negative. A vision rose in his mind of a fair
+and brilliant face, side by side with Rhona's placid brow and sweet
+eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"No, no, no,—wonderfully alike, but not the same. And Rhona has had a
+different training. Too much religious talk of course; but something
+genuine below."</p>
+
+<p>From memories of Margaret Willis, he passed by an easy transition to
+yet earlier recollections. He felt himself once again a little boy at
+his mother's knee,—a peculiar and wilful child understood by no one
+except that mother, so early taken away. His life after her death had
+been a continuous knocking of his own hard corners against those of
+other people, more especially in the home-circle.</p>
+
+<p>He could hardly have told at first what had called up these pictures,
+till he seemed suddenly to hear his mother's soft voice asking,—"Does
+my Harry love Jesus?" That was the association; Rhona's reverent
+utterance of the holy Name.</p>
+
+<p>Everybody else in the house had gone to bed; and still the Colonel sat
+on, plunged in deep reverie. The reverie unexpectedly became slumber.</p>
+
+<p>Had Colonel Smyth not been thus stirred and roused, so as to break
+through his usual habits, they might have all been burnt to death
+in their beds that night. It was one of those merciful mysterious
+Providences, which we may note but cannot explain, except by ascribing
+them to Divine watchfulness and Fatherly care.</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel slept long and soundly, leaning back in his comfortable
+easy-chair. But by-and-by a dream began to trouble him.</p>
+
+<p>He thought himself sailing on the high seas, going out to India, young
+again in years, with hopes for the future bright and strong within him.
+He was not alone, for two women stood, one on either side of him; on
+the right his mother, as he dimly remembered her, soft and tender and
+shadowy; on the left a young girl, brilliantly fair and beautiful, so
+like little Rhona in feature that she might be Rhona grown up, only
+'not' Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"She is mine now,—my own," Colonel Smyth murmured. "Mine always. No one
+can ever take her from me."</p>
+
+<p>He would have clasped her hand, but the fingers round which his own
+closed were cold as ice, and seemed to shrink out of his grasp. Then as
+he looked at her, she slowly faded and changed, till Margaret was gone,
+and little Rhona stood there in her stead, looking up with wistful
+eyes, and saying, "I shall always love you, uncle."</p>
+
+<p>Even in his sleep, Colonel Smyth sighed bitterly, though he laid a kind
+hand on the child's head.</p>
+
+<p>Then suddenly, he saw red flames springing from the deck, in front and
+on either side, and the air was thick with smoke. None but himself
+seemed to see the peril they were in. Captain and crew went quietly
+about their occupations, while those red flames curled upwards, and a
+strange sense of nightmare withheld the Colonel from uttering a sound.
+Rhona stood by him still, but his mother's form was changing.</p>
+
+<p>"Must I lose all again?" he vainly strove to say.</p>
+
+<p>And she answered the unspoken question in soft far-off tones,
+"Yes,—all,—until my Harry learns to know and to serve JESUS."</p>
+
+<p>She seemed to pass away like a mist-wreath into the flames, with a
+smile upon her lips.</p>
+
+<p>Then at length, the cry of "Fire! Fire!" burst from the Colonel, but
+nobody paid attention.</p>
+
+<p>He called aloud in vain, while the flames drew nearer, and he was
+rooted to the spot. He struggled fiercely in his sleep, under the
+sense of helplessness. And as he strove, Rhona turned to him with an
+ineffable smile, and the Name upon her lips which she so loved to
+utter. Then she too passed upwards, and the Colonel was left alone,
+feeling himself cut off from her for ever.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona! Rhona! Come back!" he cried, and there the dream ended.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth awoke, absolutely trembling, and covered with cold
+perspiration. "Pshaw!" he exclaimed. "How utterly absurd! I never
+dreamt such nonsense in my life."</p>
+
+<p>He pulled out his watch mechanically. "Half-past one! Unearthly hours!
+No wonder I took to dreaming. Something at dinner must have disagreed
+with me. Well,—I must go to bed at once."</p>
+
+<p>Ha! What was this strange odour, and the thick mistiness filling
+the air, both of which the Colonel had at the first moment been too
+bewildered to perceive?</p>
+
+<p>"Smoke! That's not right!" He started immediately into full wakefulness.</p>
+
+<p>Three strides took him to the door, but when he flung it open, eddying
+wreaths came rolling in. The Colonel recoiled, aghast. A strong smell
+of burning pervaded the atmosphere, and distant crackling with a
+continuous low roar struck upon his ear.</p>
+
+<p>The house was on fire,—and not a soul among the sleepers aware of the
+fact. Standing there,—as for one half-second he did stand,—he could
+distinctly hear the landlady's nasal utterances upstairs.</p>
+
+<p>"Fire! Fire! Fire!" Shouts from the street now reached him. Had the
+outer world only just become aware of the terrible fact?</p>
+
+<p>"Fire! Fire! Wake up! The house is on fire!" rang through the passages
+in the Colonel's stentorian tones.</p>
+
+<p>An answering shriek from above showed that he was heard. Disregarding
+all else, he rushed into Rhona's room.</p>
+
+<p>A fierce glow from beneath cast sufficient light through the striped
+blind to guide his steps. But the heat was intense, and the smoke
+stifling. The fire seemed to have originated on this side of the house.</p>
+
+<p>A sharp shake aroused Bertha, and she sprang up, stupefied yet
+conscious. Five minutes later, she would have been past easy awakening.</p>
+
+<p>"Quick, not a minute to spare," the Colonel said, as he passed on, and
+caught up the sleeping child, wrapping a large woollen shawl around her.</p>
+
+<p>"Throw on anything—dressing-gown and blanket. Ha!" as the contact of
+her bare feet with the floor caused an exclamation. "Yes, your shoes.
+Quick, my good girl."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona lay heavily in his arms, uttering not a sound. The Colonel paused
+an instant to snatch up a long towel, plunge it in water, and twist it
+round the lower part of his face, letting one end drop protectingly
+over Rhona's mouth and nose. He dipped a second, and flung it to Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>"Do as I do," he said briefly. "Now come."</p>
+
+<p>Opening the door, he went straight to the stairs, followed closely by
+Bertha. What had become of the two upstairs, he could not pause to
+think. His whole energies were bent on saving little Rhona first from
+the terrible death with which she was threatened.</p>
+
+<p>Thick waves of smoke met them, stinging and choking. But for the
+protecting towels, they could not have advanced a dozen steps.</p>
+
+<p>Descent by the staircase was impossible. That soon became evident. The
+roar of flames and the rush of burning smoke increased each instant.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth grasped Bertha's arm, feeling her stagger. "Back! Back!"
+he said. "Upstairs at once! To my bedroom! This way is hopeless."</p>
+
+<p>How they managed the ascent, he never afterwards knew. Supporting the
+child on one arm, upholding and urging Bertha with the other, he seemed
+possessed of almost superhuman strength. Leaving the drawing-room floor
+behind, they pressed upwards, guided by the glare of light from below,
+and by screams from above.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell and Hope had quitted their own bedroom at the back of
+the house, for a glance downstairs, being at once beaten back by the
+sights and sounds encountered. They had rushed into the Colonel's front
+bedroom, to find no Colonel there. Hope was leaning out of one window
+in her nightdress, shrieking continuously; and Mrs. Burrell, in a red
+shawl, stood by her, wearing a look of utter despair.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_15">CHAPTER XV.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>FIRE!</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>SHUTTING the door behind him, Colonel Smyth went swiftly to the
+second window, bearing still the unconscious child, and dragging the
+half-stupefied Bertha. He flung it open, and a cry of horror broke
+from the gathering crowd below, at the sight of three more threatened
+victims.</p>
+
+<p>"No way out, I suppose, along the leads, either front or back?" Colonel
+Smyth inquired of Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>As yet, Mrs. Burrell and Hope, in their absorption of terror, had not
+become aware of the Colonel's entrance.</p>
+
+<p>Bertha's "No, sir," was bewildered.</p>
+
+<p>He saw that she hardly knew what she said.</p>
+
+<p>"Take the child for a moment!" And he laid Rhona in the girl's arms.</p>
+
+<p>Then he was gone from the room, but only for a few seconds. Almost
+before Bertha had time to conjecture his purpose, he returned. And as
+he reached the window, Rhona opened her eyes, revived by a breath of
+fresher air.</p>
+
+<p>"No hope there," he said gloomily. "I had thoughts of a descent at the
+back, making use of the cistern,—but the flames are all over it. Why is
+there no fire-escape?"</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel was a brave man, but the threatening peril was very
+terrible, rendered still more terrible by his utter helplessness; and
+his cheeks blanched as he gazed.</p>
+
+<p>To meet death on the battle-field would have been far easier.</p>
+
+<p>"What are they about?" he groaned inaudibly. "The fire has made fearful
+way."</p>
+
+<p>"Can't we get out?" Rhona asked, her clear voice sounding distinctly
+through the roar of the fire and the shouts of the crowd.</p>
+
+<p>She seemed to have wakened quietly to a full sense of the position,
+and her large eyes were dilated with fear. She had slid partly out of
+Bertha's arms, which indeed were hardly able to bear her up, and stood
+leaning against her kind attendant, swathed still in the blanket from
+head to foot.</p>
+
+<p>"I hope so,—very soon," the Colonel answered gravely. "I expect a
+fire-escape every moment. You have no ropes here, my good girl?" he
+asked of Bertha in a lower tone.</p>
+
+<p>She shook her head mutely.</p>
+
+<p>"The sheets—" said the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell and Hope, becoming suddenly aware of their presence,
+rushed to the same window. Mrs. Burrell passionately implored aid,
+and Hope fairly flung herself at Colonel Smyth's feet, with sobs and
+incoherent shrieks.</p>
+
+<p>"Hush! Be quiet," he said sternly. "Don't you see that we are all in
+the same condition? Here! You had better help me fasten the sheets
+together. Not you, Bertha,—don't leave Miss Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>Hope was limp and helpless, but Mrs. Burrell, though refusing to move
+far from the window, gave some assistance. The Colonel worked as a man
+works for his life; and, in an incredibly short space of time, the
+improvised rope of sheets and blankets was ready for use. He brought it
+to the window, and there paused. The descent thus would be a passage
+through smoke and flame.</p>
+
+<p>"Will any one make the trial?" asked the Colonel, looking round.</p>
+
+<p>Hope hid her face.</p>
+
+<p>Bertha said steadily, "I will take Miss Rhona down, if you wish, sir."</p>
+
+<p>He looked at her and at the child, and shuddered.</p>
+
+<p>"It would be a bare chance," he muttered. "Hardly a hope. Hanging so
+close to the windows, the sheets would certainly take fire. Wait a few
+more seconds," he said aloud. "The escape, if it comes soon, will be
+better."</p>
+
+<p>Hope flung herself wildly on the knotted bedding. "Oh let me down,
+let me down," she cried piercingly; "I can't stay here. Oh let me
+down—quick—"</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth made no fresh protest. He was indeed unable to decide
+whether the peril of going or of delaying were the greatest. With
+compressed lips, he attached the end blanket to her waist, folding her
+up in it as much as possible, and helped her to mount the sill. But a
+glance over proved too much for her fortitude, and with a scream she
+fell back into the room.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you mean to go, Hope?" asked her mother in a voice of sullen
+misery.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I don't know," gasped Hope. "Oh, I don't know. It looks so
+frightful. Oh, what shall I do?"</p>
+
+<p>"The floor burns my feet," murmured Rhona patiently, and Colonel Smyth
+caught her up in his arms.</p>
+
+<p>"What can they be about? Why don't they come?" he groaned, as she clung
+to him.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think we shall be burnt. God will take care of us," said Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"Pray to Him, my dear,—you know how. Pray for all of us," whispered the
+Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"I am praying all the time. God will take care of us," Rhona said
+again. But after a moment she added softly, "Only He might want to take
+me to mother that way. Would it hurt very much?"</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth could not answer, and again Hope sprang up wildly. "Oh,
+it burns, it burns," she screamed. "Oh, let me go down. I can't stay
+here."</p>
+
+<p>"You must choose for yourself," Colonel Smyth answered gravely. "I
+don't know that this is long enough, and—"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, but it is worse waiting here. It is frightful," shrieked Hope.
+"Let me down,—quick—quick."</p>
+
+<p>Bertha again received Rhona, supporting her with difficulty. And in
+another instant, Hope was hanging over the depth. Her shrill cries
+of terror rang piercingly through the night-air, and the crowd below
+seemed to watch with suspended breath. Colonel Smyth paid out the
+improvised rope rapidly yet cautiously. But that which he had dreaded
+came to pass. It proved too short; and as she hung some little way from
+the ground, for two short seconds of agony, a leaping tongue of fire
+set light to the sheets by which she was suspended.</p>
+
+<p>Those above could not distinguish what went on so close underneath, but
+Hope's screams ceased, and the weight which depended on the Colonel's
+hands was suddenly lightened. Whether the change meant life or death to
+Hope, they could not tell. A flame was running up the twisted sheeting,
+which Colonel Smyth held, and he flung it down as useless.</p>
+
+<p>"No hope now—that way," he muttered.</p>
+
+<p>Then a loud cry rose from the people, resolving itself into joyful
+words. "Ha! The escape at last!" echoed Colonel Smyth, with relief
+unutterable.</p>
+
+<p>At last, and not too soon. Was it even in time! A dull crash told of
+the first floor falling in, and flames rushed wildly out from the lower
+windows, fanned by the strong breeze.</p>
+
+<p>Another minute found the ladders in position, and a brave man rapidly
+mounted through whirling smoke.</p>
+
+<p>Their rescuer appeared suddenly close to the window, a helmeted figure,
+framed in coils of smoke, steadying himself in his perilous position.
+What had to be done needed to be done quickly. For a man to remain
+outside there any length of time was an impossibility. Colonel Smyth
+would fain have sent the child down first, but Mrs. Burrell pushed
+resolutely to the front, and no time could be wasted in parleying. As
+she flung herself over the windowsill, the man grasped her. And almost
+before she knew what would happen next, she was performing a swift
+descent down the canvas trough, to be safely caught by expectant hands
+below.</p>
+
+<p>Another rush of flame, this time from the drawing-room windows,
+compelled the fireman to beat a retreat. He held out his arms, and
+Rhona was dropped into them.</p>
+
+<p>"Come at once, sir," he said, seeing only the figure of the Colonel in
+that fire-illuminated window. For Bertha had sunk to the floor.</p>
+
+<p>Those in the street saw the fireman reappear, descending through the
+smoke, saw him pause and falter while still some way from the ground,
+saw the child slipping from his grasp. A wail of horror broke from
+many, but another fireman rushed underneath and caught the little
+figure in his arms, thereby changing the wail into a frantic cheer.
+The poor fellow reached the bottom in safety, though nearly fainting,
+and Rhona's last rescuer, handing her over to a gentleman not far-off,
+immediately went up to the ladder in his stead.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona's new friend, a strongly-built young man, perhaps about eight
+and twenty in age, carried her quickly away from the vicinity of the
+burning house. As the fresher air again recalled her scattered senses,
+she was startled to find herself in the grasp of strange arms. The face
+which met her opening eyes was reassuring, yet her first impulse was a
+distressful struggle, and an imploring, "Wait! Oh, please wait! Don't
+take me anywhere till he is safe."</p>
+
+<p>"You shall wait near, my dear. I am only taking you to a house across
+the road," the gentleman said kindly. "Is he your father?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, it is my uncle,—it is Colonel Smyth. Oh, why doesn't he come
+down?" Rhona asked in an agony. "Please, please, I can't go till he is
+safe."</p>
+
+<p>"I am afraid of your taking cold," the gentleman said. Yet for an
+instant he had to pause that he might wrap more closely round her the
+blanket, disarranged by her struggle.</p>
+
+<p>It was a wild scene, viewed from where he stood. The house threatened
+to become soon a mass of fire; and thus far, the steady play of the
+engines seemed to take no effect. At the windows of houses round about,
+opposite and on either side, faces of ghastly pallor and fear were
+visible in the red glare, which glowed upon glass panes, and lent a
+false hue to the dark sky.</p>
+
+<p>Again the booming crash, and the burst of flame told of a floor falling
+in. Then a gust of wind swept the heavy smoke aside, and Colonel Smyth
+could be seen, still at the window, apparently striving to lift a heavy
+weight.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, it is Bertha! O uncle!" cried poor Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>One fireman, striving to ascend, had already been beaten back half-way,
+but another now essayed the same successfully. A few more seconds of
+terrible suspense, and he was on his way downward, bearing a female
+figure. The Colonel following, seemed in some way to slip or fail,
+when getting out of the window, and was all but precipitated upon
+the pavement below. He caught the ladder with one hand, and somehow
+regained his footing, showing an activity hardly to be expected at
+his age. The remainder of the descent was accomplished by him without
+accident. A sudden change in the wind appeared to have taken place; and
+though flames leaped out fitfully, charring the canvas bagging, yet the
+chief rush of smoke and heated air was now in another direction.</p>
+
+<p>But of all this, including the Colonel's most narrow escape, Rhona saw
+nothing. One glance only was permitted. Then despite sobbing protests,
+she was borne hurriedly to a house over the way, near the farthest end
+of the street.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, yes, my dear child, you shall know all as soon as possible," the
+gentleman said soothingly, as answer to her pleadings. "I cannot keep
+you out here in the night-air. I will come and tell you directly your
+uncle is safely down."</p>
+
+<p>"They won't let him stay there,—poor uncle! They won't let him be burnt
+to death," said Rhona's quivering lips.</p>
+
+<p>"No, no, don't be afraid. Think how many people there are to help, and
+they will do their utmost. See, I am going to take you in here to a
+friend of mine, a kind old lady."</p>
+
+<p>"But I don't know her, and I haven't any frock," said Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"Never mind the frock. You and Mrs. Montague will not be strangers
+long, I am sure."</p>
+
+<p>It was a private house at which he stopped, just beyond the region
+of shops. The front door was on the latch, and the inhabitants were
+evidently astir. Rhona's friend entered with the air of one much at
+home. He carried her swiftly upstairs, clearing two steps at a time
+with long easy strides, tapped at a door, and on receiving no answer
+walked in. A candle stood alight on the dressing-table, and the bed
+bore signs of having been slept in that night, but nobody was present.
+Rhona was laid on a couch, still rolled up in her sheltering blanket,
+and an eider-down quilt, caught up from the bed, was spread quickly
+over her. The gentleman paused then and bent down, looking into her
+eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Will you be afraid, my dear, to lie alone for a minute?"</p>
+
+<p>"No," said Rhona, returning the gaze. "I don't think I am
+afraid—exactly."</p>
+
+<p>"I am going to see after Colonel Smyth. You would rather I should do
+that than stay with you,—but Mrs. Montague will come directly. Somebody
+might be a little hurt at the fire, and I am a doctor."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh please, please, go—" Rhona implored, shivering violently, though
+not from cold. "Oh please, don't wait."</p>
+
+<p>Presently a lady entered, little and old and gentle, dressed in a
+quaint flowered wrapper, while a soft cream-coloured shawl was folded
+round her shoulders and passed, mantilla-wise, over her head. The face
+within these creamy folds was singularly small, aged yet delicate, worn
+yet still attractive. Rhona saw so much, almost without seeing, as a
+little wrinkled hand patted her fingers in soothing fashion, rubbing
+away their chill.</p>
+
+<p>"Now the other hand, if we can get at it. They have rolled you up into
+an Egyptian mummy. Ah, here comes the hot stuff, to put a little colour
+into those white cheeks. It is well I bade my maids light a fire and
+have boiling water ready, thinking either might be needed. Drink it up,
+little one and after that you shall rest in my nice bed."</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_16">CHAPTER XVI.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>ACROSS THE WAY.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>COLONEL SMYTH came down the ladders quickly, though stepping with
+caution, even with difficulty. On reaching the ground, his first words
+were, "Where is my little girl?"</p>
+
+<p>"She's all right, sir,—taken to a house near. You'd best stand back,"
+one of the men said. "Is there nobody else in the house?"</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth half answered in the negative, and checked himself. "I do
+not know. There is a servant girl,—sleeping downstairs, I believe. What
+of her?"</p>
+
+<p>"Pulled out of her bed just in time, sir,—found first of all, when the
+alarm was given. Nobody else, you are sure?"</p>
+
+<p>"Quite sure. Thank God!" the Colonel said involuntarily. "Then all are
+saved. No, I am forgetting,—how about the girl I let down from the
+window?"</p>
+
+<p>"Fell to the ground and broke her leg," the informant answered. "A
+doctor has seen to her, and sent her straight off to hospital. He is
+the same that carried the little girl away too."</p>
+
+<p>"No hope of rescuing any of my belongings, I suppose," the Colonel
+said, looking up regretfully at his flame-wreathed drawing-room
+windows. "Well—let them go. Life is worth more than books and pictures.
+Where is the child?"</p>
+
+<p>A hand was laid on his arm, and a voice said, "You had better come
+farther back. There is danger here?"</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth obeyed the touch mechanically, and the other continued,
+"I have taken your little girl to a friend of mine in this street. Will
+you come there too?"</p>
+
+<p>"Thanks," the Colonel replied. "Yes, the sooner the better. I don't
+seem to be of any use here."</p>
+
+<p>It was well they had not far to go. Mrs. Montague's house-door was
+no longer on the latch, but Mr. Wynne had provided himself with a
+latch-key, and they entered without ringing. Colonel Smyth staggered,
+and dropped into a chair.</p>
+
+<p>"Never mind me. It is nothing," he said hastily, as if ashamed. "Where
+is Rhona? Not hurt, is she?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, not at all. But you are," Mr. Wynne said.</p>
+
+<p>"Rather scorched, I believe. I'll go to Rhona. The child must be
+frightened. By-the-by, what of my landlady?"</p>
+
+<p>"Uninjured, but a good deal excited at the loss of her property."</p>
+
+<p>"With some reason, perhaps. And the daughter—broken leg, they say."</p>
+
+<p>"That, and other injuries. Gone to hospital at once; and the mother has
+been taken in two doors from this."</p>
+
+<p>"And—yes—Bertha—what of her? I lost sight of the girl after we came
+down."</p>
+
+<p>"She has been received in the same house as Mrs. Burrell. After seeing
+to your hurts, I must take a look at her,—but I am told that she does
+not seem much the worse for her adventure."</p>
+
+<p>"Capital girl, plucky to a degree. I shall not lose sight of her, if I
+can help it. Has anybody any notion how the fire originated?"</p>
+
+<p>"There is some idea. The servant girl was found asleep on her bed,
+fully dressed. The mischief evidently began in the neighbourhood of
+the kitchen; and she confesses to a vague recollection of leaving her
+candle on the lid of a box which contained shavings, meaning to go back
+and fetch it. She says she was so tired that she dropped down across
+her bed for two minutes' rest, before finishing what had to be done.
+The remainder may be imagined. It is a marvel that she was not burnt in
+her bed, before help came."</p>
+
+<p>"Heinous carelessness!" muttered the Colonel. "But the poor thing
+was worked off her legs and out of her proper senses, I do believe.
+Well—Mrs. Burrell has to pay a heavy penalty. I hope her property is
+insured."</p>
+
+<p>"I cannot say. I have not spoken to her yet. I am going to send word
+upstairs that you are safe; and then I must see to your hurts."</p>
+
+<p>"Send word? I'm going myself," Colonel Smyth answered, starting up. "I
+want to satisfy my own eyes with a sight of the child."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne looked doubtful, but made no protest. They were speedily
+within the bedroom, where Rhona lay, anxiously watching.</p>
+
+<p>At the first glimpse of Colonel Smyth, she sprang up in bed with a cry
+of joy, sharpened into almost a scream.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth was startled at the energy with which the child flung
+herself upon him. Mrs. Montague had arrayed her in a dressing-gown of
+deep pink flannel, but Rhona's cheeks outdid the hue of her pretty
+wrapper.</p>
+
+<p>"Gently, my dear!" Mr. Wynne said, noting the Colonel's sudden wince.</p>
+
+<p>He loosened her clutch with a firm hand, and laid her back on the
+pillow. "You must keep still, or we shall have to leave you."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona had no sign of stillness about her. She remained obediently, as
+placed, but with eyes that shone like stars, and with breath that came
+in hysterical catches.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I'm so glad, so very very glad," she said. "It is almost 'too'
+good. I didn't really think you could have got down. O uncle—uncle—"</p>
+
+<p>"Hush, hush, my little girl; you will be ill if you excite yourself
+so," said Colonel Smyth, stooping to kiss her. "That is not like my
+gentle good Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't feel gentle to-night, not a bit—and not good either," said
+Rhona, speaking rapidly, and flashing her large eyes to and fro. "I
+felt good up in that room, when we thought we should all be burnt, but
+not now. I suppose it is because I am so very very glad you and Bertha
+are safe—poor nice Bertha. And Mrs. Burrell too,—only I don't like
+her so much—not nearly so much. Uncle, you don't know how dreadfully
+frightened I was about you. And the kind doctor went to see if he could
+do anything."</p>
+
+<p>"I found him on the ground, quite safe," said Mr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>"Quite safe from the flames!" said Rhona, with a shudder. "I keep
+seeing those flames all the while. Dear, dear uncle! Only think if you
+hadn't come down in time! Oh, are you quite sure the flames won't catch
+this house, and burn us all up?"</p>
+
+<p>"No fear of that," said Colonel Smyth, with an involuntary contraction
+of his brow, as she clasped his left hand.</p>
+
+<p>"But I am so afraid—suppose they should!" said Rhona, shivering. "And
+we mightn't all keep awake, and mightn't know in time."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne was noting the two faces carefully. He bent a little over the
+child, and said,—"There was a wise man once, little Rhona, who could
+say,—</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'What time I am afraid, I will trust in THEE!'"<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>"That was King David," said Rhona hurriedly, with a brilliant smile.
+"It's in the Psalms, and mother did love that text so. She used to say
+it often."</p>
+
+<p>"Then you must try to say it now."</p>
+
+<p>He had not meant lip-utterance, but Rhona took the advice literally. It
+touched them to see the slender hands clasped, while a look of earnest
+gravity came over the broad brow.</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.'"<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>The words were not spoken to Mr. Wynne, or for Mr. Wynne's hearing.
+Rhona's eyes had a far-away look for a moment, before coming back to
+his face.</p>
+
+<p>"Must I say it again?" she asked with curious simplicity.</p>
+
+<p>"No, my dear," said Mr. Wynne. "You must 'think' it now; and keep
+yourself from talking. Colonel Smyth is coming into the next room with
+me for a little while."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth obeyed the hint. He went straight to the window of the
+front room, looked out and remarked, "The glare seems lessening." Then
+he turned and said, "Will you help me off with my coat—carefully,
+please."</p>
+
+<p>"Your hands are a good deal scorched," said Mr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, rather, but the shoulder is worst. I gave it a wrench
+somehow—getting out of the window—slipped and nearly fell, I believe,
+and saved myself by one hand. It was touch and go! Whew!" Colonel Smyth
+winced and paled at the light touch of Mr. Wynne's fingers. "Yes, just
+there. I did not know how bad it was till Rhona threw herself upon me.
+But no use minding. The coat has to come off somehow."</p>
+
+<p>"Not that way," Mr. Wynne said, with a restraining gesture. "Wait a
+moment."</p>
+
+<p>He was gone quickly, and reappeared with a large pair of scissors. The
+coat-sleeve was speedily ripped up from wrist to shoulder, Colonel
+Smyth submitting with only one remark,—</p>
+
+<p>"Do you know I don't possess another coat in the world?"</p>
+
+<p>"There are tailors in London," said Mr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>And after a brief examination, he uttered one word—"Dislocated."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I am an old soldier, and can stand a good pull," said the
+Colonel. "By-the-by, are you a surgeon?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"Seems a lucky event that you happened to be on the spot. You live
+near, I suppose?"</p>
+
+<p>"No; I was called up late to a patient in this neighbourhood, and
+happened to be passing the end of the street on my way home, just when
+the alarm was first given."</p>
+
+<p>"That poor girl, Bertha, will need you presently, I suspect,
+Doctor,—by-the-by, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name. May as
+well put my shoulder straight first, if you don't object."</p>
+
+<p>"I am not wanted there. Dr. Marsden, living in the next street, has
+made his appearance, and will see to her at once. My name is Arbuthnot
+Wynne,—Mr., not Dr. as yet."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth's movement of surprise was marked.</p>
+
+<p>"You seem to recognise it," Mr. Wynne said.</p>
+
+<p>"I remember a certain Dr. Wynne many years ago,—a man nearly of my own
+standing."</p>
+
+<p>"My father probably. He is in full practice still, and we live
+together."</p>
+
+<p>"Your patients being his, and vice versa, I suppose. Well, the sooner
+this little business is attended to the better. I can stand a wrench
+fairly well. You don't advise chloroform, do you?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think it is necessary," said Mr. Wynne. "Will you lie down
+here, if you please?"</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_17">CHAPTER XVII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>AFTERWARDS.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"THAT'S over!" said the Colonel, with an air of relief, when the
+bandaging was complete. The setting of the dislocated shoulder he
+had borne in a manner worthy of his profession; and though rather
+yellow-white still about the lips with pain, he was disposed to
+self-congratulation. "I see you inherit your father's fingers."</p>
+
+<p>"A good inheritance," responded Mr. Wynne. "You will have to take
+things quietly for a few days."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, yes, so I suppose,—as far as possible. You used to live in
+Burton Square, if I remember rightly?"</p>
+
+<p>"We live there still. I do not recall your face, Colonel Smyth,—or your
+name."</p>
+
+<p>"I dare say not. 'Smyth' is no very distinctive cognomen," said the
+Colonel, with an odd dry laugh. "And you were a mere boy in those
+days, a nice little lad with curly hair. Thanks, that is much more
+comfortable. I must get a ready-made coat in the morning, somehow,
+to go about in. By-the-by, I should wish you to consider me 'your'
+patient,—exclusively."</p>
+
+<p>"And not my father's? What! Did he and you fall out in past days?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, no—not at all, quite the reverse. I had a marked admiration for
+his skill,—always used to declare he was the only medical man living
+whose opinion I valued a rap. But I have found a second; and the hands
+that begin a job may as well finish it."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne was aware from Colonel Smyth's face that some other reason
+lay beneath. "Very well," he said. "You shall be my patient strictly. I
+must see you again to-morrow."</p>
+
+<p>"I can't give you any address for to-morrow. Rhona and I are houseless
+wanderers. I must take her to some hotel for two or three days, and
+decide on future plans."</p>
+
+<p>"We shall see in the morning. I am not sure that it will do to remove
+Rhona so soon. The child is a good deal shaken."</p>
+
+<p>"No wonder, poor mite. She kept up splendidly at the time, but that
+tells upon one afterward."</p>
+
+<p>"She is a winning little maid," the doctor said.</p>
+
+<p>"You would think so, if you knew her! The most extraordinary child
+I ever saw,—like a grown person in her feelings and ways. There's
+something about her, positively, which almost seems to belong to
+another world."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne's eyes said plainly, "Perhaps it does."</p>
+
+<p>After a pause, he remarked, "I have seen a face very like hers."</p>
+
+<p>"Where? When?" asked Colonel Smyth.</p>
+
+<p>"I cannot tell you. I don't possess my father's memory in respect of
+faces. When I have seen the same before, it comes back to me, but not
+always with the name attached."</p>
+
+<p>"You don't think you may have come across Rhona herself before? It is
+not a common type of face."</p>
+
+<p>"Too far back for that. I have merely a vague impression of such a face
+years ago, in my young days."</p>
+
+<p>"Your young days!" repeated the Colonel. "Why, you are hardly out of
+boyhood yet."</p>
+
+<p>"Twenty-seven to-morrow,—to-day, I mean. I forgot that 'to-morrow' had
+come," Mr. Wynne said quaintly.</p>
+
+<p>"I wish you many happy returns," responded the Colonel, with
+promptitude. "Now I must take another look at my little girl, and then
+see what they are doing at Number Three."</p>
+
+<p>"I am afraid nothing can be done there, beyond preventing the spread of
+the fire. As for Rhona, I must forbid you her room to-night. She does
+not know you are hurt, and we must avoid any increase of excitement.
+It is a frail little being, and I am afraid she may suffer more than
+any one from this night's work. For yourself, I prescribe quiet. Mrs.
+Montague's spare room is ready for you, and,—No, of course you can't
+sleep,—" with a smile. "But you must have bodily rest."</p>
+
+<p>"What will your friend think of this midnight invasion!" asked the
+Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"She will thank me for acting as I have done. Now, Colonel, I will show
+you to your room; and for ten minutes, you may count me your valet."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth "pshawed" and apologised, laughed, and disclaimed the
+need of help, but finally had to submit.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne then went out to make inquiry as to the fire, and brought
+back such tidings as he had expected to bring. The condition of Number
+Three was hopeless,—the house being completely gutted, and promising
+to become a mere shell. The efforts of the firemen were chiefly
+directed towards the protection of neighbouring houses. A few pieces of
+furniture and two or three pictures had been rescued, but the contents
+of the house generally were lost.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, Rhona is safe," Colonel Smyth made answer. "I am not ruined,
+happily, though I should have liked to save my books."</p>
+
+<p>A few minutes later, Mr. Wynne was by the side of Rhona. She lay
+tossing to and fro with wide-open eyes, watchfully guarded by the
+little old lady in flowered wrapper and creamy shawl.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't feel the very least inclined to sleep," Rhona said, looking up
+at Mr. Wynne. "I can't forget those dreadful flames, creep—creeping up
+after us. Mayn't I get up and go to uncle? Oh, but I haven't any frock."</p>
+
+<p>"No; so you must be content to stay in bed," said Mr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>"Must I stay in bed all to-morrow, and next day? It takes such a time
+to get a frock made."</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps we may find a frock somewhere ready-made, that will fit you.
+But you have to lie quiet now."</p>
+
+<p>"I wish uncle would come. Why doesn't he?" asked Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"You forget that it is the middle of the night. I have sent him to bed;
+and now I am going to send Mrs. Montague to lie down, while I stay
+here."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Montague rose at once.</p>
+
+<p>"But I have got her bed," said Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"There are other beds and sofas in the house, my dear," Mrs. Montague
+said. "You will call me when you want me, Mr. Wynne."</p>
+
+<p>Then she kissed Rhona and went away.</p>
+
+<p>"You are sure uncle isn't ill?" said Rhona suspiciously. "Quite
+perfectly sure."</p>
+
+<p>"No, not ill," said Mr. Wynne. "But he has hurt his shoulder, and I
+want him to have a few hours' rest."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I 'do' want to see him again," exclaimed Rhona tearfully. "Mayn't
+I get up and sit by him? I'll be so good. Please do let me."</p>
+
+<p>"No, Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>"It isn't as if I were tired," pursued the child with unwonted
+wilfulness. "I'm not tired a bit, only everything seems so funny. Oh!"
+And she gave a violent start. "Oh! I never thought till this moment!
+Fay,—poor little Fay; oh, how could I be so cruel, so wicked?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't understand," said Mr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>"Fay,—my own dear little bird,—I never never thought of him," Rhona
+said passionately, tears streaming down her cheeks. "So cruel, so
+horrid of me. Oh, do, do please send somebody quick to save him! Please
+do."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne did not move. "Somebody else may have remembered the bird,"
+he said.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh no, I'm sure they wouldn't. He was in my room, and nobody else went
+there. And I never thought of him, nor Bertha either. And father gave
+him to me. What shall I do?" Rhona sobbed, even wildly. "Oh, please,
+can't something be done? Can't they get him out?"</p>
+
+<p>"If he has not been taken out already, nothing can be done now. The
+floor of your room has fallen in. It is just possible that the bird may
+be among the few things saved, but I do not expect it," Mr. Wynne said
+thoughtfully. "The little creature would very early be stifled by the
+smoke."</p>
+
+<p>"And my own father gave him to me," moaned Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne allowed her to sob freely for two or three minutes. Then his
+hand came on hers, and his voice said gravely—</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona, I think you are wrong."</p>
+
+<p>She looked up suddenly, as if in surprise.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, wrong," he repeated. "I do not think you ought to grieve so much
+for the bird, instead of being thankful for the many lives spared.
+Think how terrible it would have been if the fire-escape had arrived
+too late; or if Colonel Smyth had not been able to get down in time.
+The loss of your pet is a small matter in comparison."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes, yes,—only I did love him so," Rhona answered sadly. "I think I
+should not mind so very very much, if only I had not forgotten him."</p>
+
+<p>"You could not help forgetting him. When Colonel Smyth carried you out
+of your room, you were unconscious, or nearly so."</p>
+
+<p>"Was I?" asked Rhona, in surprise. "I don't remember. It all seemed so
+dreadful. Then it wasn't really cruel of me to forget Fay."</p>
+
+<p>"No, not at all. And your maid too was so stupefied by the smoke and
+heat that though she was just able to walk, she had not power to think.
+Besides, the little creature was probably dead, even then. It does not
+take much to kill a bird."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona sighed heavily. "And all mother's things are gone," she said.
+"But I'll try to be good and not grumble. I 'am' glad nobody was burnt.
+And I suppose Mrs. Burrell is worse off, because she has lost her house
+and everything. Poor Bertha too, Bertha has nobody belonging to her,
+and Mrs. Burrell always seems vexed because she has to keep Bertha. Do
+tell me how Bertha is."</p>
+
+<p>"Quite herself, I am told, and really very little hurt. You will see
+her no doubt in the morning."</p>
+
+<p>"It was like being 'brands plucked out of the fire,'" murmured Rhona.
+"I couldn't help thinking of those words when we were up at the window.
+Somehow I didn't feel so frightened then as I do now. I do want mother
+to-night."</p>
+
+<p>"But you have a kind uncle," said Mr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, very very kind, only of course, he isn't my mother," Rhona
+answered sorrowfully. Then with a sudden change of mood, she burst out
+laughing. "And he isn't my real uncle either. How funny that seems!
+He only makes me call him 'uncle,' and I love him dearly. There was
+somebody else once who loved him, and she used to mend his gloves. But
+that person got tired of him. 'I' shall never grow tired of my dear
+dear uncle. I shall always love him—always—all my life long,—and I'll
+always always mend his gloves."</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona, you have talked enough," said Mr. Wynne, rising and going to
+the dressing-table, whence he brought a small tumbler. "You are to
+drink this, and then you are to say nothing more for half-an-hour."</p>
+
+<p>"But I don't want medicine. What is it?" asked the child.</p>
+
+<p>"Never mind. You must take it."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona obeyed. "But I can't go to sleep," she said.</p>
+
+<p>"Then keep awake; only do not talk."</p>
+
+<p>"Must I be left alone?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not if you are a good child, and do as you are told. If you go to
+sleep, you shall find me here when you wake."</p>
+
+<p>"And may I get up then? Oh, but I haven't a frock."</p>
+
+<p>"I think we shall be able to manage. My little cousin is about your
+size, and she has plenty of frocks."</p>
+
+<p>"Does your little cousin live with you?" asked Rhona eagerly.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne answered "Yes," and held up a silencing finger.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona smiled, then shut her eyes, and settled into an attitude of
+repose, exercising an amount of control over her nervous excitement
+which he had hardly expected.</p>
+
+<p>He sat motionless, watching the sweet face, with its tense brow and
+quivering lashes. "Where have I seen that look before?" he questioned
+with himself.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>THE MORDAUNT HOUSEHOLD.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"SUE."</p>
+
+<p>Susanna Mordaunt started out of an absent fit, and said hurriedly,
+"Yes, Clara. Yes. Did you speak before? I didn't hear. I was only
+thinking about—. But is anything the matter?"</p>
+
+<p>"A good deal, I should have thought. What are you mooning over now?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I was only—only—just thinking," said Susanna, in a tone of
+apology. "One can't help thinking a little sometimes, you know."</p>
+
+<p>"One wouldn't wish to help it, I should suppose. What an absurd way you
+have of putting things?" the younger sister said tartly.</p>
+
+<p>"I was only just wondering about that poor little Rhona," said Sue,
+accustomed to such snubbings.</p>
+
+<p>"Wondering does no good," responded Clara.</p>
+
+<p>She was unwinding wool at the drawing-room bay-window, full in the
+spring sunshine, and an occasional whisk or tug told of considerable
+pettishness. The winder whirled round by fits and starts, answering
+accurately to her mode of management.</p>
+
+<p>"It seems to me that Barbara is perfectly demented," she broke out at
+length.</p>
+
+<p>"Why?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't profess to know why. I only state the fact. How on earth
+are we to meet all these extra expenses when our income is barely
+enough for our three selves? Here has Mary been in this condition for
+weeks—and how long she may go on so—"</p>
+
+<p>"Not in the same condition all the time," broke in Susanna.</p>
+
+<p>"Quite as bad, at all events. And she has been in this particular state
+for weeks—three or four certainly—so I only said what was true. Who
+can tell when she will get over it? She may never recover at all, but
+just drag on a miserable existence for years, with no more sense than a
+baby. Such things do happen. And we have to bear all the expense of the
+night nurse, and of medicines, and of extra help in the house, and very
+likely of Dr. Wynne's visits too. We can hardly expect him to give all
+this attention to a mere stranger for nothing, as he does to us.</p>
+
+<p>"But Barbara is infatuated. If I venture a word about expenses, she
+only says, 'It will be all right.'</p>
+
+<p>"'I' should say it would be all wrong. She cares for nothing in life
+just now, except Mary. I believe she will fall ill herself soon with
+over-nursing. And what is the use of it all? Mary is not our own niece.
+She has absolutely no real claim upon us."</p>
+
+<p>Sue had words in her mind about "the claim of helplessness," but she
+lacked courage to bring them forth. Fearing to be laughed at for the
+expression, she kept silence, and then was distressed at her own
+cowardice.</p>
+
+<p>"For my part I am sick of it all," Clara continued pettishly. "I
+don't see why we are to be worried and put out of our way, just for
+the sake of Mary. Barbara is never free now—hardly ever in time for
+meals—and in a perfectly 'distraite' condition when she does vouchsafe
+us half-an-hour of her company. She seems to have no interest to spare
+for anything or anybody outside Mary's room. And I know what it will
+all mean by-and-by. Nothing but scraping and saving and paring, and not
+being able to afford this, that, and the other, for a year to come.
+Besides, when Mary does get better—if she ever does—what is to become
+of her? I hope to goodness she is not to be a permanent member of our
+family."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't see why not," said Sue faintly.</p>
+
+<p>"If you don't, I do. Of course it sounds a charming arrangement, but I
+for one should detest it. I can't endure those soft pretty women, who
+are always looking out for admiration. And suppose the child turns up,
+are we to take both of them in? We may as well decide at once to live
+on bread and water. It is not long since Barbara would have said the
+same, but her ideas seem all upside down. Not that I expect that Rhona
+ever will turn up. I believe the child is dead, and that is what has
+driven Mary out of her mind."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, don't say that, Clara; it gives such a wrong impression!"
+protested Sue.</p>
+
+<p>"What, saying that Mary is out of her mind? I don't know how else to
+describe it. From the day she came to the house, she hasn't recognised
+a single person, and has scarcely spoken a rational sentence."</p>
+
+<p>"But the first part of the time it was delirium."</p>
+
+<p>"Very much like madness, I should say, and this is very much like
+idiocy. I don't quite know which is the worst. Three weeks and more of
+delirium—"</p>
+
+<p>"Not more," put in Sue softly.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, more!" Clara reiterated, as if her assertion settled the matter.
+"And since then, as much sense as a baby two months old."</p>
+
+<p>"But, Clara, that is only weakness. Dr. Wynne hopes it will soon pass
+off. He said yesterday that after such an illness, we must expect her
+to live for a time a mere vegetable existence."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't believe Dr. Wynne knows anything about it, nor anybody else
+either," retorted Clara. "No one can tell what brought the illness on.
+And sometimes people's brains are so much affected by illness, that
+they never have their full senses again—never. A nice pickle we shall
+be in, if it turns out so with Mary. I don't see for my part what
+business we have had to take such a burden on ourselves."</p>
+
+<p>Barbara was standing within the door, as the last words were uttered.
+She came with her dignified air to the table, and asked, "What would
+you have wished, Clara? Surely not to turn the poor thing out upon the
+world."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know what I wish, except to have things as they used to be,"
+Clara answered, with tears in her eyes. "It is all miserable now.
+Nothing goes right; and Sue is my only companion from morning till
+night."</p>
+
+<p>Sue took the implied slight calmly, saying, "I wish I were a better
+nurse that Barbara might be more often free to sit with you."</p>
+
+<p>"I do not wish it," said Barbara. "Clara must not try to draw me from
+my duty."</p>
+
+<p>"Is it our duty?" Clara questioned. "What is Mary to us?"</p>
+
+<p>"She is Arthur's wife—William's daughter—"</p>
+
+<p>"By marriage—"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes; by marriage, of course. And she has thrown herself upon us in her
+helplessness. Could we have refused to take her in?"</p>
+
+<p>Sue's face said, "No."</p>
+
+<p>Clara slightly shrugged her shoulders, and snapped her worsted with a
+harder tug than usual. An impatient exclamation broke from her.</p>
+
+<p>And as she joined the severed ends, Dr. Wynne was announced. He
+entered, hat in hand, an elderly man with silvered hair and placid
+eyes, yet not altogether unlike his son in manner and general contour.</p>
+
+<p>"Good-morning," he said to one, and "How do you do?" to another. After
+a few remarks, there was the usual question, "What about the invalid
+to-day?"</p>
+
+<p>"I think there is a change for the better," said Barbara. "She still
+notices nothing that goes on round her. But twice this morning, she has
+answered a question put to herself."</p>
+
+<p>"Do you think she ever will or can get back her full senses, Dr.
+Wynne?" asked Clara bluntly.</p>
+
+<p>"I have no reason for supposing otherwise," said Dr. Wynne in a laconic
+manner. Clara was not a favourite of his.</p>
+
+<p>"But how long will she be like this?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have not seen her to-day. Miss Mordaunt's report sounds hopeful."</p>
+
+<p>Then, before going upstairs, he mentioned casually the fact that his
+son, Arbuthnot, had been up all night at a fire.</p>
+
+<p>The ladies asked interested questions.</p>
+
+<p>"Arbuthnot was called suddenly, after midnight, to a patient at a
+considerable distance," Dr. Wynne said, "and he came in for this fire
+on his way home. No lives have been sacrificed, happily, but it seems
+to have been a narrow escape with some of the inmates. The fire-escape
+had been called elsewhere, and barely arrived in time. One girl,
+lowered by sheets from a top window, broke her leg; and a gentleman
+dislocated his shoulder—a Colonel, I think my son said. The Colonel's
+little girl was saved too—a pretty child, according to Arbuthnot. He
+sat up with her the rest of the night, fearing the effects of the
+shock."</p>
+
+<p>"So kind of him—just like Mr. Wynne," murmured Sue.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, yes; Arbuthnot is never reluctant to take trouble," said Dr.
+Wynne. "Besides, he is fond of children, and he is a boy still in his
+love of adventure."</p>
+
+<p>"And I suppose there was work for him to do,—broken bones," suggested
+Miss Mordaunt, little dreaming of the close connection which existed
+between herself and the "pretty child" of Dr. Wynne's story.</p>
+
+<p>"He had his share. I saw him go off this morning with a bundle of
+clothes for the child, pretty nearly everything having being lost.
+However, I have really heard very few particulars. Now, Miss Mordaunt,
+if you will kindly let me go upstairs—"</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>They stood soon beside the bed. Rhona would hardly have recognised
+her mother in the wan wasted being, with half-closed dim eyes, and
+transparent powerless fingers. As a rule, during these days of deadly
+weakness, Mary Mordaunt paid no manner of attention to those around,
+and the task of arousing her sufficiently to receive food or medicine
+was a constantly recurring difficulty. Dr. Wynne had truly described
+her state as a mere "vegetable existence." She breathed and lived and
+took nourishment, but all thought and memory seemed to have fled.</p>
+
+<p>This day there was a change. When Dr. Wynne drew up the blind, letting
+a ray of light fall upon the bed, and then bent to examine her face,
+the heavy eyes were lifted to his with an intelligent look, and a faint
+smile parted the white lips.</p>
+
+<p>"Come, that is better. How do you do?" Dr. Wynne said gently, taking
+one of her hands.</p>
+
+<p>"How do you do?" Mary repeated mechanically.</p>
+
+<p>"Not so weak to-day, are you?" asked Dr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>Mary watched him, with a puzzled languid look.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is he?" she whispered at length.</p>
+
+<p>"Dr. Wynne," Barbara answered. "Our kind Dr. Wynne, dear, who has been
+to see you every day, for such a long time. You will know him again
+now, I think. And you know me, don't you, Mary?"</p>
+
+<p>The gaze was transferred to Barbara for two seconds.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," Mary said indifferently.</p>
+
+<p>Dr. Wynne's hand made a silencing gesture, when Barbara would have
+pressed the matter.</p>
+
+<p>Mary sighed, shut her eyes, and gave no more sign of attention through
+the rest of his short visit.</p>
+
+<p>Outside the room Barbara said, "I think one word would rouse her
+now,—the child's name."</p>
+
+<p>Dr. Wynne shook his head. "Too great a risk at present," he said.</p>
+
+<p>"But surely anything would be better than this state?"</p>
+
+<p>"We can hardly say that. There might be more harm than good in such an
+arousing. Remember, if the death of the child has been the direct cause
+of this illness, any agitation connected with the subject might cause a
+relapse. And a relapse now would almost certainly be fatal. No, we must
+be patient a little longer. There is undoubtedly an improvement to-day."</p>
+
+<p>Barbara accompanied him to the front door. As he went down the steps,
+the postman came up, and Barbara received a letter from his hands. She
+hardly glanced at it, being more intent on first telling her sisters
+exactly what Dr. Wynne had said.</p>
+
+<p>"But when Mary is well, where is she to go?" asked Clara.</p>
+
+<p>"Time enough to think about that," Barbara answered. "Our way will be
+made clear."</p>
+
+<p>"It isn't generally made clear as one wishes," said Clara pettishly.
+"Who is that letter for?"</p>
+
+<p>"For me. I do not know the handwriting," Miss Mordaunt said in an
+absent tone; and then her face changed suddenly. "How strange! My last
+letter to Henry returned from India! Not from the Post Office. Somebody
+has enclosed it in an envelope, and written,—look—'Not here—gone some
+months ago.' Extraordinary."</p>
+
+<p>"Odd!" echoed Clara.</p>
+
+<p>Barbara's face showed agitation. "Where can Henry be? He has never
+failed before to give us notice of any permanent change of address. I
+thought he was a fixture in that appointment."</p>
+
+<p>"Nobody is a fixture now in India," said Clara. "Well,—he is a queer
+sort of brother. I suppose he will deign some day to tell us his
+whereabouts. Meantime, we must remain in blissful ignorance."</p>
+
+<p>"Clara, you don't understand," said Barbara, in distress. "It is not
+merely a question of his telling or not telling. Suppose something has
+happened to him. Suppose he has been taken ill, and died suddenly—"</p>
+
+<p>"I wouldn't fancy that. Of course we should have heard," said Clara,
+while Sue looked sorrowful.</p>
+
+<p>"I am not so sure. Who would tell us? Henry's friends are not our
+friends."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I think we ought to take in a daily paper," said Clara promptly.
+"But as for Henry, I really don't believe there is anything wrong. I
+really don't, Barbara," and she spoke affectionately, wishing to cheer
+her sister.</p>
+
+<p>Clara cared little herself for this almost unknown elder brother. But
+Barbara had been his companion in childish days, and loved him still,
+despite long years of separation and coldness.</p>
+
+<p>"I wouldn't fancy troubles, if I were you. Henry always was an erratic
+being. I dare say he has gone rushing off to Kamschatka or the Cape,
+and has forgotten to leave directions for the forwarding of his
+letters. We shall hear from him by-and-by; and he will count us very
+silly to have supposed that anything was wrong. Couldn't you come out
+for a walk with me this morning, instead of spending all your time in
+Mary's room?"</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_19">CHAPTER XIX.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>A LINK WANTING.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"I DON'T think, for my part, there ever 'was' a woman so badly off
+as me; and I don't care who hears me say it neither," Mrs. Burrell
+declared in aggrieved tones, while her solemn eyes looked more solemn,
+her long thin nose seemed longer and thinner, and the drooping
+mouth-corners hung lower than ever before. "It's no manner of use
+telling me other people have troubles too. Of course they have; and
+what then? I suppose I know about other people as well as you do, for
+the matter of that. Besides, other people don't lose their husbands,
+and have their houses burnt down, and their children's legs broken, and
+everything lost, all of a slap, as one may say. No; it is no use your
+telling me other people are as badly off as me, for I don't believe it."</p>
+
+<p>Neil Burrell had not made the remark imputed to him by his distressed
+aunt, though doubtless he had intended to bring it forth, and probably
+she read it in his face. A telegram from Mrs. Burrell had brought
+him to London the second day after the fire. He found his aunt still
+domiciled under the roof of the hospitable groceress who had first
+received her, dressed in borrowed clothes, and in a condition of
+greater depression over her losses than of thankfulness over her
+safety. Neil had paid a visit of inspection to the melancholy ruins of
+"Number Three," and now sat to condole with his aunt.</p>
+
+<p>"And I always 'shall' say it was a shame of the Colonel to let down
+Hope, poor lamb, knowing as he did she couldn't get safe to the bottom.
+I shall always say it was a shame," reiterated Mrs. Barrel. "Why,
+he wouldn't let Miss Rhona go so; and if it wasn't right for one,
+it wasn't right for the other. If I hadn't been near crazy with the
+fright, I should have stopped her. And now she'll die in hospital, and
+I shall never see her again."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I don't think she'll die, aunt," the young man said cheerfully.
+"People don't die of broken legs. You'll soon go and see her, and find
+her better, I don't doubt. There is sure to be regular days for friends
+being admitted."</p>
+
+<p>"And how am I to stay in London, so as to go to her?" demanded Mrs.
+Burrell. "I that have got no home now, and nothing belonging to me. It
+isn't as if my poor husband was alive. There's nobody for me to turn
+to. Why, the very gown on my back isn't my own. 'I' to come to wearing
+charity! I wonder whatever my poor dear husband would have said."</p>
+
+<p>"But it won't be all a dead loss to you, aunt. You've insured well, I
+believe."</p>
+
+<p>"And if I have, what then?" Mrs. Burrell wanted to know. "I suppose the
+money won't come in to-morrow. And how am I to get clothed and fed,
+till it does. I can't take another shop and start it afresh, all in a
+minute. And I'm sure I feel so upset and shaky, I'm fit for nothing,
+and shan't be for weeks. And there's Mr. Powis been in here this
+morning, telling me I ought to be thankful and resigned. It's easy for
+folks to talk. If 'his' house was burnt down, I expect he wouldn't be
+so particularly thankful."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't suppose he meant to say you ought to be thankful for that,
+aunt, only thankful that things are not worse," said Neil. "But there's
+something I want to say—"</p>
+
+<p>He had tried before and failed.</p>
+
+<p>"Worse! How could things be worse?" Mrs. Burrell demanded. "Unless Hope
+had been killed outright; and we don't know yet that she isn't."</p>
+
+<p>"Aunt, I just wanted to say—" began Neil again.</p>
+
+<p>"And the fuss that is made about Bertha," pursued Mrs. Burrell irately.
+"One would think she was the chief person in all London. Dr. Marsden
+going in to see her, and Mr. Wynne asking how she did, and Colonel
+Smyth talking of her bravery. The girl's head will be just turned. I
+don't see for my part what she did so very extraordinary, more than
+other people. She always was quiet. But there! I'm used to ingratitude,
+and I've pretty well given up expecting to be put in my proper place.
+Bertha must look out for herself now. 'I' can't give her a home any
+longer, for I've none to give."</p>
+
+<p>"Good evening, Mrs. Burrell. What were you saying about Bertha?" asked
+Colonel Smyth, at that moment ushered in by Mrs. Burrell's hospitable
+hostess.</p>
+
+<p>"Good evening, sir," Mrs. Burrell said grimly. "I was only just telling
+my nephew, Bertha would have to look out for herself for a bit. Seeing
+I haven't any longer a home of my own, it isn't to be expected I can
+provide a home for her. I'm sorry I have to say it, but—"</p>
+
+<p>"Not at all, not at all! No need to be sorry," said the Colonel.
+"I have had thoughts of proposing to Bertha to become Miss Rhona's
+personal attendant, and I am very well satisfied to learn that she is
+free. We must have somebody, and the child is accustomed to Bertha's
+ways. That will provide for your niece, and will be a satisfactory
+arrangement in every way,—supposing she is willing. We shall probably
+leave London in a day or two for the west of England, and Bertha can
+accompany us."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell's face expressed the reverse of gratification.</p>
+
+<p>"So that matter is easily settled," pursued the Colonel. "I was afraid
+you might not wish to part with her. Now I can broach the subject
+without delay. Bertha is with Miss Rhona at this moment, I believe."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know as I should altogether say Bertha was fit to be a lady's
+maid," remarked Mrs. Burrell.</p>
+
+<p>"A lady's maid!" Colonel Smyth laughed. "I dare say not! My little girl
+hardly requires a full-blown lady's maid yet. Bertha is thoughtful and
+dependable, and the child likes her. I'm not at all afraid that she
+won't do. How are you going to dispose of yourself, Mrs. Burrell?"</p>
+
+<p>"That's just what I wanted to say," broke in Neil. "I have been trying
+again and again, but I couldn't get her to listen. Aunt, it 'll make
+Nannie and me as proud and pleased as can be, if you'll come and stay
+in my cottage for a few weeks, till you've had time to look about you,
+and see what to do next. I don't pretend it's anything much of a place,
+but I know it is clean, and Nannie will do her very best to make you
+comfortable,—that I'm sure of. When Hope is better, she can come and
+share your room, if you haven't settled plans by then. I had a mind to
+propose Bertha coming too, but it seems she's provided for."</p>
+
+<p>Neil looked regretful, and Mrs. Burrell suddenly resolved to further
+the Colonel's proposal. She did not wish Bertha to become an inmate of
+Neil's little house.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't mean to say, sir, that there is anything against Bertha,"
+she remarked, turning to the Colonel, and forgetting that she had not
+thanked Neil for his generous offer. "Bertha isn't fit, to be sure,
+for a fine lady's maid, but, as you say, it's not that you want, sir.
+Bertha is willing enough, and never fails to do her best; and she
+thinks there's nobody in the world like Miss Rhona. She'll be glad
+enough, I don't doubt; and if she wasn't, I'd soon make her."</p>
+
+<p>"Thanks, but you may as well leave the matter to me," responded the
+Colonel curtly.</p>
+
+<p>And Neil asked, "Will you come, aunt?"</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrell's gratitude, if tardy in expression, was sincere.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth left soon, signing to Neil to follow him. Outside the
+door, he thrust a slip of folded paper into the young man's hand,
+saying, "Don't think this a liberty, but you will be at some expense
+with Mrs. Burrell. Use it any way you like for her,—no need to say
+anything. I gave her a five-pound note this morning, to cover what
+might be due for my rooms or Miss Rhona's."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth strode away, and Neil found himself in the possession of
+a ten-pound Bank of England note.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"I like that Mr. Wynne so much. He is nice," said Rhona, an hour later.</p>
+
+<p>She was on a little couch near the fire, dressed in borrowed clothes
+which did not fit her well, and the small slight figure seemed slighter
+than ever. The nervous excitement of the previous day had given place
+to weakness and lassitude, but she still suffered from fits of sudden
+terror if left alone.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, he is very nice," said Colonel Smyth, who had just come into the
+drawing-room, looking well and vigorous, despite bandaged shoulder and
+arm in sling.</p>
+
+<p>On his entrance, Mrs. Montague went away, and the Colonel took a seat
+close to the child.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Mr. Wynne is very nice," repeated Colonel Smyth thoughtfully.
+"But I am seriously meditating how you and I shall get away from him."</p>
+
+<p>"Get away from Mr. Wynne," said Rhona in astonishment.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—elude him, in fact," said the Colonel, watching her expression.
+"I am thinking of taking you first to Bath, and then—somewhere else."</p>
+
+<p>"I know what 'elude' means," said Rhona soberly. "But Mr. Wynne won't
+come after us."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, perhaps not," said the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>Then both were silent. Some other idea, foreign to the subject in hand,
+seemed to have possession of Rhona's mind. A wave of colour rushed
+suddenly over her face.</p>
+
+<p>"Uncle, may I ask something?"</p>
+
+<p>"Anything in the world, my little dear."</p>
+
+<p>"I thought I heard you tell Mrs. Montague that I must have a new
+frock," said the child in a low voice.</p>
+
+<p>"More than one," said the Colonel lightly. "As many frocks as you like,
+Rhona. We'll get one here to start with, and then you shall choose
+in Bath anything that takes your fancy,—pink and blue and green and
+all sorts. Somebody is coming from a shop to-morrow morning to take
+orders. Mrs. Montague would not have you bothered about it to-day.
+But of course we have to get a whole new wardrobe for you—hats and
+bonnets, and boots and shoes, and—and—pelisses and capes,—and in fact
+everything."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think I want a great many new frocks," said Rhona gently. "And
+I haven't left off black, you know, for father!" The Colonel had lost
+sight of this fact, and was rather staggered. "Please," continued the
+child, with a manifest effort, "please, uncle, may there be a little
+bit of crape on my frock? Because—because—"</p>
+
+<p>"There, there, my pet, don't cry," the Colonel said, stooping with his
+newly-found tenderness to kiss away two heavy tears. "I am a stupid old
+fellow, and I forgot you were in mourning still. But you shall have
+anything in the world that you wish, only don't cry."</p>
+
+<p>"I should like to have some crape on my frock," said Rhona sadly.
+"People all do, and I haven't yet. And I think—I think—now—I'm
+afraid—mother can't be coming back—"</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth thought the same. He was unable to contradict her.</p>
+
+<p>"I know I oughtn't to be too sorry," sobbed the child, breaking into
+irrepressible weeping. "And I do try, I do try to be good. But oh, I do
+want so to see her again—just once—only once."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth always felt himself at a loss when this trouble came up
+prominently. He was aware of the kind of comfort which she needed; and
+he was aware also of his own inability to give it, further than in a
+very vague and superficial manner. Kind words and touches were all that
+he usually attempted on these occasions.</p>
+
+<p>"You won't feel it so acutely by-and-by, my poor little one," he said
+presently, finding her grief not easy to soothe. But this caused such
+heartbroken sobbing that he speedily regretted the utterance. "Why,
+Rhona, Rhona!" he said almost reproachfully. "What has come over my
+little darling to-day? Don't you love your old uncle still?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes, yes," Rhona answered, with bitter tears. "But I do so want
+mother,—I do so want mother. I don't know how to get on without her. If
+I only could see her again, just for one minute,—only one minute."</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona, do you know you are making me very unhappy?" said the Colonel,
+stooping over her. "If I knew how to take better care of my little pet,
+things would be different."</p>
+
+<p>"No, no; it isn't that," cried Rhona almost passionately. "I love you
+dearly, and I always shall, and you are so, so good to me. But you
+aren't mother. Nobody can be mother. I wouldn't be naughty if I could
+help it, but oh, I do want mother to-night."</p>
+
+<p>Then, as she buried her face in the sofa-cushion, trying to smother the
+sobs, he heard her moan brokenly,—"Mother—mother—do come—O mother! I do
+want somebody—somebody—to teach me—"</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth listened, and could make out no more. "What is it you
+want, Rhona?" he asked.</p>
+
+<p>She had evidently spoken her thought unconsciously, and was startled at
+the question.</p>
+
+<p>"Somebody to teach you what, my dear?" he went on.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona gave him one hasty look with full eyes, and hid her face anew.
+"I didn't mean to say it," she sobbed. "Nobody ever speaks to me
+now—about—about Jesus—and mother always did. I do want mother to-night."</p>
+
+<p>A pause followed, somewhat perplexed on the part of the Colonel. Tears
+seemed to be lessening; and for once, it was almost a relief to him to
+note the signs of pain, which would render her unfit for conversation.
+Sobs gradually came to an end, and Rhona lay back patiently, with
+closed eyes and drawn brows, one of her little hands clutching the back
+of the sofa.</p>
+
+<p>But as the Colonel remained silent, she looked up at him with a
+frightened expression, and said—"Don't be angry, please."</p>
+
+<p>"My dear, I am not angry," said Colonel Smyth.</p>
+
+<p>"I didn't mean to say that. Oh, don't be angry,—please, please don't."</p>
+
+<p>"I am not angry, Rhona, not the very least, I assure you," said Colonel
+Smyth, stooping down to kiss her. "It is much best that you should say
+what is in your mind. There is nothing to be angry about. But I don't
+exactly understand why you wish to be spoken to about things that you
+are already well acquainted with," the Colonel said in a measured
+manner, as if he were counting out his words. "You are always a good
+little girl."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh no, not lately. I've been getting all wrong, and mother would help
+me—"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, well, I can only say I have not seen it," said the Colonel. "You
+shall tell me another day what you have done that is so wrong."</p>
+
+<p>"It isn't doing. I don't feel rightly," said the child in a low voice:
+and again she repeated, "Mother would know."</p>
+
+<p>"I am afraid I can't promise to talk to you like your mother, Rhona.
+You see I was differently brought up, and—in fact, it is not my way.
+But if there is anything I can do, that you would like, such as—such as
+reading to you, for instance—"</p>
+
+<p>"Mother always read the Bible to me every evening," said Rhona
+wistfully. "And sometimes a hymn."</p>
+
+<p>It cost the gallant Colonel much more of a struggle than might be
+supposed, to answer,—</p>
+
+<p>"I'll do that, if you think it will make you happier."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona accepted the offer unhesitatingly; and evidently without a
+question in her mind as to his willingness.</p>
+
+<p>"Before I go to bed?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, if you like, my dear," said the Colonel, with internal reluctance.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother always talked to me and explained," said Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>A bright idea struck the Colonel. "I couldn't possibly do that, my
+little girl, but you shall tell me what your mother used to say, and
+that will keep her teaching in your mind." Then to avoid further
+awkward suggestions, he said hurriedly,—"Come now, don't you want to
+know why you and I are going to run away from Mr. Wynne?"</p>
+
+<p>"Is going to Bath running away?" asked the child languidly.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, yes, in a sense,—if our object is to avoid him."</p>
+
+<p>"But I don't see why you want to avoid him, uncle."</p>
+
+<p>"That is what I have to explain. There are two doctors, named
+Wynne,—this young Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, and his father, Dr. Henry Wynne.
+They live together in a house which happens to be very near to those
+three aunts of your father's, who were such a trouble to you some
+months ago. Well—it happens that once upon a time, I knew Dr. Henry
+Wynne very well, and if I saw him, he would recognise me directly. Then
+of course, he would mention having seen me to my—ahem, to those good
+aunts of yours, the Miss Mordaunts. And that might bring them here,
+and then they would see you. Indeed, it is an event—their seeing you,
+I mean—which might come about any day, apart from an encounter between
+Dr. Wynne and myself. If our friend, the doctor, happened to meet the
+Miss Mordaunts, and happened to mention you by name—"</p>
+
+<p>Rhona's eyes were strained and intent, as she drank in every word. And
+before he came to a pause, she was trembling like an aspen leaf. "Oh,
+take me away,—please take me away!" she entreated.</p>
+
+<p>"There's nothing to be frightened about, my little girl. I'll undertake
+to protect you against all the aunts that ever existed. But perhaps you
+don't care to see them just yet."</p>
+
+<p>"No, no, please,—they wouldn't let me stay with you." Rhona looked
+positively blue with terror.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't be afraid," repeated the Colonel. "You are my little girl now,
+not theirs. But I don't think you would be any the better for having
+them in and out, at present. So you and I will go straight to Bath,
+the day after to-morrow—if you can have a new frock so soon. And when
+we are at Bath, we will settle what to do next. What do you say to
+the country—real thorough country, with any amount of fields and wild
+flowers? Yes, I see by your face that will do. And I have just settled
+with Bertha that she shall come with us, as your maid, to take care of
+you. You like Bertha, I know—and when I have to be out, I shall be able
+to leave you with her safely."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona's eyes sparkled. "O uncle, how lovely! I did dread losing that
+nice dear Bertha. And now Mrs. Burrell won't be able to scold her any
+more. And I do love the country."</p>
+
+<p>"So I imagined. Now it is all settled, and you must go to sleep," said
+the Colonel, with his caressing air. "Shut your eyes, little one."</p>
+
+<p>"I can't think why you are so kind," Rhona whispered, as she obeyed.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>A connecting chain hung at this moment between Rhona and her mother,
+almost complete. One middle link alone was wanting.</p>
+
+<p>Dr. Wynne, daily attending Mary Mordaunt, knew the outline of her
+story, knew about the child whose position was a problem in the
+Mordaunt household, and knew the child's name to be "Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, on the other hand, had accidentally come across
+Colonel Smyth and Rhona, and had seen much of them during three or
+four days. He knew Rhona's Christian name, but not her surname, for
+the Colonel had evaded an inquiry on this point, and delicacy withheld
+Mr. Wynne from pressing the matter further. He also knew Rhona to
+be the Colonel's adopted child, and believed her to be at least no
+near relation. He was a little perplexed as to the real connection,
+certain words having dropped from the Colonel rather at variance with
+an assertion of Rhona's. The doctor had, moreover, heard that Rhona's
+mother was supposed to have been drowned. He gathered altogether that
+some slight mystery existed, in connection with the Colonel, with
+Rhona, or with both.</p>
+
+<p>The one link wanting to complete the chain which might have brought
+mother and daughter together again, was that Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne
+mention little Rhona by name to his father, that Dr. Wynne's attention
+should be arrested by the said name, and that through a few natural
+inquiries, the whereabouts of Mary Mordaunt's child should be revealed
+to the aunts.</p>
+
+<p>But this link was not yet supplied. It happened that those few days
+were exceedingly busy ones to both the older and the younger medical
+man. They scarcely met even at meals, and exchanged few words except
+on business. Moreover Colonel Smyth's evident reserve as to his own
+affairs and evident wish not to be seen or recognised by Dr. Wynne,
+rendered Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne doubly cautious in speaking about him.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne was much less intimate than his father with the
+Miss Mordaunts. He had been acquainted with them all his life, but the
+acquaintance had never ripened into friendship. General particulars as
+to the appearance, disappearance, and reappearance of Mary Mordaunt
+had reached him. If, however, he knew vaguely that there was a child
+in the question, he did not know the child's name, and "Rhona" was a
+word which called up no associations in his mind. He had not seen Mary
+Mordaunt, during her brief former stay, near the Miss Mordaunts; and
+her story as a whole had made no particular impression on him. Dr.
+Wynne, not Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, was the family physician at Number
+Three, Winifred Place.</p>
+
+<p>That the link should have remained long unsupplied was, under existing
+circumstances, hardly possible. Only three days after the fire,
+however, Colonel Smyth announced his intention of proceeding within
+twenty-four hours to the west of England. "Bath first,—then either
+sea-side or country," he said. Sufficient wearing apparel for the
+journey would arrive, according to promise, that same evening, and "the
+sooner they could be off, the better."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne, though rather astonished, had no objections to offer.
+Colonel Smyth's shoulder was doing as well as could be wished, and
+medical advice if required could be readily obtained in Bath. Rhona
+was still shaken and poorly, but change of air and of scene might be
+the best possible remedies for her overstrained nerves. So the matter
+was speedily settled. Mr. Wynne had again a curious consciousness that
+the Colonel wished to avoid further intercourse with himself and his
+father; yet he would have found it difficult to give a reason for the
+feeling.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Montague had insisted on the Colonel and the child remaining in
+her house during these three days, though perhaps the nearness of No.
+3, Albert Terrace, was hardly desirable for Rhona. Mrs. Burrell had
+already gone to pay a long visit to Neil and his sister. Hope, still in
+hospital, seemed to be doing well.</p>
+
+<p>Bertha was now installed as Rhona's attendant upon liberal wages, five
+pounds of which were paid her in advance by the Colonel for immediate
+necessities. The fire, causing this change of condition, had opened out
+a new vista of happiness to poor Bertha.</p>
+
+<p>Hannah Hoskyns, believed to have been the unfortunate cause of the
+fire, had been sent home without a character, bitterly abused by her
+former mistress.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>About ten days after the disappearance of Colonel Smyth, with Rhona
+and Bertha, from the neighbourhood of London, the elder Dr. Wynne was
+suddenly laid aside by a sharp attack of bronchitis. He had been an
+unusually healthy and vigorous man hitherto, but for once he was forced
+to succumb, and his busy son had to fill the place of two as best he
+might.</p>
+
+<p>Therefore, it came to pass that at the hour when Dr. Wynne usually
+dropped in to see Mary Mordaunt, not Dr. Wynne but Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne
+appeared.</p>
+
+<p>He was slightly apologetic, being well aware that the ladies of "No. 3,
+Winifred Place" objected to his comparative youth.</p>
+
+<p>"Yourself, please,—not your son!" Miss Mordaunt had been known to say
+majestically to the elder doctor, when on one occasion, being severely
+pressed with work, he had ventured to send Arbuthnot in his stead. But
+this day there was no choice, Dr. Wynne being a prisoner to his room,
+voiceless and almost breathless.</p>
+
+<p>"Really I am very sorry about Dr. Wynne, very sorry indeed," Miss
+Mordaunt said. "He seemed the day before yesterday to be rather unwell;
+and yesterday, as he did not come, I feared his cold might be worse.
+One never expects Dr. Wynne to give in, but of course he must not run
+risks. Do you think he might be able to come to-morrow? One day more
+would not perhaps signify, and as he has watched the case all through—"</p>
+
+<p>Arbuthnot Wynne knew his father to be in for at least a week's
+imprisonment, and suggested that it might be hardly wise to leave the
+invalid so long.</p>
+
+<p>"No, certainly not,—though she seems better,—I could not undertake the
+responsibility. I am only afraid she may not like a stranger about her.
+But please come upstairs. I know your time is valuable just now. I hope
+Mary will not be startled."</p>
+
+<p>She preceded him upstairs, and opened the bedroom door.</p>
+
+<p>When they entered, it was Mr. Wynne who started, not Mary Mordaunt.</p>
+
+<p>That face! He knew it immediately, recognising at a glance its
+marvellous likeness to the fair little face he had seen less than a
+fortnight earlier. Frail and wan, transparent and nerveless, as this
+young creature was, he could not mistake the resemblance. The same
+broad brow, only not quite so full and intellectual, the same delicate
+outline of feature: only sharpened by illness; the same large dark
+eyes, only heavy and dim.</p>
+
+<p>Beyond one slight start, he did not betray himself. But when he took
+her hand, and asked how she was, she lifted her eyes to his, with a
+look of indescribable bewilderment and sadness, muttering confusedly,
+"Rhona! My little Rhona! My child Rhona!" And again he found difficulty
+in controlling his surprise.</p>
+
+<p>Mary Mordaunt was slowly waking up from her impassive and enfeebled
+condition. And during the last few days, the name of Rhona had been on
+her lips. As yet, however, nothing fell from her which might afford any
+clue to the truth about the missing child. And Dr. Wynne, at his last
+visit, had still forbidden any direct attempt to find out particulars
+from the invalid.</p>
+
+<p>So Barbara was not a little dismayed to hear Mr. Wynne ask quietly, "Is
+Rhona your child, Mrs. Mordaunt?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Wynne, will you kindly come here for a moment," she said hastily,
+moving towards the bow-window, with a somewhat imperative sign to him
+to follow her. Miss Mordaunt had known Arbuthnot Wynne as a schoolboy,
+and she never lost sight of this fact.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_20">CHAPTER XX.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>RESTORED HOPE.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"YOUR father does not seem to have explained—" Barbara breathed in an
+undertone, as she stood facing Arbuthnot Wynne in the bow-window. "I
+thought he would have done so. If I had not been taken by surprise at
+your coming, I would have told you more myself."</p>
+
+<p>"My father is hardly in a condition to speak much this morning," said
+Mr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>"But you are surely acquainted with general particulars? No fear!"—as
+he glanced towards the bed. "I am speaking low, but it would be just
+the same if I spoke loudly. Mary hears nothing and heeds nothing,
+except what is immediately addressed to her. She has been in this state
+for weeks, ever since the delirium left her. It is an extraordinary
+state, almost as if she had been stunned, and could not rally. I cannot
+get your father to say what he thinks, except that matters will improve
+as she grows stronger. But he will not allow us to put any questions to
+my niece."</p>
+
+<p>"No questions!" said her listener.</p>
+
+<p>"I mean, on that point, about the child! You know of course that
+there was a child, her only one. When she left this neighbourhood
+before Christmas, in a fit of vexation at a plan of my proposing—poor
+Mary!—she took the little girl with her. We heard no more of either
+of them, till she came back, alone, and so ill as to be unable to
+speak rationally. For weeks, she never mentioned the child except in
+delirium, and then quite incoherently. It is only the last few days
+that she has begun to speak of her with any appearance of sense. The
+day before yesterday, Dr. Wynne told us to do nothing until he should
+come again; and yesterday, as you know, he was unable to pay his visit.
+I am very much perplexed. It seems as if we ought to make use of this
+opportunity to discover more about the child,—and yet—if it would do
+harm to my niece—"</p>
+
+<p>"I think you had better let me see how she is," said Mr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, certainly. But it is not as if you had been with her all
+through," said Barbara dubiously.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne's "Yes" was rather mechanical than assenting. "And the
+child's name is Rhona?" he said in a dreamy manner.</p>
+
+<p>Unexpectedly, there came a muttered echo from the bed,—"Rhona! My
+little Rhona!" as if in response.</p>
+
+<p>"We have to avoid saying that name in her hearing," said Barbara
+softly. "It is the one thing she notices now, and the one thing which
+excites her."</p>
+
+<p>"The child is—how old?" asked Mr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>"About nine years old."</p>
+
+<p>"Like the mother?"</p>
+
+<p>"Some say so. I do not think so much of the likeness myself, though
+certainly the eyes and general outline are much the same. I never saw a
+sweeter child. Poor little thing! It is sad if she has been thrown upon
+strangers all this time. But our fear is that she has died, and that
+her death has caused this illness. I must not take up your time, only
+I am sure you will be cautious. Dr. Wynne is so very much afraid of a
+relapse."</p>
+
+<p>Arbuthnot Wynne went back to the bedside thoughtfully. He could feel
+no doubt in his own mind as to the identity of the two Rhonas. At this
+moment, he was so completely occupied with the endeavour to unravel the
+perplexities of Colonel Smyth's conduct, that it actually did not occur
+to him to tell Miss Mordaunt there and then his belief that the child
+was found; neither did her last words reach his understanding.</p>
+
+<p>Could Colonel Smyth have known that Rhona's mother lay ill at No. 3,
+Winifred Place? Did he wish deliberately to keep mother and child
+apart? Was his conduct governed by a dread of losing the child, a
+determination to keep her to himself at all hazards? These thoughts
+flashed like lightning through the young doctor's brain, as he passed
+from window to bed. Barbara saw only a slow step and absent manner. She
+wished, with a touch of impatience, that Arbuthnot Wynne were more like
+his father.</p>
+
+<p>The usual questions were asked, Mary paying no heed to the questioner.
+But as he stood somewhat long, watch in hand, examining her pulse,
+she moved restlessly, and lifted her eyes again, with a pleading
+mutter—"Rhona! My little Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>Arbuthnot Wynne restored the watch to his pocket, and said
+composedly—"Rhona is well, Mrs. Mordaunt, I believe."</p>
+
+<p>Barbara was horrified, and vainly strove to catch the doctor's eye.
+He was looking steadily at Mary Mordaunt, and she returned the gaze
+pitifully, wistfully, as if struggling to see through a fog.</p>
+
+<p>"My little Rhona?" she repeated.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, your own little Rhona," responded Mr. Wynne. "She is coming to
+you by-and-by."</p>
+
+<p>Mary's eyes brightened slowly into such intelligence, as had not been
+seen in them once since her arrival at Winifred Place. "Rhona is
+coming! My own little Rhona! O aunt Barbara! Do you hear?"</p>
+
+<p>Barbara stood rigidly irresponsive and cold.</p>
+
+<p>"By-and-by," repeated Mr. Wynne, in the same quiet yet cheerful voice,
+and he gently patted Mary's hand. "You must get a little stronger, and
+then you will be fit to see her."</p>
+
+<p>"Dear little Rhona! My own little darling!" murmured Mary, with some
+agitation.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, dear little Rhona. She is a sweet little girl," said Mr. Wynne
+soothingly. "So like you in face."</p>
+
+<p>Mary absolutely smiled. "So like—everybody said."</p>
+
+<p>"No one could help seeing the likeness," Mr. Wynne answered.</p>
+
+<p>"Will she come to me soon—soon?" asked Mary.</p>
+
+<p>"Very soon, I hope. Rhona has gone into the country, with kind friends,
+for change of air. You will like to see your dear little girl come
+back, looking rosy and well. Children love the country," said Mr.
+Wynne, speaking rather monotonously, and appearing unconscious of
+Barbara's distressed endeavours to beckon him away.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona loves the country," echoed Mary. Then a perplexed expression
+came over her face, and she murmured—"Friends! Friends!"</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne dared not risk a mention of Colonel Smyth, unknowing what
+associations she might have with the name. "Very kind friends," he
+said. "Everybody loves little Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>Mary's troubled look continued. She was evidently more awake to past
+and present than she had yet been, but some sad dread or bewilderment
+hung about her still. The wistful dark eyes seemed searching for more
+information.</p>
+
+<p>"I thought—I thought—" she muttered confusedly. "I can't
+remember—but—I—I thought—"</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne's hand was on her wrist again. "Never mind. It will all come
+back by-and-by," he said. "Try to lie quiet now, and think of little
+Rhona playing among the daisies."</p>
+
+<p>"The daisies!" And there was another smile. Then with a start and
+moan—"But Rhona—Rhona—they said she was dead. I heard them say my
+little Rhona was dead."</p>
+
+<p>"You heard wrongly. Rhona is not dead."</p>
+
+<p>Mary looked at him in a half-wild manner, singularly contrasting with
+her late torpidity. "But they said she was dead, and I could not bear
+it,—I could not wake up to life again. If Rhona is dead, I want to die
+too."</p>
+
+<p>"No," Mr. Wynne said gravely, "you would not wish that. You would wish
+to live and to serve God. But your little Rhona is not dead."</p>
+
+<p>"Where is she?" Mary asked.</p>
+
+<p>"She has gone into the country with friends. She is not at Mrs.
+Burrell's any longer," said Mr. Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Burrell!" Mary evidently recognised the name, though her memory
+was confused. "Oh yes,—Mrs. Burrell."</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona is not there any longer," said Mr. Wynne, his last remnants of
+doubt as to the truth of his conjecture entirely dissipated. "She has
+been taken into the country for change of air that she may become rosy
+and strong. You will be content to wait a little while, until she can
+come back to you."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh yes,—I can wait now. My little darling!" murmured Mary, and she
+smiled peacefully. "My own little Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>She lay whispering—"Rhona! Sweet Rhona!" for some seconds, till her
+eyes seemed to close of themselves, and she sank into such a calm and
+natural sleep as she had not enjoyed since the beginning of her illness.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne stood silently watching her, till that stage was reached; and
+then he turned to leave.</p>
+
+<p>Barbara, listening to all this, was utterly aghast. She really credited
+Arbuthnot Wynne with inventing a pretty little fiction for the purpose
+of temporarily cheering the invalid, and all her righteous indignation
+was aflame.</p>
+
+<p>Leading him downstairs into the drawing-room, she shut the door, turned
+herself about, and broke into the ejaculation—"How you 'could!'"</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne faced her with the slightest possible smile, and made no
+answer.</p>
+
+<p>"How you could!" repeated Barbara.</p>
+
+<p>"I beg your pardon. Could what?"</p>
+
+<p>"Could raise false hopes,—could lead her to believe that we know what
+we do not know. But I must undeceive her at all risks. I can never lend
+myself to such a plan. Your father would never—"</p>
+
+<p>"My father is perhaps not acquainted with certain facts—"</p>
+
+<p>"I assure you he is. I have informed him of every particular. Do you
+know that you may have done irreparable harm?" said Barbara, much
+excited and alarmed. "Your father has been so anxious that her thoughts
+should not be turned in the direction of the child, at least until we
+can be assured that she is still living. And now you have led her to
+expect to see Rhona again almost immediately. It will be impossible to
+quiet her down."</p>
+
+<p>"By-and-by, I said."</p>
+
+<p>"But you promised it. You undertook to say that Rhona would come. And
+we do not even know whether the child is alive. I suppose you were
+playing upon words when you said she was not dead,—but however true in
+one sense of those who are in heaven, that certainly is not the sense
+which you have conveyed to Mary. Poor dear Mary! I cannot imagine what
+I shall say when she questions me, as she is sure to do, now you have
+thoroughly aroused her. Excuse me, Mr. Wynne, but you are young, and I
+do think that if you had simply followed out your father's plans with
+my niece, it would have been wiser—would have been more seemly. I have
+no more to say, except that I at least cannot pretend what I do not
+know to be true."</p>
+
+<p>"Neither could I!" said Mr. Wynne, apparently content that Barbara's
+remarks should enjoy full swing before he made his own explanation.</p>
+
+<p>"But—pardon me—I think you have done so."</p>
+
+<p>"You are supposing too hastily that I have no reason for my line of
+action," said Mr. Wynne gravely. "What will you say, when I tell you
+that I not only suppose, but have the fullest conviction, that little
+Rhona is at this moment alive and well,—that only a few days ago I
+actually held her in my arms?"</p>
+
+<p>Miss Mordaunt looked at him in bewilderment. Was he trying to take her
+in also?</p>
+
+<p>"Well?" he said, unable to help smiling.</p>
+
+<p>"But why—why not speak sooner—if you have really known this?"</p>
+
+<p>"I did not know it."</p>
+
+<p>"Did not know, and yet you profess to have seen Rhona, to have held
+her in your arms. You are pleased to speak in enigmas," said Barbara
+impatiently.</p>
+
+<p>"You shall have plain English. Did my father happen to mention to you,
+rather more than a fortnight ago, a bad fire which took place one
+night, at which I was present? Several people were saved, including a
+little girl."</p>
+
+<p>A light flashed into Barbara's mind. "Yes, yes," she said eagerly. "Of
+course I remember. And that child—"</p>
+
+<p>"Was named Rhona. I carried her from the spot myself, when she
+was brought down the fire-escape. A pretty little dark-eyed girl,
+about eight or nine years old seemingly,—the adopted child of a
+Colonel Smyth, living in the same house. They were lodgers at a Mrs.
+Burrell's,—and you may have observed just now that the name 'Burrell'
+was familiar to Mrs. Mordaunt."</p>
+
+<p>"I could not think what you meant," Barbara said.</p>
+
+<p>"You had not the clue; and it was hardly possible to explain all this
+in Mrs. Mordaunt's presence."</p>
+
+<p>"And the child's name was Rhona—Rhona Mordaunt?"</p>
+
+<p>"The name of the child was Rhona. I can say nothing as to the surname.
+'Mordaunt' would of course have arrested my intention at once, but I
+had no associations with 'Rhona.' Till within the last half-hour, I had
+no idea that your little missing niece was named Rhona. It may seem
+strange to you, Miss Mordaunt, but so it is. As to the surname, Colonel
+Smyth twice evaded inquiries—so distinctly that I could not ask again.
+The relationship between him and the child puzzled me a good deal."</p>
+
+<p>"But he could not have adopted her long. Did he profess to be a near
+relative?"</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne shook his head. "The matter seemed to be in a state of
+entanglement. Rhona called him 'uncle,' but told me once plainly that
+he was not her uncle. On the other hand, Colonel Smyth once spoke to
+me in a manner which certainly implied that she was his great-niece.
+Colonel Smyth had dislocated his shoulder, and Rhona was suffering from
+the night-alarm. I attended them both for three or four days. Then the
+Colonel started off with his little charge to Bath, saying that he
+meant to take her afterwards into the country for thorough change. So
+my assertions upstairs were strictly true."</p>
+
+<p>"I beg your pardon for having doubted you. But, Mr. Wynne, suppose
+after all it were not our little Rhona? Suppose she proved after all to
+be another child of the same name?"</p>
+
+<p>"I hardly think such an outcome of the affair possible. My old friend,
+Mrs. Montague, who sheltered them after the fire, told me a few more
+particulars, which I noticed little at the time, though now they seem
+important. The little Rhona's mother, a pretty young widow, was at the
+lodgings with the child until after Christmas,—how long after I cannot
+say. Mrs. Montague often saw her going to and from her daily work as
+governess. One very foggy day, she disappeared, and she was believed to
+have been drowned in a neighbouring canal. They say a body was found,
+sufficiently resembling her. But the matter seems to have been clothed
+in mystery. Since then, Mrs. Montague has frequently seen the Colonel
+and the child walk out together. I believe she took it for granted that
+he was her grandfather. People may live almost next-door to one another
+in London, yet know strangely little of each other's circumstances."</p>
+
+<p>"Extraordinary!" Miss Mordaunt said repeatedly during this narration.
+Her remark at the end was, "Yes, true, but women have generally more
+curiosity than men. Would not your friend at least know whether the
+mother's name was Mordaunt?"</p>
+
+<p>"She might, probably. I did not hear her mention it."</p>
+
+<p>"And you made no attempt to find out, from her or from other people?
+The landlady, for instance."</p>
+
+<p>"I am not a woman," said Arbuthnot Wynne, with a half-smile. "I
+hardly exchanged a dozen words with Mrs. Burrell; and the child was
+always spoken of as 'Rhona' or as 'Miss Rhona.' No, I made no effort
+to discover anything further. It was not my business, and I avoided
+asking questions, since the Colonel evidently did not wish me to be
+enlightened. You must remember that I did not dream of the child's
+connection with you. Nor did I, till the last, expect to lose sight of
+them so soon."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, we must write immediately to this Colonel Smyth. I must write,"
+said Barbara.</p>
+
+<p>"Of course I could make inquiries now of Mrs. Montague and of others in
+the neighbourhood," said Arbuthnot Wynne thoughtfully. "Mrs. Burrell
+has left London, but her address would probably be known to some of
+her acquaintances. Yes, we must communicate with Colonel Smyth, if
+possible. But there lies the difficulty. He gave me the name of the
+hotel in Bath to which he was going ten days ago."</p>
+
+<p>"Would he not be there still?"</p>
+
+<p>"Hardly. He spoke of remaining in or near Bath three or four days."</p>
+
+<p>"And that was ten days ago! But letters would be forwarded after him.
+If we could find the child, it would put fresh life into Mary. What a
+mercy that you came in to-day! We might not have found out about Rhona
+for months."</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_21">CHAPTER XXI.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>ABOUT THE AUNTS.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"WHAT are you looking so grave about, my little girl?" asked Colonel
+Smyth.</p>
+
+<p>About a fortnight had passed since the journey from London to Bath. It
+seemed a natural thing now, to Colonel Smyth, having a child and her
+maid as part of his "impedimenta."</p>
+
+<p>They had spent five or six days in Bath, shopping vigorously. The
+Colonel had taken Rhona to the best shops in and about Milsom Street,
+allowing her such a choice of pretty things as she had never enjoyed
+in her life before. He was anxious to interest her, to draw off her
+attention from sad recollections. And it was not in child-nature not
+to be charmed. Rhona took the matter with a certain outward placidity
+natural to her, but enjoyment if subdued was genuine.</p>
+
+<p>Dress interested her least. She was bent upon having a due amount
+of crape upon her new black frocks, and enforced the same with sad
+earnestness. That once settled, the possession of clothes seemed to
+come to her as a thing of course; only she showed herself solicitous
+that the Colonel should not spend too much, amusing him greatly thereby.</p>
+
+<p>"Not that, please; it is very nice, but it is too expensive," she
+would say in her gentle way, when goods were spread upon the draper's
+counter, or when hats and bonnets were pulled forth by the milliner.</p>
+
+<p>"Not a penny too much, my dear!" the Colonel would answer, and the
+"expensive" article was at once chosen.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona thanked him always, though with a doubtful look.</p>
+
+<p>But when he led her into a large fancy warehouse, and desired
+her to select what she would in the way of desk and work-box and
+travelling-bag, her eyes did shine,—not only then, but during hours
+after, while unweariedly examining the intricate fittings of her new
+morocco, rosewood, and leather possessions. Finding the plan so far
+successful, Colonel Smyth followed it up perseveringly.</p>
+
+<p>Next day he had her at a jeweller's, for the choice of a little silver
+brooch, locket and chain. The morning after, their destination was a
+bookseller's, where he presented her with a Turkey-morocco bound Bible,
+and a Church Service to match. That day's work transcended all, in
+Rhona's opinion. Her childish delight in her new treasures was a pretty
+sight, and it did the Colonel's heart good.</p>
+
+<p>Yet even at her brightest, a shadow would often sweep over the
+sweet face, and if the Colonel asked,—"What now, Rhona?" the answer
+invariably was, "Mother would be so pleased! If only mother could see
+them all!"</p>
+
+<p>They had remained two nights in their first Bath hotel, moving then to
+a second, with no expressed reason on the part of Colonel Smyth. He
+resolved next to give Rhona a week or two of sea breezes, before trying
+the effects of country air, and took her straight to Ilfracombe.</p>
+
+<p>A new vista of delight opened there before the child's wondering
+eyes. She had never yet tasted the charms of English sea-shore life.
+Hours were spent in scrambling over the rocks and up the hills, with
+the Colonel. Happily for her, he loved walking, and as her powers of
+exertion increased, she could never have too much of it. At first,
+every effort wearied her, but before the close of one week, a marked
+change had taken place, shown by increase of colour and appetite.
+Colonel Smyth had never seen her look so well. His devotion to the
+child grew daily, till at length he was scarcely happy to have her out
+of his sight; and his love was abundantly returned.</p>
+
+<p>More than a week of fine weather was succeeded by high winds and
+drenching rain, rendering it impossible for Rhona to go out. Two days
+of imprisonment passed cheerily enough, filled up with arrangements of
+shells and seaweeds collected during hours of sunshine.</p>
+
+<p>On the third afternoon, Colonel Smyth left her busied over
+glove-mending,—Bertha as usual sitting with her during his absence.
+He was gone longer than he intended. On his return, the gloves were
+forsaken, and Rhona sat alone in the window, looking out with sorrowful
+intentness at the sea. The voice with which she greeted him told of
+some hidden distress.</p>
+
+<p>He was soon beside her, taking her small hand in his, and asking—"What
+are you so grave about, my little girl?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I'm only—thinking," said Rhona, with one of her deep sighs. "I
+have been talking to Bertha."</p>
+
+<p>"What about, Rhona?"</p>
+
+<p>There was no answer, and Rhona's face went down on his knee.</p>
+
+<p>After a minute, the Colonel repeated his question.</p>
+
+<p>"I've been talking—at least, Bertha has—about—oh, only about herself,"
+said Rhona. "She went away before you came in, for fear you should
+see she had cried. She didn't cry much, but only a little. It made me
+unhappy, because I don't know how to help her. Mother could, but I
+can't. I do wish mother was here."</p>
+
+<p>"Bertha was wrong to trouble you," said the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"O no, no,—" and Rhona looked imploring. "Oh, please don't stop her.
+She has nobody else in the world to speak to: and I like it. I do like
+it, uncle. Please don't stop her."</p>
+
+<p>"Well; I will not," said Colonel Smyth, passing an arm round the child.
+The other arm was still in an invalid condition. "I wish I could cure
+you of suffering so much for other people. It is not necessary, my
+little girl."</p>
+
+<p>"Isn't it? Mother always said it was right to feel. She said that was
+what the Bible meant by weeping with those who weep," said Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, no doubt, but there are different modes of feeling. I don't like
+to see my darling unhappy. Perhaps I could help Bertha. Is it money she
+wants?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, it isn't that at all," said Rhona, with a half-smile. "It isn't
+that sort of thing. She wants—I don't know what. She isn't happy, and
+she can't believe she will ever go to heaven. And I don't know how to
+help her."</p>
+
+<p>"I should think you could help her about as well as anybody," said the
+Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"O no; because I am only a little girl. I want somebody to help me."</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona, you are not going to cry?"</p>
+
+<p>"I'll try not," whispered the child.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't understand what you mean by wanting help. You said something
+of the kind once before. I have read a chapter of the Bible to you
+almost every evening since then,—certainly we have not missed twice.
+But that does not seem to be sufficient. What more do you want?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know," Rhona answered faintly.</p>
+
+<p>And he asked—</p>
+
+<p>"Is that quite true?"</p>
+
+<p>"No,—I didn't mean to say it,—I didn't mean to tell a story," said
+Rhona hurriedly. "I only meant—"</p>
+
+<p>"You do not know how to express yourself? Is that the difficulty? Try!
+It might do you good."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona hid her face more completely, and was silent.</p>
+
+<p>"Is Bertha's state of mind the only trouble? I think if I were you,
+I should advise her to consult somebody,—some clergyman, like your
+friend, Mr. Powis."</p>
+
+<p>Silence still. The Colonel tried to obtain a glimpse of Rhona's face.</p>
+
+<p>"My dear, if you break your heart to this extent for other people's
+worries, how will you ever get through life? Come, Rhona,—Rhona, my
+pet!"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, it isn't only that," Rhona broke out at length. "It isn't only
+Bertha. It's about me too."</p>
+
+<p>"What about you, darling?"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm not right,—I can't keep right. Mother used to talk to me about the
+Lord Jesus, so often. She used to tell me,—used to help me. It seemed
+so different. I can't feel now as I did then. And I know I'm wrong—I
+know I'm wrong—and I don't know what to do. Oh, I don't know what to
+do."</p>
+
+<p>Tears were still restrained, but the fight for composure was doing her
+more harm than tears would have done.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth drew up her face, and kissed the drawn brow tenderly,
+though in another moment, it was again hidden, pressed into his right
+shoulder.</p>
+
+<p>"What is it that you feel to be wrong, my little girl?"</p>
+
+<p>"I can't feel—can't feel—rightly—about—the aunts."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth was very much taken by surprise.</p>
+
+<p>It took him some seconds to get over his astonishment, and to ask—</p>
+
+<p>"What do you mean?"</p>
+
+<p>"I can't feel rightly,—I can't forgive them. I can't feel as I ought. I
+can't forget."</p>
+
+<p>"Can't forget what?" He thought he knew, but his wish was to draw her
+out.</p>
+
+<p>"What they did—to—to mother? If they hadn't—if they hadn't—mother might
+never—never—"</p>
+
+<p>That sentence could not be finished. The child was shaken by a passion
+of weeping, but her physical strength was greater than some weeks
+before, and she had it sooner under command than of old. "Oh, don't
+ask, please don't ask," she gasped, when able to speak. "I didn't mean
+to cry, but I couldn't help it. Don't make me speak of them, please. It
+does make me so miserable. I can't forget,—and I can't—can't forgive
+them. And if I don't—"</p>
+
+<p>"My dear, you have had ample reason for feeling vexed with the Miss
+Mordaunts."</p>
+
+<p>"No, no,—not to feel as I do now. It isn't right. It is very very
+wrong. You don't know—you can't see into my thoughts. And if mother
+were here, she would help me—she would talk about Jesus!"</p>
+
+<p>"Would that help you?"</p>
+
+<p>"O yes!"</p>
+
+<p>He let her cry still for some minutes, soothing her by degrees. When
+she had grown calmer, he said—</p>
+
+<p>"I am going to ask you to do something for me now."</p>
+
+<p>"What?" asked the child.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth's bronzed cheek took a deeper tint than usual.</p>
+
+<p>"Nobody has ever spoken to me about Him for more than fifty years. I
+want you to begin doing so."</p>
+
+<p>She looked up in startled wonderment.</p>
+
+<p>"Nobody for fifty years!"</p>
+
+<p>"No, not since my mother died. I have heard sermons, of course, but
+nobody has spoken to me of Him. Will you try, my little girl,—try to
+talk, just as you would to your mother? I think it might help you,—and
+perhaps—perhaps it might help me too."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona could give no direct answer to the request. She only clasped his
+arm, and half-sobbed—"Oh, you dear dear uncle!"</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_22">CHAPTER XXII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>NUMBER THREE, AND NUMBER THREE.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"NO answer to my letter, Mr. Wynne. A week to-day since it went off,"
+said Barbara Mordaunt. "My sister-in-law's questions are becoming very
+difficult to evade."</p>
+
+<p>"She certainly improves," said Arbuthnot Wynne.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, but how will it be, when she has the shock of learning that the
+child is lost to us again?"</p>
+
+<p>"She must not at present have that shock. You must avoid the word
+'lost' in speaking of Rhona."</p>
+
+<p>"Easier to avoid the word than the sense," said Miss Mordaunt.</p>
+
+<p>"I would keep clear of both. After all, it is merely a question of
+time. Sooner or later, we shall trace them. And there is hope so far,
+in the fact that your letter has not been returned to you."</p>
+
+<p>"Hardly likely to be as yet. It will probably lie waiting at the hotel
+for weeks. It may have been forwarded after Colonel Smyth,—but could
+any man delay answering such an appeal?"</p>
+
+<p>"Unless—" Arbuthnot said dubiously.</p>
+
+<p>"Unless—Yes—"</p>
+
+<p>"One hardly likes to suggest the idea. But Colonel Smyth certainly was
+an enigma to me. I could not at all see through him. The only clue
+which has occurred to my mind, and which I do not wish to entertain,
+is that he really is not anxious to find the mother and to restore the
+child."</p>
+
+<p>"Impossible! Human beings are not such monsters!"</p>
+
+<p>Arbuthnot's lips parted in a smile. "I should not describe Colonel
+Smyth as a monster," he said. "But—"</p>
+
+<p>"It could not be. The thing is out of the question."</p>
+
+<p>"Such things have been, I should be very sorry to accuse the Colonel
+of any such motive, without strong proof. But I confess, he was a
+perplexing subject. His evident shrinking from an encounter with my
+father was and is a mystery to me."</p>
+
+<p>Barbara stood in thoughtful silence for some seconds. "I do not know
+what view to take," she said at length. "Do you think we might venture
+to name Colonel Smyth to Mary?"</p>
+
+<p>"That has occurred to me. I will see how she is to-day."</p>
+
+<p>Nearly a week earlier Arbuthnot Wynne had paid a visit to old Mrs.
+Montague, for the purpose of learning all he could from her and others
+about the child. Inquiries had resulted in the knowledge that Rhona's
+surname was indeed Mordaunt, and that the Colonel was generally
+believed to be no relation, having only adopted the little girl after
+the disappearance of her mother.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Wynne had also succeeded in obtaining Neil Burrell's address, and
+a letter was forthwith despatched to Mrs. Burrell, asking where Bertha
+Stephens could be found, and requesting an answer by return of post.
+The answer came as desired, bringing disappointment with it. Mrs.
+Burrell had had no news of Bertha since leaving London. "Not one word
+of thanks from that ungrateful girl," the writer complained. She could
+not say anything at all about where Bertha might have gone. So this
+clue failed.</p>
+
+<p>Standing by Mary Mordaunt's side, Mr. Wynne noted a marked improvement
+in her condition. She asked questions confusedly still, and memory was
+at fault, but powers of mind and body were returning. "I think we shall
+have her in an arm-chair soon," he said.</p>
+
+<p>Then, when she asked in anxious tones for her child, evidently under a
+vague impression that he had a hand in the management of affairs, he
+said, "Rhona has gone into the country with your friend, Colonel Smyth."</p>
+
+<p>"My friend!" She looked bewildered, and her eyes roved round the room.</p>
+
+<p>"With Colonel Smyth," repeated Mr. Wynne in a distinct voice. "He was
+in Mrs. Burrell's lodgings. Was he not a friend of yours?"</p>
+
+<p>"Colonel Smyth! At Mrs. Burrell's!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—Mrs. Burrell, Number Three, Albert Terrace."</p>
+
+<p>Mary started sharply, and put her hand to her head. "Number
+Three—Number Three—" she muttered hurriedly. "Number
+Three—Winifred—Winifred—"</p>
+
+<p>"Albert Terrace, not Winifred Place," said Mr. Wynne. "Mrs. Burrell was
+your landlady, at Number Three, Albert Terrace. And Colonel Smyth—"</p>
+
+<p>Mary held her forehead still, looking eager and nervous, as
+recollections came upon her. "Mrs. Burrell—oh, yes—Number Three,
+Winifred—"</p>
+
+<p>"No; Albert Terrace," said Mr. Wynne patiently. "There was Hope Burrell
+too, the landlady's daughter, and Bertha—"</p>
+
+<p>"O yes, that nice Bertha!" said Mary. "Yes, I remember. And Rhona,
+Rhona, my little Rhona!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes: and Colonel Smyth," said Mr. Wynne again.</p>
+
+<p>The name seemed at last to arrest her attention. "Colonel Smyth—" she
+said. "Yes,—Colonel Smyth—"</p>
+
+<p>"You knew him very well, I suppose?"</p>
+
+<p>"O no, not at all," she said, with a vague little laugh. "Why, I never
+saw him."</p>
+
+<p>Arbuthnot Wynne naturally regarded this as a slight hallucination.</p>
+
+<p>"No—never," repeated Mary, evidently trying to recall the past, and she
+laughed again. "He was such an odd man. But Rhona liked him—my little
+Rhona. When is Rhona coming to me—please—please?"</p>
+
+<p>"By-and-by," said Mr. Wynne; and no more was said about Colonel Smyth.</p>
+
+<p>Mary recurred, however, many times to his name during the day,
+sometimes with a half-smile, sometimes with the remark, "Such an odd
+man," and sometimes with confused recollections of other events in
+connection with him.</p>
+
+<p>"That has not cleared up matters at all," Arbuthnot said later in the
+day, when relating to his father what had passed.</p>
+
+<p>Dr. Wynne, though better, was still a prisoner, his attack having
+proved a sharp one.</p>
+
+<p>"I shouldn't have expected that it would," Dr. Wynne answered drily.</p>
+
+<p>"It was worth the trial. The most singular thing to my mind, is the
+extraordinary likeness of the two faces—Mrs. Mordaunt's and little
+Rhona's,—not only one to another, but both to a third which I have seen
+somewhere and at some time. I cannot recall time or place."</p>
+
+<p>Dr. Wynne looked surprised, and said, "I should not have expected you
+to remember her."</p>
+
+<p>"Whom?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Pratt."</p>
+
+<p>"I have not the least recollection of the name."</p>
+
+<p>"No,—it is her face that you recollect. She was in and out a few times
+one winter long ago. You were a mere boy at the time, but no doubt you
+may have seen her occasionally. I had known her earlier; and when she
+happened to be in London with her husband, she consulted me upon her
+health."</p>
+
+<p>"Then the likeness—Was she any connection of Mrs. Mordaunt?"</p>
+
+<p>"Rather near! Mrs. Pratt was Mrs. Mordaunt's mother."</p>
+
+<p>Arbuthnot's "Ha!" was expressive.</p>
+
+<p>"That is not all the story. As a girl, she was intimate in the Mordaunt
+household. There was at one time an affair between her and the eldest
+son, Henry Mordaunt."</p>
+
+<p>"She must have been a pretty creature."</p>
+
+<p>"One of the loveliest women I have known, and one of the most
+disappointing. She was engaged to Henry Mordaunt for two years, and
+then threw him overboard for the sake of Lieutenant Pratt. When Arthur
+Mordaunt engaged himself to Mary Pratt, the Miss Mordaunts were greatly
+displeased. They have never admitted that the fact of the young
+lady being the daughter of Mrs. Pratt had any connection with their
+displeasure, but no doubt it was so."</p>
+
+<p>"And the name of Mrs. Pratt before her marriage was—?"</p>
+
+<p>"Margaret Willis."</p>
+
+<p>Arbuthnot mused a little.</p>
+
+<p>"Henry Mordaunt—" he said, at length. "I am half ashamed to ask,—but is
+he living still?"</p>
+
+<p>"Others are putting that question beside yourself. Miss Mordaunt has
+not heard from him for many months, and her last letter was returned
+from India by a stranger. He was a singular character,—naturally blunt
+and reserved, and made worse by being misunderstood at home. I always
+believed that there was more good in Henry Mordaunt than appeared on
+the surface,—more warmth of heart than was supposed. But he never was
+a favourite with his sisters; and Miss Willis' conduct certainly had a
+souring effect upon him. It must be nearly twenty years since he last
+came to England."</p>
+
+<p>"Then I may safely say, I do not know him. Hardly likely that he
+should have come into our nursery to make my acquaintance," observed
+Arbuthnot. "I have learnt more about the Mordaunt family in the last
+fortnight than during all those twenty years. Somehow they never
+interested me particularly."</p>
+
+<p>"And they do now?"</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona does," said Arbuthnot.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_23">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>WYVERN HOUSE.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>ONE hot June day, two flys might have been seen proceeding through
+lanes and high roads, in a pretty midland district. Fields and meadows,
+trees and hedges, formed the chief features of the landscape, with
+finishing touches of cows and sheep. Occasional ponds made a variety,
+and occasional hills broke the level line of the horizon.</p>
+
+<p>The second fly was closed and heavily loaded with luggage. One young
+woman, respectably dressed, sat inside. The foremost vehicle, which was
+open, held two individuals—a grey-haired gentleman of soldierly aspect,
+and a fair child in deep mourning. The large soft eyes of the little
+girl were roving eagerly to and fro, while the gentleman seemed well
+content to watch her face.</p>
+
+<p>"How pretty!" she said repeatedly. "O uncle, how pretty! Mother used
+to talk so about the fields. I do love them. And shall we live in the
+country always—quite always?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know about living there always," Colonel Smyth answered. "If
+we like the old house, we may find it pleasant for part of the summer.
+London is best for winter."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't like London ever the best," Rhona said decisively. "I think
+country is much much the nicest. Oh, look—look, uncle, at those sweet
+little lambs. I wish I could play with them. And those big birds."</p>
+
+<p>"They are rooks. That is a rookery," said Colonel Smyth.</p>
+
+<p>"Is it? I thought they were crows. Mother said once that she liked
+rooks so. But the dear little lambs are the prettiest. See, there are
+more of them! O uncle!"</p>
+
+<p>Words seemed to fail Rhona. She laid her hand on his knee, and drew a
+deep breath of satisfaction.</p>
+
+<p>"We must be getting near the house now," said Colonel Smyth, delighted
+with her delight. "I wonder how you will like it, my little girl."</p>
+
+<p>"I am sure I shall like it, if there is a garden," said Rhona. "I can
+see some chimneys, uncle, and ever so many trees all round. Do you
+think that is the house, perhaps?"</p>
+
+<p>"May be so, my dear. I am as much a stranger to the place as you are
+yourself."</p>
+
+<p>"It does seem so very funny that you should never have seen your own
+house."</p>
+
+<p>"Not so funny, when you remember that it has not long been mine. The
+old lady who left it me in her will was living here less than two years
+ago."</p>
+
+<p>"And was her name Mrs. Smyth?" asked Rhona, in a meditative manner.</p>
+
+<p>"Her name was Mrs. Smyth."</p>
+
+<p>"And was she your grandmother?"</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel laughed heartily. "No, not my grandmother."</p>
+
+<p>"Or your aunt?"</p>
+
+<p>"No," said the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"She couldn't have been your mother, because of course you wouldn't
+have left her to stay all that great while in India."</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps not," the Colonel said, more gravely. "No, she was no relative
+of mine at all, but she left me her house for the sake of her only son,
+who was a great friend of mine in India."</p>
+
+<p>"I should have thought she would have left it to him!"</p>
+
+<p>"So she would have done, no doubt; but Captain Smyth died some years
+ago, and she had nobody else belonging to her."</p>
+
+<p>"I think it is very funny that you have the same name as Mrs. Smyth,
+and yet you aren't any relation," Rhona said deliberately, as if
+weighing the matter.</p>
+
+<p>"People change their names sometimes," said Colonel Smyth, watching the
+effect of the words. "Mrs. Smyth made a stipulation in her will that
+her heir should take her name."</p>
+
+<p>The full sense of his utterance seemed to dawn upon Rhona slowly. She
+was looking about still, but after nearly a minute of silent enjoyment,
+her eyes went to his face in perplexity.</p>
+
+<p>"But, uncle,—have you got 'two' names?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," Colonel Smyth answered. "The old and the new. Some day I will
+tell you what the old name is, but not to-day,—not yet. See, Rhona,
+this really is the house; we are turning in at the gate."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, what a beauty of a house!" Rhona exclaimed, delicately ceasing at
+once to ask questions. "Oh, isn't it sweet! Such lovely creepers all
+over it. And the roses!—Oh, the roses."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth lifted rather than helped her out at the front door,
+and led her through a quaint lattice porch into a still more quaint
+sitting-room, furnished in the style of a century earlier. But things,
+if old, were well preserved.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona gazed round her wonderingly, and took refuge in the deep
+window, where roses clustered outside. She stood there in a trance of
+happiness, which yet was clouded by one shadow. What would not this
+have been to her mother? A sigh broke from Rhona, and for a moment her
+eyes were dim with tears.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth and Bertha were busy with the luggage, but presently a
+step made her turn, and she found a middle-aged person behind, dressed
+in black, with cap and spectacles, most respectable in appearance.</p>
+
+<p>"Pretty little dear!" the new-comer murmured. "And a orphan too."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona said, "How do you do?" politely, and put out her little hand.</p>
+
+<p>It was immediately taken possession of.</p>
+
+<p>"Pretty dear! And such sweet manners too!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, yes, the Colonel says to me, 'She's a lady, Mrs. Burrows,' and
+so for sure she is. I'm Mrs. Burrows, my dear, and been Mrs. Smyth's
+housekeeper for over thirty years, and the Colonel's now to continue.
+And before that in her service nigh upon fifteen years. Yes, it's
+forty-five years I've lived in this house, and never had but one
+mistress. A good mistress she was too,—ah, dear me!—but that's over
+and gone. My new mistress don't seem like to be a hard one!" And she
+laughed.</p>
+
+<p>"Are you going to have a new mistress now?" asked Rhona gently.</p>
+
+<p>"That's about it, Missy. The Colonel says to me, says he, 'I'm
+bringing you a new mistress, Mrs. Burrows, and you'll find her in the
+drawing-room.'</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me, it did put my heart all of a flutter, and me looking for a
+bachelor household. And I never to be at the door in time to welcome
+you,—all the fault of that Tom, calling me into the yard just when the
+carriages was coming round the corner. But I'll be even with him yet.
+So I came off here, all of a flutter as I say, to see my new mistress."</p>
+
+<p>"Uncle didn't mean me," said Rhona, distressed. "I am not anybody's
+mistress. I am only a little girl."</p>
+
+<p>"And the Colonel's adopted daughter, ain't you, Missy?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. Yes, I suppose so. I am his little girl, and he is my
+uncle," said Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Burrows nodded. "That's just it, my dear, just it exactly. You'll
+please forgive me for calling of you 'my dear,'—I'm that taken aback by
+finding you no bigger, after what Colonel Mord—goodness me, what am I
+after saying next? And I've got that London maid to see to, so you'll
+excuse me being all of a flurry, my dear. It's the first time we ever
+had a maid in the house out of that wicked London, and I'm all of a
+tremble to think of the ways we'll learn from her."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I don't think you need be afraid, because Bertha is so very good,"
+said Rhona earnestly.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I hope it may be so, my dear, but London's a place knowledgeable
+for wickedness, and we ain't used to such ways here. But I've got to
+see after her, howsomever. I shouldn't wonder if you'd like a cup of
+tea, Miss."</p>
+
+<p>"I should—so much," Rhona said gratefully.</p>
+
+<p>And Mrs. Burrows bustled out as the Colonel came in.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, my pet, have you been making acquaintance with the old
+housekeeper?" he asked, kissing her. "A worthy soul, and of course I
+must keep her on, though really she has so long been head-woman here,
+and her husband head-man, that I only wonder they admit me at all."</p>
+
+<p>"I like Mrs. Burrows," said Rhona, looking up in his face. "Uncle, she
+called you 'Colonel Maud' just now, and I don't think she meant to do
+it. I couldn't help hearing it—it came out so quick."</p>
+
+<p>"You shall call me Colonel Maud too, if you like," said the Colonel,
+with a comical expression.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't want to, uncle. I only thought I ought to tell," Rhona said,
+flushing.</p>
+
+<p>"You are a little soul of honour," said the Colonel, kissing her.
+"Never mind what Mrs. Burrows says. How do you like the new home?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, very very much," Rhona answered.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>As weeks passed, this first impression was strengthened. The house
+proved to be not only pretty, but comfortable. Colonel Smyth was not,
+generally speaking, a lover of rural scenes. "Real country meant real
+dulness," he had been often heard to assert. But for Rhona's sake, his
+inclinations seemed to undergo a change; and the time spent at Wyvern
+House was to him a time of no little enjoyment. Shady lanes and green
+fields, flowers and ferns, rambling and gardening, became matters of
+new interest, in connection with the delight they afforded to Rhona.
+She seemed at length to shake off the long oppression caused by her
+mother's disappearance, and to become a happy child again, brighter in
+spirits and healthier in face than ever yet since her father's death.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth was perfectly happy in her happiness. He never wearied
+of attending to his darling's wants, walking with her, gardening with
+her, reading with her, doing his utmost, indeed, to spoil her, had
+Rhona been an easily spoilable child. Many would in her place have
+suffered from his unlimited devotion and indulgence, but her intense
+conscientiousness and strong sense of duty were great safeguards.</p>
+
+<p>The evening Bible-reading was now an established custom, and it was to
+Colonel Smyth an increasing pleasure. Memories of early days were often
+stirred, not to be again laid to rest. The plain reading of a chapter
+was gradually growing into a systematic half-hour's study, with much
+looking out of references. Rhona could never talk to him so freely as
+to her mother and Bertha; yet her simple faith and vivid realisation
+of unseen things were sufficiently apparent, to shake the Colonel out
+of his long-settled religious torpidity, and to set him thinking. The
+thinking led in time to prayer, and prayer led in time to a new life.
+With him, as with many, the spiritual dawn broke slowly, but already a
+change could be seen.</p>
+
+<p>Since coming to Wyvern House, no further conversation had taken place
+about "the aunts," or about Rhona's feeling respecting them. From
+certain slight indications, the Colonel was convinced that she had not
+forgotten the subject. It seemed, however, to have fallen so far into
+the background amid her new interests, that he hoped it might in time
+die out of existence.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>It was the Colonel's pleasure to escort Rhona on Sundays to a Church at
+some little distance, partly for the sake of the walk, partly because
+he desired at present to avoid meeting acquaintances in the village.
+One Sunday, however, many weeks after their arrival at Wyvern House,
+the fair weather, which had so far served them well, gave place to
+drizzling rain. He yielded reluctantly to Rhona's entreaties, and
+consented to take her for once to the Parish Church. His dislike arose
+in some measure from fear of a chill for Rhona, but still more from an
+objection to being the centre of interest to the village congregation.
+The ordeal had, however, to be borne one day; and the Colonel at length
+resolved to face it like a man.</p>
+
+<p>During the Prayers, he was uncomfortably conscious of many gazing eyes.
+But when the clergyman had mounted the pulpit, his thoughts all went
+from himself to Rhona. For the text given out was—</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father
+forgive your trespasses."<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth soon regretted greatly that he had not kept Rhona at
+home that day. She listened to the sermon quietly, but with a look of
+earnest thought which gradually grew into an expression of intense
+sorrow, and tears were soon running down her cheeks. Once or twice, the
+little hand was lifted to wipe them away; otherwise, she remained very
+still. The Colonel could do nothing then, and as they went home, no
+word was spoken.</p>
+
+<p>When the house was reached, she ran away to her own room. At dinner,
+she was evidently struggling to be calm, and to respond to his cheerful
+conversation, but she could eat little, and tears soon broke out anew.</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel would not leave her. He made the child lie on a sofa,
+petted her, and finally read her to sleep.</p>
+
+<p>She woke up better, but still troubled and sad.</p>
+
+<p>Tea passed quietly, and then Colonel Smyth lifted her on his knee,
+folding his arms round her.</p>
+
+<p>"I wish I had not taken you out this morning, my little girl," he said.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_24">CHAPTER XXIV.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>RHONA'S REAL UNCLE.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"I'M glad I went," Rhona answered in a low voice. "Please, may I go
+this evening too?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, my pet. I couldn't think of such a thing,—such weather!"</p>
+
+<p>"But the clergyman didn't finish all he had to say this morning,—and it
+was so—so interesting—"</p>
+
+<p>Rhona's voice faltered.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth would have described the morning's sermon as being the
+very essence of dulness. He did not yet understand how even the dullest
+sermon may bear its message from above, to one heart among many wearied
+listeners. After a puzzled pause, he said only—"You liked it!"</p>
+
+<p>"O yes,—so much—so very much," Rhona answered, unconscious of the note
+of admiration.</p>
+
+<p>"But you mustn't talk about it, if talking makes you cry," said the
+Colonel, noting suspicious signs.</p>
+
+<p>Rhona was so long silent that he supposed her to be falling asleep
+again, when a remark came in a wide-awake tone:</p>
+
+<p>"I do wonder if aunt Barbara thinks I am angry with her still."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel's first impulse was to laugh, but Rhona's voice sounded
+intensely serious, and he feared to hurt her feelings by any sign of
+lightness. So he only stroked her head, and said with due gravity, "I
+should not think she would suspect you of it, my dear."</p>
+
+<p>"Of course she doesn't know about—about—mother," said the child, with
+an effort. "And most likely she only thinks mother is keeping me away
+still, for fear she should want to have me to live with her. If she did
+know about mother, she would want me now, I dare say."</p>
+
+<p>"And you would naturally go there, if you were not my little girl."</p>
+
+<p>"I like being your little girl, after mother's," said Rhona softly. "I
+shouldn't like to go away to aunt Barbara. I don't think I could bear
+it. I do love you so."</p>
+
+<p>"You don't think she and I are at all alike?" asked the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"Not a bit. O no, not the very least! I love you so," repeated Rhona.
+"And I didn't love aunt Barbara, at least, not properly. I do wonder
+why she wasn't kinder to mother. But mother thought she knew."</p>
+
+<p>"What did she suppose was the reason?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think I remember—exactly," said the child. "Mother said there
+were more reasons than one. But she knew they hadn't been pleased with
+her mother once for something,—mother didn't say what it was. That was
+my grandmother, you know. Mother said aunt Barbara and all of them had
+once been vexed with her. But I don't see that that was any reason.
+Mother couldn't help what my grandmother had done, and people oughtn't
+to keep on being vexed such a time."</p>
+
+<p>"Quite true, my little girl," assented the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>Then after a short silence Rhona broke out unexpectedly—</p>
+
+<p>"I did like that sermon this morning."</p>
+
+<p>"Did you? I don't think I did. It made me sleepy."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona's wondering gaze was too much for him, and he could not help
+laughing.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't think me very naughty, Rhona. It was all quite true, no doubt,
+but—"</p>
+
+<p>"I liked it," said Rhona again, in a serious tone. "It showed me how
+wrong I had been. And mother said we ought to be very glad of anything
+that showed us what we really are."</p>
+
+<p>"'Wad some fay the giftie gie us!'" muttered the Colonel rather
+perversely. Then he kissed Rhona's brow. "Well, my darling, it can't be
+anything very bad that you really are."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, but it is. You don't know," said Rhona sadly. "I wasn't sure till
+to-day."</p>
+
+<p>"Sure of what?"</p>
+
+<p>"About the aunts. I haven't ever really really in my very heart
+forgiven them. I haven't liked to think about aunt Barbara. I did mean
+to forgive, but it wasn't true forgiveness. I didn't want ever to see
+her and aunt Clara again; and I couldn't pray for them."</p>
+
+<p>"All that seems to me perfectly natural, under the circumstances,"
+said Colonel Smyth. "In fact, it is only right that you should feel a
+certain measure of just indignation."</p>
+
+<p>"O no, because it isn't that, it is wicked indignation," said Rhona,
+her chest heaving. "I ought to be able not to be angry when I think of
+aunt Barbara's face. Didn't you hear this morning, how he said—said—it
+would—would grieve the Lord Jesus—"</p>
+
+<p>One sob could not be suppressed. "I don't mean to cry,—I'll try not,"
+Rhona said, with long breaths. "But oh, I do want to do right,—I do
+want to do right. And I know I have grieved Him. It hasn't been real
+forgiveness."</p>
+
+<p>"How are you going to make it real?" asked the Colonel curiously.</p>
+
+<p>"I think I shall write to aunt Barbara, and tell her I am sorry for the
+naughty feelings."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel was startled. "But aunt Barbara does not know you have had
+those naughty feelings. Would it not vex her to hear of them?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. I don't want to vex her," said Rhona. "But mother said
+we ought to confess to people, if we had done them any wrong."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, yes,—if one has done wrong. I am not so sure about wrong
+thoughts."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona seemed perplexed. "I don't know exactly how else to manage," she
+said. "I do want not to have the bad feelings again. And I thought,
+perhaps,—perhaps—if I wrote to aunt Barbara—"</p>
+
+<p>"I see no harm in your writing to her," said the Colonel, after some
+cogitation. "On the whole it is a good plan. No need to say much about
+your own feelings, my dear,—at least that is my opinion. Just a kind
+little letter, saying that you think she would wish to hear from you,
+and that she ought to know about your dear mother,—stay, I have a
+better plan to propose. Suppose we run up to London for a week, and
+call on the aunts. You can say what you like then,—much quicker work
+than writing. And we can see your friend, Mr. Wynne."</p>
+
+<p>"I should like that," said Rhona. "And you will come with me to aunt
+Barbara."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, certainly. I shall not let you go out of my sight. Why, she might
+eat you up! Don't write beforehand. We'll go straight in, and take them
+by surprise."</p>
+
+<p>"Uncle—" Rhona said tremulously—"uncle,—do you think?—Don't you
+think?—Won't they want to take me from you?"</p>
+
+<p>"They shall not do it, my pet, whatever they may wish."</p>
+
+<p>"But they are my real aunts, and you are not my real uncle. And
+perhaps—"</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth had it on the tip of his tongue to say,—"But I am your
+real uncle, Rhona." He could have uttered the words with truth. Yet he
+hesitated.</p>
+
+<p>He had gone on step by step for so long that his reserved nature now
+shrank with strong dislike from the necessary explanations. Like many
+another moral coward, he was disposed to put off the unpleasant moment
+as long as possible. That the fact itself would give joy to Rhona, he
+could not doubt. But he was a little afraid that to her transparent
+nature, the prolonged concealment might appear blameworthy.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona, will you trust me?" he asked, kissing her. "I promise
+faithfully that you shall not leave me against your will."</p>
+
+<p>"I know you'll try your very best," the child said sorrowfully. "But
+you haven't seen aunt Barbara. She is my father's very own aunt, you
+know, and she is sure to say she must have me."</p>
+
+<p>Reluctance of every kind gave way before those troubled eyes. "My pet,
+you are worrying yourself needlessly," Colonel Smyth said. "Shall I
+tell you a secret, Rhona? I meant you to know it soon. Aunt Barbara is
+your own aunt, it is true, but—but—ahem—but the fact is, my darling, I
+am just as much your own uncle. And since your dear mother's death, no
+one has a better right over you than I have. It is true. I am your aunt
+Barbara's own brother, Henry."</p>
+
+<p>Rhona looked bewildered and white. "And not Colonel Smyth!" she said.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I am Colonel Smyth,—more strictly, Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth. It
+is not long since I took the name of Smyth, in addition to my own,
+consequent upon this property being left to me. Do you understand,
+darling? I am your own uncle, Henry Mordaunt-Smyth. So aunt Barbara
+cannot possibly steal you from me."</p>
+
+<p>He heard a low murmur of, "I am so glad!" and read a certain peaceful
+satisfaction in the way she laid her head upon his shoulder. He let her
+remain quiet, and she was the first to break silence.</p>
+
+<p>"Doesn't aunt Barbara know you are here, uncle?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, no—" said Colonel Smyth. "Not exactly. I am afraid I have
+treated the aunts rather badly. But the truth is I am not much of a
+letter-writer. It is a great many months since they heard from me."</p>
+
+<p>"And they don't know that I am your little girl?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not a word of it. They don't even know, so far as I am aware, that I
+have taken the name of Smyth, or that I am in England."</p>
+
+<p>"I should think they must want a letter very much."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel's conscience smote him. "Perhaps they do," he said. "It has
+been hardly fair, after all. We'll go and see them."</p>
+
+<p>Another pause, and Rhona spoke again. "If only you had found out
+sooner," she said sadly, "mother needn't—mother wouldn't—perhaps—"</p>
+
+<p>Cowardice prompted the Colonel to make no answer, but he resisted the
+temptation. "I did know, my little girl," he said regretfully. "You
+cannot be more angry with me than I am with myself, for not speaking
+sooner. I can't explain to you all my reasons,—you would not understand
+them."</p>
+
+<p>"But you don't mean—you don't mean—" said Rhona, lifting her face.
+"Uncle dear, when we were at Mrs. Burrell's, and when you wouldn't ever
+meet mother on the stairs, you didn't know then!!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I did know then," said the Colonel courageously, glad at last to
+speak out. "I knew you were related to me even then—from the very first
+day I went to the house. That was partly what decided me to take the
+rooms. But I had a fancy not to be known for a time by old friends and
+connections—so I just dropped the name Mordaunt, and called myself only
+Colonel Smyth. It was foolish, no doubt. And I had a fancy to find out
+all I could about you and your mother, before taking any steps—before
+helping her, I mean. I had loved your father when he was a boy, but I
+wanted to know what she was—whether she was like somebody else whom I
+had once known. I cannot explain all! Only I meant no unkindness to
+either of you. I should like you to be able to believe that.</p>
+
+<p>"I really did intend to do something very soon for your mother, and
+not to let her go on teaching always,—but—well, I could not make up my
+mind exactly what to do, and there were old associations which made me
+inclined to put off the first meeting—and—The fact is, your old uncle
+acted very foolishly, my darling, and he is very sorry for it. Can you
+ever forgive me, Rhona?"</p>
+
+<p>"O uncle! I do love you so! I know you didn't mean it," Rhona broke out
+passionately. "But oh I—if only you had spoken sooner,—if only you had
+spoken just a little sooner!"</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_25">CHAPTER XXV.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>TOGETHER AGAIN.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"HOW strangely one may be mistaken in other people! I never knew you
+till now, aunt Barbara. So very very good you have been to me! I can
+never repay you."</p>
+
+<p>"It is easy to be good to people, if one loves them," Barbara answered.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know about being easy,—and I do not know why you should love
+me. I have been nothing but a trouble."</p>
+
+<p>"I have not felt you a trouble."</p>
+
+<p>"No, because you are so good—so self-forgetting. You must let me
+thank you this once, dear aunt. I sometimes feel as if the weight of
+obligation were more than I could bear."</p>
+
+<p>Mary Mordaunt looked wan and shadowy still. She was exceedingly fragile
+after her illness, and would remain so, the doctor said, for a long
+while. Callers were still almost entirely forbidden, for the slightest
+excitement brought on confusion and forgetfulness; and she had not yet
+been downstairs.</p>
+
+<p>Many weeks had now gone by since Mary first learnt that her little
+Rhona was still living. Before that, through some inadvertent remark
+uttered within her hearing, she had fully believed the child to be
+dead. Gradually, and not sooner than was found needful, it had been
+broken to her that Rhona's present whereabouts was unknown. Mary bore
+the shock better than was expected, though it threw back her recovery
+for at least a fortnight. She seemed to have learnt in this illness a
+new calm, to have gained a new power of waiting. Possibly some part
+of the calm was due to her uncertain memory, and her want of power to
+realise things.</p>
+
+<p>Advertising had not yet been tried. Arbuthnot Wynne's conjecture, as
+to the motives which swayed poor Colonel Smyth, had been so strongly
+adopted by the three aunts, that they were quite convinced of its
+uselessness. To advertise would simply be, they said, to drive the
+Colonel deeper into retirement. Mr. Wynne recommended the attempt being
+made, but the ladies deferred following his advice. Private inquiries
+were instituted in divers directions, thus far with no results. Barbara
+would have given much to find the child, and so to still the wistful
+longing in Mary's eyes. But "that wicked man," as Clara commonly
+designated the unfortunate Colonel, had taken his measures effectually,
+and Rhona's retreat remained undiscovered.</p>
+
+<p>"You must not think of it as an obligation at all," Barbara kindly
+answered. "Do not distress yourself, Mary, about gratitude. I am quite
+content to have shown you that at least my intentions from the first
+were not cruel."</p>
+
+<p>"Cruel! O no. If only I had not been so foolish and impulsive!"</p>
+
+<p>"It is easy to look back afterwards, and see that we did not, either of
+us, act too wisely. But that is over now."</p>
+
+<p>"I hope somehow—some day—to be able to repay," whispered Mary. "When I
+am strong, and can work again."</p>
+
+<p>"That will not be yet. You have to submit to be taken care of at
+present. And if it is God's will for you, I am sure you will not
+murmur."</p>
+
+<p>She found this simple suggestion always efficacious.</p>
+
+<p>Mary smiled faintly. "No," she said. "Oh, how my Rhona loves His will."</p>
+
+<p>"And you too, Mary?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I think so." A strained look came into her eyes, as she
+repeated—"Yes, I think so. Before my illness, there was such a
+blackness of darkness everywhere? It comes back in memory sometimes,
+and makes me shudder. I hope never to go through the same again. But
+things seem different now—the darkness is gone. I don't think I wish to
+have what God does not choose for me. Perhaps it is partly because I
+have no strength—no power to feel anything keenly."</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>Two days later, Mary was permitted to make her first excursion
+downstairs. Barbara presided at afternoon tea, Mary lying upon a sofa,
+white, frail, and placidly smiling. Sue hung about the couch in a state
+of dumb devotion; and even Clara, who had thus far held out in some
+measure against the invalid, at length succumbed, showing a kindness
+equal to Barbara's.</p>
+
+<p>Tea was almost finished, when Mary said wistfully—"I suppose nobody has
+heard anything more of Mrs. Burrell lately?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, yes," Barbara answered. "I did not care to trouble you by
+bringing up the subject, as there was nothing good to report. But Mr.
+Wynne told me that she had at last set up a new shop near her old
+quarters,—the next street, is it not, Sue? Mrs. Burrell has heard
+nothing of her niece, and cannot tell what has become of her."</p>
+
+<p>"It seems strange," Mary said.</p>
+
+<p>"More than strange. A most ungrateful girl," observed Barbara. "It is
+her simple duty to write, after all that Mrs. Burrell has done for her."</p>
+
+<p>"I shouldn't wonder if her silence is all the fault of that wicked
+Colonel," said Clara. "I told Mrs. Burrell that he was probably the one
+who ought to be blamed. She said she shouldn't wonder, for she always
+had had her doubts about him."</p>
+
+<p>"But Bertha Stephens is not a child, to be entirely under his control,"
+said Barbara. "However, we shall know more some day soon." And she
+spoke cheerfully for Mary's sake. "If other means fail, I really think
+we had better in a few days try advertising. Does Mrs. Burrell seem
+doing well in her new shop, Clara?"</p>
+
+<p>"Things looked prosperous, but she spoke dolefully. I should take her
+for an arrant grumbler," said Clara. "A very unpleasant old woman, in
+my opinion. The daughter is a pretty girl. She is going to be married
+soon to the young schoolmaster who took in Mrs. Burrell after the
+fire,—her nephew, isn't he? It seems a happy arrangement. I suppose the
+engagement is a satisfaction to Mrs. Burrell, but she looked uncommonly
+grim over even that."</p>
+
+<p>"If you please, ma'am, a gentleman wants to speak to you."</p>
+
+<p>The door had been opened noisily, and these words came with abruptness.
+The parlour-maid being out that afternoon, her place was temporarily
+filled by the housemaid, a new importation from the country.</p>
+
+<p>"Really that girl is too much for civilised nerves," muttered Clara.
+"Shut the door, Maria."</p>
+
+<p>"A gentleman!" repeated Barbara. "What is his name?"</p>
+
+<p>"He didn't give no name, ma'am." Maria stood with her fingers on the
+door-handle, unheeding Clara's order.</p>
+
+<p>"Then ask him."</p>
+
+<p>"I did ask him, and he said it was of no consequence, ma'am, and could
+he come in?"</p>
+
+<p>"You had better say I am engaged, and he can call again. Or
+stay,—perhaps it will save trouble in the end if I see him now. Show
+the gentleman into the dining-room."</p>
+
+<p>Maria retreated awkwardly with that intent, and nearly backed into the
+arms of somebody close behind.</p>
+
+<p>"Hallo, look out!" a gruff voice said; and then,—"I suppose we can come
+in. Stand back."</p>
+
+<p>"Please, sir, if you please, sir,—this way, sir," protested Maria.</p>
+
+<p>But her efforts being vain, she resigned herself to the inevitable, and
+looked on, open-mouthed.</p>
+
+<p>Those within the drawing-room saw a grey-haired and upright gentleman
+enter, leading by the hand a child in deep mourning.</p>
+
+<p>Barbara's first impulse was to rise and say severely,—"There is some
+mistake. I desired that you might be shown—"</p>
+
+<p>"How do you do, Barbara?" said the new-comer, flushing slightly under
+his bronzed skin.</p>
+
+<p>"Henry!"</p>
+
+<p>Barbara was not easily overcome, but she actually turned pale, and sat
+down, motes dancing before her eyes, and bees buzzing in her ears.
+The child was unnoticed by her in that moment's agitation. She had no
+thought except for this brother, so long absent, so suddenly restored.</p>
+
+<p>"Sue,—Clara,—it is Henry,—our Henry!" she muttered.</p>
+
+<p>Hers was not however the only recognition.</p>
+
+<p>"Barbara!—It is Rhona!" Clara exclaimed in amazement.</p>
+
+<p>At the same moment, the child's glance fell upon the sofa near the
+fire, partly sheltered from observation by a large screen.</p>
+
+<p>Mary already knew all, and was receiving her joy calmly. A bright flush
+rose in either cheek, and she clasped her hands, neither starting nor
+exclaiming, but lying quietly, with riveted gaze. For two or three
+seconds, Rhona had been unconscious of her presence.</p>
+
+<p>"MOTHER!"</p>
+
+<p>Mary's colourless face had flushed, but Rhona's bloom gave place to
+deadly pallor. For Mary had known the child to be living, while Rhona
+had believed the mother to be dead. No other sound came from either.
+Rhona was by her mother's side with a spring, lying over her, clasped
+and clasped, in a very agony of joy, too intense for any other manner
+of expression.</p>
+
+<p>The silence was absolute. Mother and daughter remained locked together
+in that wordless grasp, as if they might never part again, and the face
+of neither could be seen. Sue was quietly dropping tears behind the
+screen. Clara seemed lost in astonishment. Barbara still looked pale
+and overcome. Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth had no eyes except for Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"This will not do," Barbara said, and she glanced from one to another
+with a husky laugh. "We all seem petrified. Henry!"</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel turned to her, as with a new idea, and stooped to bestow a
+kiss. "I declare I'm forgetting," he said apologetically. "We have not
+met for so long. It is rather a shame to take you by surprise, in this
+fashion."</p>
+
+<p>He paid the same brotherly attention to Sue and Clara, then turned anew
+to the sofa.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona,—my little girl," he said.</p>
+
+<p>A moment's silence, and he repeated, "Rhona!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, make her stand up, Henry. Mary will be worse," Barbara said,
+in sudden alarm. "But how Rhona happens to be with you—! It is all a
+mystery."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel left explanations till later. "Rhona, my pet!" he said
+again, and he touched her arm.</p>
+
+<p>She raised herself slowly, pale as ashes, and lifted her eyes to his
+with a dazed dreamy look. Then there was a flush, and a low cry, as
+Rhona flung herself upon him. "O uncle, uncle,—O uncle, it is mother,
+it is my own own sweet sweet mother!" she sobbed wildly. "I don't know
+what to do,—I don't know how to bear it,—I am so glad!"</p>
+
+<p>The three sisters were in tears, and not they only, for the Colonel
+himself was actually sobbing. Of all who were present, Mary alone kept
+calm. She lay placidly, with folded hands, and a smile of indescribable
+content.</p>
+
+<p>"It is more than I dared hope," she whispered, so low that Sue alone
+overheard. "To see her so well cared for—so bright and strong—the
+little darling! My God, how I thank Thee! Thou hast been better to me
+than all my fears."</p>
+
+<p>"Rhona, don't—don't now—hush, my pet," the Colonel was saying huskily.
+"You must not make yourself ill."</p>
+
+<p>But this was no manner of weeping to make any one ill. Rhona was soon
+able to go back to the couch, with a face of eager joy, clasping one of
+the Colonel's hands, and clinging afresh to her newly-found mother.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think we shall ever be able to be glad enough," she whispered,
+"It is all so beautiful!! And to think of finding you here—with aunt
+Barbara! And oh, mother darling, I do want you to love my dear dear
+uncle. He is so good, and he saved me out of the fire, and he has given
+me such lots of things. I do love him!"</p>
+
+<p>"Is it Colonel Smyth?" asked Mary, turning to him with a grateful
+smile. She had heard and seen nothing as yet, beyond Rhona.</p>
+
+<p>"It is Henry Mordaunt—aunt Barbara's brother—your husband's uncle," the
+Colonel said, bending over her. "You shall hear all soon, Mary. Your
+little Rhona has been a dear child to me this summer."</p>
+
+<p>"It is all so strange,—so bewildering,—I cannot quite understand," Mary
+said patiently. "But I have my darling,—my darling,—thank God for that."</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_26">CHAPTER XXVI.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>GATHERING UP THE THREADS.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"I SUPPOSE I must not venture to say what I feel," Miss Mordaunt
+remarked, as a preliminary to the giving forth of her opinion. "But
+I certainly do think it has been a most extraordinary proceeding. To
+spend months in London,—not only in England, but actually in London
+itself, not half-an-hour's drive distant from us,—and never to let your
+own sisters know that you were on this side of the globe! It is most
+extraordinary! Not only that, but to have property left you, to take
+a new name, to retire from the army, to change your whole manner of
+life,—and still to leave us in ignorance! I do think we have reason to
+be pained, and I confess I am pained, more than you can imagine. Our
+dear William would never have treated us so. I should not have expected
+any great show of confidence from you, but this is going far indeed.
+I do think you have not acted rightly towards us, not even with due
+respect,—I am not speaking of affection."</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth paced to and fro impatiently during his sister's
+harangue. It was not the first he had had to endure, and he was
+beginning to feel irritated. Rhona had been all the evening absent from
+him, in her mother's room. He had of course yielded to the general
+wish that Rhona should at once take up her abode in the house, though
+himself bent upon sleeping at the hotel, despite all opposition. But
+after weeks of close companionship, he felt at a loss without the
+child's loving little face and voice; and his three sisters could by no
+means supply her place.</p>
+
+<p>There had always been friction between him and them in past days; and
+the friction began again so soon as they came together. Pleased though
+Barbara really was to have him back, she reverted at once to her old
+custom of complaining about this and wondering about that, while Clara
+trod in her footsteps. It was just what he had expected, and just what
+he had all along sought to avoid. He began to wonder that even Rhona
+had succeeded in drawing him out of his comfortable retirement.</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose you may venture to say what you like," he responded tartly
+to Barbara.</p>
+
+<p>"But, Henry,—if you only will consider! Of course you do not like us to
+be vexed, and you expect to be received just as if you had treated us
+with brotherly confidence. But if you only would consider! Think how
+it will look in the eyes of our friends! Think of Dr. Wynne! I assure
+you I feel bewildered. All these months within almost a walk of one
+another, and not a single word from you to enlighten us! What could
+have been your motive? Were you offended with us? Did anything in our
+last letters displease you?"</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth hesitated, frowned, and finally laughed.</p>
+
+<p>"It's of no earthly use being put out," he said. "I always was an odd
+fellow and did things my own way. You must put up with me as I am, and
+not count me worse than the reality. The thing is done now, and can't
+be helped. I promise not to treat you so cavalierly again, and that is
+all I can do. You will have to forgive and forget."</p>
+
+<p>"I may forgive, but it is not easy to forget," Barbara said coldly, for
+her pride and affection were alike wounded.</p>
+
+<p>"No, indeed," echoed Clara, who alone beside was present, Sue having
+vanished.</p>
+
+<p>Colonel Smyth sat down and was silent, seemingly lost in thought.</p>
+
+<p>Barbara, looking at him, was struck again, as she had already been,
+with a nameless change in his face, with a certain softness of
+expression underlying the rugged outline. Her conscience gave a stab.
+Henry might have acted wrongly, but what was she about, to visit his
+wrong-doing upon his head?</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, we 'will' forgive and forget," she said, and rising from her seat
+she kissed him twice. "There shall be no coldness between us after all
+these years of separation. We will forgive all, and try to forget.
+Perhaps—I dare say it was so—perhaps you did not at first really mean
+to carry the thing on so long."</p>
+
+<p>"No; you are right there," the Colonel said, looking relieved. "I
+certainly did not intend it. I was drawn on, step by step."</p>
+
+<p>"There are a few points that I am not clear about yet," Barbara
+observed, after a moment's thought. She and her sisters had been put
+into possession of a good many facts that evening, but the outline
+needed filling up. "I suppose you decided to retire, after hearing that
+Mrs. Smyth had left you her property. Strange that you should have
+received so much from one who was a complete stranger to us!"</p>
+
+<p>"I must have mentioned Captain Smyth to you. There was a strong tie
+between us, in the fact that I was once able to save his life at the
+risk of my own. Mrs. Smyth never forgot it. Yes, I settled to leave
+the army immediately—but I had had thoughts before of doing so. Why I
+didn't write to tell you all these things I really don't know. A matter
+of laziness, I suppose. I am only surprised that nobody should have
+seen a notification of my change of name in any English paper. It must
+surely have been in some of them."</p>
+
+<p>"No one did, at all events. I wrote to you about Mary, soon after poor
+Arthur's death."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes; that letter reached me, and helped to hurry me home. You'll
+excuse my saying so now, Barbara, but I didn't like the view you seemed
+to take of Mary's position—saying she had no claim upon any of us."</p>
+
+<p>"Did I?" Barbara looked thoughtful. "I forget."</p>
+
+<p>"Something to that effect. The next letter from you reached me just as
+I was on the point of starting for England, and was full of indignation
+at Mary's flight and concealment."</p>
+
+<p>"I thought she had treated us wrongly."</p>
+
+<p>"And she thought the same of you. Oddly enough that mail brought me
+another letter, from a complete stranger, an English clergyman in
+Italy, who had been a friend of poor Arthur's. He wrote to say that
+he was very anxious about Mary,—'young Mrs. Mordaunt' as he called
+her,—that she had seemingly given offence to her husband's relatives
+in London, and was consequently alone and friendless. He was too poor
+himself, he said, to give material assistance, and he did not know
+what would become of the poor young thing,—could I help her?—and so
+on. Stay, I have the letter in my pocket-book. I can read you the last
+paragraph.</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'Mrs. Mordaunt writes to my wife in confidence, and I must not
+therefore say much more, but I cannot abstain from this effort to find
+her a friend in her great need. If you are disposed to do anything,
+please direct your inquiries towards a certain Albert Terrace in the
+neighbourhood of — Street. I entreat you not to write one word of this
+to the Miss Mordaunts, your sisters. Mrs. Mordaunt seems to dread
+inexpressibly the idea of her present retreat being discovered by them.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'You may wonder how I am acquainted with your name and address, but I
+had much to do after the death of Arthur Mordaunt, with looking through
+his papers. By the same means, I am also aware that you have had
+thoughts of an early return to England. I trust this may be the case.
+I hardly see how you can do anything for Mrs. Mordaunt at a distance.
+Once more, I entreat you to remember that all this is in the strictest
+confidence, and that not a word of it may reach your sisters!'"<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>"He seems to have looked upon us as terrible ogres," Barbara said, with
+an uncomfortable laugh, and then tears sprang to her eyes. "Well, I
+have done my best to convince people—"</p>
+
+<p>"I am sure you have, and most successfully," said the Colonel, in a
+tone of kindness. "But this will help to explain to you my silence."</p>
+
+<p>"Did you answer the letter?"</p>
+
+<p>"No. Perhaps I should have done so. I respected his confidence, and
+mentioned his letter to no one, until this evening. I would rather that
+it should go no farther."</p>
+
+<p>"Of course,—you may trust us," Barbara said, with a glance at Clara. "I
+think you should write to him now, for my sake, to explain how matters
+really are. Then you went to Mrs. Burrell's lodgings, on purpose to be
+under the same roof with Mary."</p>
+
+<p>"I went to an hotel, on my first arrival in London; and a few inquiries
+soon made me acquainted with the fact that a Mrs. Mordaunt was lodging
+at No. 3 Albert Terrace. I really had not made up my mind what to do
+next, for I was anxious to know more about Mary, before committing
+myself. But, learning that there were vacant rooms in the same house, I
+went there—on Christmas Day, I believe—not with any fixed intention of
+taking them. However, while I was in the house, I happened to overhear
+Mary's voice singing a hymn, and somehow that settled me. It was
+absurd, of course,—but the contralto was so exactly like Margaret's,
+and the hymn, one that she used to sing for the children. I knew it
+again directly."</p>
+
+<p>"I wondered if you had ever thought of the connection," Barbara said.</p>
+
+<p>"Of course I did," the Colonel answered gruffly.</p>
+
+<p>"And then you told Mary who you were?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, I did not. If I had, all this trouble might have been spared. I
+could not make up my mind to any definite course of action. Partly
+laziness, perhaps,—I didn't want to be bothered,—and there was a stupid
+feeling which you won't understand—a dislike to seeing her."</p>
+
+<p>"I think I do understand," Barbara said in a gentle tone.</p>
+
+<p>"Not that she really is so very like. The resemblance in Rhona is much
+more striking. However, one thing and another made me hold aloof and
+put off doing anything, week after week. I was beginning to pick up an
+acquaintance with the little one, and that was all."</p>
+
+<p>"And you were supposed all the while to be merely a Colonel Smyth! I
+wonder your letters did not betray you."</p>
+
+<p>"That was easily avoided. Letters went to my bankers', and remained
+there till I called for them. There was no difficulty in keeping up my
+incognito, and the only person who showed curiosity was my landlady.
+Certainly I came rather near discovery at the time that Wynne was
+in and out, but he is a thorough gentleman and asked no needless
+questions. Well—I suppose my wish for secrecy went too far in the first
+instance. One is drawn on somehow, and once fairly in for it, I felt
+less and less inclined to break out of the coil. Then Mary disappeared,
+and I found myself with the child left on my hands. She is a sweet
+creature—wins her way into one's heart. I seem to have thought of
+nothing but Rhona lately."</p>
+
+<p>Clara was opportunely summoned out of the room, and Barbara, looking
+earnestly at her brother, said—"You are altered, Henry."</p>
+
+<p>"If I am, it is the child! You would not have said so six months ago."</p>
+
+<p>"I never saw you so like our dear William."</p>
+
+<p>"Pshaw!" the Colonel said, half-touched, half-amused. "I tell you it is
+only that child! She can twist me round her finger."</p>
+
+<p>"She seems to have been to you a little angel unawares," said Barbara.
+"As Mary has been to us."</p>
+
+<p>"There was not the same need with you three good creatures. Did you
+know that I have been for years past a man of no religion—practically
+none?" In a husky tone, the Colonel added—"That little one's sweet
+words and ways have, I hope, brought me to my senses."</p>
+
+<p>"I know you never talked: but I always hoped you felt more than
+appeared on the surface."</p>
+
+<p>"I can't talk now—it isn't my way. But there used to be no feeling—and
+lately it has come," said the Colonel. "More than mere feeling, I hope."</p>
+
+<p>Habitual reserve checked further confidence, and both were silent for
+some seconds.</p>
+
+<p>"What do you think of doing next?" Barbara asked presently.</p>
+
+<p>"I can't part with the child, and where she is, Mary of course must be.
+I shall offer them both a home."</p>
+
+<p>"Ours would have been open to them." Barbara looked disappointed.</p>
+
+<p>"No, no, better not—you three do well together, and five women under
+one roof is too much!" The Colonel evidently meant what he said. "Not
+that Rhona is a woman yet, but she will be by-and-by. Clara would
+inevitably clash with her; and my little darling is too sensitive for
+sharp words. You have been at great expenses already—by-the-bye you
+must let me help you in that matter—and your income won't stand any
+amount of drain. Besides, you could not really wish to deprive me of
+the child—you don't know all that she is to me. No, no, my home must be
+hers and Mary's. You do not think Mary will object."</p>
+
+<p>"I should say she would be only thankful to accept your offer. Mary is
+hardly in a state now to object to anything—she has grown so curiously
+passive. Dr. Wynne does not think her mind can ever again be quite
+what it was before her illness. I mention this, because you ought to
+understand what you are proposing to take upon yourself."</p>
+
+<p>"We will look well after her, and Bertha will be an invaluable help.
+She is a thoroughly good and reliable creature. I have taken her into
+my confidence lately."</p>
+
+<p>"You will need a confidential servant with Mary, for some time to
+come—when she is able to be moved, I mean, which will not be yet. But
+what if Mrs. Burrell wants Bertha again?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Burrell has given up any rights she may have once possessed.
+Bertha promises to remain with me."</p>
+
+<p>"Was it your doing, or Bertha's own fault, that Mrs. Burrell never
+heard from her?" inquired Barbara.</p>
+
+<p>"My doing entirely. I told her I had reasons, and requested her not to
+write. Later on, I gave her some little notion of the real state of
+things. Well—I must be off. It is getting late, and I want to look in
+on Dr. Wynne and his son. But I must say good-bye to the little one
+first. Ah, here she comes—" as Rhona ran in, with shining eyes and
+brilliant cheeks. "She looks well,—eh, Barbara?"</p>
+
+<p>"That is excitement," Barbara answered. "But she really does seem
+stronger."</p>
+
+<p>The Colonel was folding Rhona in his arms. "Had a happy evening with
+mother, my pet?" he asked.</p>
+
+<p>"So happy—oh, so happy," Rhona answered, drawing long breaths, and
+laying her head on his shoulder. "I can't tell you how very very glad
+I am. It does seem all so beautiful. And I've been telling mother all
+about you, uncle, and she says she can never never thank you rightly."</p>
+
+<p>"Nobody wants thanking," said the Colonel. "Tell mother it was all a
+selfish pleasure."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think I can say that, because it wasn't selfish. And oh, aunt
+Barbara—please—" continued Rhona, with a deepening colour—"I want so
+very much to tell you that I am sorry I had such naughty thoughts about
+you. I didn't know you were nursing darling mother all that very time."</p>
+
+<p>"My dear!" Barbara said in surprise.</p>
+
+<p>She checked an inclination to inquire what the child meant, and patted
+her cheek.</p>
+
+<p>"We will not think any more about past mistakes, Rhona. They are all at
+an end now."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, we have to think about the future, not the past," added Colonel
+Mordaunt-Smyth. "I must say good-bye—"</p>
+
+<p>"Good-bye!"</p>
+
+<p>Rhona broke into his utterance with a startled intonation, absolutely
+growing pale, to the Colonel's great satisfaction. He had had some
+fear of finding himself entirely supplanted in her affections by the
+restored mother.</p>
+
+<p>"No, no, my darling; not real good-bye—only good-night. I will be back
+in the morning. If mother is willing, we shall not be separated. Do you
+think she will come and live with me, and bring you too? That is what I
+want—that you and she and I should make a home together."</p>
+
+<p>"And Bertha too?" asked Rhona breathlessly.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Bertha too. We can't do without her."</p>
+
+<p>"And will it be in the country, uncle?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, yes, I think so—all the summer. London in the winter, probably.
+What will mother say?"</p>
+
+<p>Rhona sprang to the ground and fled like a little lapwing. She was back
+before they could have thought it possible.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother says it is the loveliest thing that could happen, and she would
+so like it, and you are the dearest dearest of uncles," Rhona cried
+rapturously, throwing herself upon him.</p>
+
+<p>"Then that is a compact between us," the Colonel said, smiling.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+THE END.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+Printed by BALLANTYNE HANSON &amp; CO.<br>
+Edinburgh &amp; London<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78795 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #78795
+(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78795)