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 in 2015 
 
 https://archive.org/details/strikingcontrastOOmulh 
 
A 
 
 STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 CLARA MULHOLLAND 
 
 AUTHOR OF “LITTLE MERRY’FACE AND HIS CROWN OF CONTENT ” 
 “THE MISER OF KINGSCOURT,” “KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN ” 
 ETC. ETO. 
 
 DUBLIN 
 
 M. H. GILL AND SON 
 1895 
 
51©I 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. * 
 
 I. SYLVIA’S HOME ..... 7 
 
 II. SYLVIA’S ESCORT . . . . .19 
 
 III. ON BOARD THE “ CIMBRIA ” . . . .29 
 
 IV. A TERRIBLE NIGHT ..... 38 
 
 V. CAST UP BY THE SEA ..... 48 
 
 VI. A CRUEL SEPARATION . . . . .52 
 
 VII. A REVELATION ...... 58 
 
 VIII. A VOICE FROM THE WILDERNESS . . .68 
 
 IX. ON THE TRACK . . . . .78 
 
 X. A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT . . . .97 
 
 XI. ANXIOUS DAYS . . . . .107 
 
 XII. PUT TO THE TEST . . . . .116 
 
 XIII. LORD ASHFIELD IS MUCH PUZZLED . . . 127 
 
 XIV. WHO IS SYLVIA ?..... 138 
 
 XV. LADY ASHFIELD MAKES UP HER MIND . .153 
 
 XVI. LORD ASHFIELD MAKES A REQUEST . . .164 
 
 XVII. MADGE LOSES HER SITUATION .... 177 
 
 xviii. dora’s visitor ..... 185 
 
 XIX. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING .... 201 
 
 XX. A SUDDEN DETERMINATION . . . .217 
 
 5 
 
6 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 XXI. MADGE IS PERSUADED TO BE SILENT . . .225 
 
 XXII. DORA IS TRIED BEYOND HER STRENGTH . .240 
 
 XXIII. LADY ASHFIELD CHANGES HER TACTICS . . 253 
 
 XXIY. AT BAY ....... 2G3 
 
 XXV. DO THEY STEAK THE TRUTH ? . . . . 2S0 
 
 XXVI. SIR EUSTACE IS FORCED TO BELIEVE . . .291 
 
 XXVII. SYLVIA GIVES WAY TO DESPAIR . . . 301 
 
 XXVIII. WEDDING BELLS . . . . .312 
 
A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SYLVIA’S HOME 
 
 The evening sun was setting ; the wide prairies, with 
 their herds of cattle, the paddocks, and the peaks of 
 the distant mountains, were bathed in its gold-red 
 light. 
 
 In the verandah of a small house in the Australian 
 Bush sat a young man of five or six-and-twenty. He 
 was tall and strongly built. His shoulders were 
 broad ; his limbs long and muscular. He was not 
 handsome; but he was a gentleman; and there was 
 something very attractive in the earnest glance of his 
 dark eyes, and the kindly expression of his sunburnt 
 face. 
 
 At his knee, her rosy mouth wreathed with happy 
 smiles, her little fat hands clasping his, stood a baby 
 girl with fair curling hair, and skin of lily whiteness. 
 The young man looked at her with much affection, 
 and pressed his lips to her chubby cheeks. 
 
 7 
 
A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ My darling ! ” he said ; “ it is nearly time for my 
 sweet Sylvia to go to bed .” 
 
 The child pulled at his watch-chain, and stamped 
 her little foot. 
 
 “ No, no ! ” she cried. 
 
 “Yes, yes. It is late. The calves and chickens 
 are all in bed, and Sylvia must go too.” 
 
 But baby frowned. 
 
 “ No, no ; fo’, fo’,” she said imploringly. “ Me want 
 fo’, fo’.” 
 
 “ Then off you go,” he answered, laughing. “Go 
 and gather some flowers if you like. I am too lazy to 
 stir. Bun along and bring some to papa.” 
 
 Sylvia dropped the chain, and with a crow of delight 
 toddled to the other side of the verandah, where the 
 morning glories twined their graceful stems round the 
 battered posts. Baising herself on tiptoe, she tried 
 to reach the pretty blossoms. But they grew too 
 high ; and as she stretched above her head, she lost 
 her balance and rolled over on the floor. She uttered 
 a loud cry, and big tears hopped down her cheeks. 
 
 “ Poor little mite, you have indeed fallen low,” cried 
 her father, rushing forward and catching her in his 
 arms. “ But you must be plucky, dear, and not cry 
 so easily. See, papa will give you the flowers. So 
 dry your eyes, my pet.” 
 
 He gathered a few glories, and placed them in her 
 hands. 
 
 “ Papa dea, papa dea, oh, oo dea,” whispered Sylvia 
 softly ; and, nestling up to him, she kissed and patted 
 
SYLVIA’S HOME 
 
 9 
 
 his face. He pressed her lovingly to his breast, and 
 warmly returned her caress. 
 
 “ My little girl must be brave. It is not good to 
 cry so easily.” 
 
 The child smiled through her tears. 
 
 “ Me dood now, wery dood.” 
 
 “ That is right. And now, my pet really must go 
 to bed. Anne ! ” A door opened, and a neat-looking 
 young woman entered the verandah. 
 
 “ Yes, sir. Shall I take Miss Sylvia ? ” she asked. 
 “ It is past her usual bedtime.” 
 
 “ Yes, take her, please. She is tired and sleepy. 
 And when she is in bed, Anne, I should like to speak 
 to you. I have something important to ask you.” 
 
 “ Very well, sir. Come, Miss Sylvia.” 
 
 The child sprang into her arms, laughing and 
 crowing with delight. 
 
 “ Night, night, papa,” she cried, shaking her little 
 hand. “ Night, night.” 
 
 Her father kissed her again. “ Good-night, darling ; 
 and go to sleep quickly, for I want nurse.” 
 
 “ I’ll be back very soon, sir,” replied Anne. “ She's 
 never long about going to sleep.” 
 
 As the baby disappeared, and the last sound of 
 her merry prattle died away, the young man sighed 
 heavily, and flung himself down upon a chair. 
 
 “ Poor darling ! it will be hard to part with her. 
 She grows more engaging, more winning, every day. 
 It will be a sad trial to send her away. But it must 
 be done — it must be done.” 
 
10 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 He sighed again. His head sank upon his breast, 
 and he became lost in thought. 
 
 George Atherstone was the only son of an English 
 baronet, and heir to a fine old place and a considerable 
 amount of property in Lancashire. But, unfortunately, 
 the Atherstones had been fast-living, extravagant 
 people, and when George’s father succeeded to the 
 title and estates, he found the latter heavily mortgaged, 
 and yielding an income upon which it was impossible 
 to live in anything like the style befitting his rank. 
 For himself, he was not ambitious ; but he was anxious 
 that his son should one day pay off all debts, and take 
 his place amongst the well-to-do. By going into trade 
 he believed he might accomplish this, and when George 
 left college, he told him his plans, and implored him 
 to enter a merchant’s office. But the young man 
 would not listen to his prayers. He was not anxious 
 to make money. He could not bear the drudgery of 
 the city. His tastes did not lie that way. He loved 
 a free, roving life, and longed to see the world. His 
 father was bitterly disappointed, and begged him to 
 consider the matter well. But George was firm. So, 
 finding him bent on following his own will, Sir Eustace 
 gave him what money he could spare, and allowed 
 him to go where he would. The sum was not large, 
 but with it the young man was well pleased, and 
 certain of turning it to good account in the distant 
 land to which he was going. So he thanked his father 
 warmly, said good-bye to his mother and friends, and 
 sailed for Australia. 
 
SYLVIA'S HOME 
 
 1 1 
 
 On board ship he met Sylvia Kenyon, daughter of 
 an Australian settler. She was just eighteen, with 
 pale gold hair, a delicate complexion, and soft, appeal- 
 ing blue eyes. She was an interesting companion, a 
 sympathetic friend ; and in a few days George Ather- 
 stone grew to love her very dearly. Sylvia soon 
 returned his affection with all the ardour of her fresh 
 young nature ; and they became engaged. The 
 marriage was solemnised some six weeks later at 
 Melbourne, and the happy couple started at once for 
 the Bush. 
 
 The home to which George Atherstone carried his 
 bride was pretty enough in its way, but lonely, and 
 isolated from other habitations. The house was old, 
 and had been patched and repaired on all sides. The 
 roof was covered with sheets of bark; held down by 
 large wooden girders. A huge vine spread its leafy 
 branches over the walls, tenderly covering their naked- 
 ness and defects. A wide verandah ran along the 
 whole front of the dwelling, and was thickly grown 
 with gorgeous creepers. Below this was a flower 
 garden, its beds bright with many flowers. A row of 
 broad -leaved tropical plants surrounded the little 
 enclosure, where some of the trees had been felled and 
 stumped, whilst others had been spared for shade and 
 effect. Then, beyond, as far as the eye could see, 
 were vast prairies, with herds of cattle grazing quietly, 
 or lying camped under the trees ; and a beautiful chain 
 of blue-peaked mountains stretching away in the 
 distance. 
 
12 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Within the house there was but a small supply of 
 anything like luxury. The walls were covered with 
 illustrations from pictorial papers. The furniture was 
 scanty, and of the poorest description. But when 
 Sylvia hung up the white mosquito curtains, and spread 
 about the many dainty objects she had brought with 
 her from England ; when she filled her bowls with 
 flowers, and the corners of her rooms with plants and 
 ferns, the place improved rapidly, and very soon 
 assumed a comfortable and homely aspect. 
 
 The first year of their married life passed quickly 
 by. And in spite of many privations, and enforced 
 isolation from their friends, the young people were 
 extremely happy. George was hard-working and 
 industrious. Sylvia had plenty of occupation, delighted 
 in her house, and felt proud of her big, kind husband. 
 The free country life suited them both ; they cared 
 nothing for society, and had little to trouble or annoy 
 them. 
 
 But all too soon there came a change. Sylvia grew 
 delicate. She longed for a female friend ; and as 
 George was obliged to leave her by herself for hours 
 together, while he looked after his sheep, or rode over 
 his farm, she became lonely and discontented. 
 
 Then young Atherstone and a neighbouring selecter 
 quarrelled about a piece of land that the latter wished 
 to seize and make his own. George was furious ; but 
 as he had no money to buy the field, he was obliged 
 to let it go. This incident caused much annoyance 
 and irritation, and peace seemed banished from the 
 
SYLVIA'S HOME 
 
 *3 
 
 homestead. Then baby Sylvia was born ; and for a 
 time Atherstone forgot all outside worries in the joy 
 of possessing his little daughter. The happy mother 
 was no longer lonely, and soon grew strong again. 
 The quarrelsome selecter became friendly, and offered 
 to give back the land at a moderate price. This 
 pleased George, and he wrote home for money. The 
 man promised to wait ; and everything looked bright 
 once more, when suddenly the young wife caught a 
 fever, and after a short illness expired in her husband’s 
 arms. George was wild with grief, and for some time 
 could not bear to look upon his child. But by degrees 
 his heart warmed to the little creature ; and he soon 
 came to love her with tenderness and devotion. 
 
 George Atherstone had, as we know, gone to 
 Australia much against his father’s will ; and every 
 mail brought letters imploring him to return. But 
 the young man was obstinate. The life in the Bush 
 suited him best. He was happy, so was his wife. He 
 would not go back to England. But after Sylvia’s 
 death everything was changed. The little house felt 
 lonely. His home was not what it had been ; and he 
 was strongly tempted to leave it all, and set sail for 
 Europe. The temptation, however, did not last long. 
 The idea of settling down to a humdrum life in London 
 or Lancashire was most distasteful to him; and he 
 soon dismissed it from his mind. He would take 
 change of air and scene in Australia. So there and 
 then, he resolved to leave his present abode, and 
 travel farther into the country. 
 
14 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Then came another letter from his father. 
 
 “ I am growing old, George,” he wrote. “ My wife, 
 my children, are all dead — but you. Come home, 
 my son — come home. I am rich now. My money 
 troubles are at an end. I told you in my last letter 
 that there was question of running a railway through 
 the estate, at the bottom of the home park. This 
 has been done, and the compensation given by the 
 company is so large that I have been able to pay off 
 all debts and mortgages. Then the railway coming so 
 close has enhanced the value of my property. I have 
 built new houses, for which I receive high rents 
 promptly paid. So, my son, I wish you to come 
 home. You may now live as you please — go where 
 you choose. Society, the best London can supply, 
 will receive you with open arms, and your father will 
 welcome you gladly. For wealth has not brought the 
 happiness I expected. All my dear ones are gone. 
 I long for something, some child of my own to love. 
 And yet, from what you have written me so often, 
 I fear even this will not tempt you from your life of 
 freedom. Therefore I pray you — I implore- — if you 
 cannot, will not come yourself, send me your child. 
 The Australian Bush is not a fitting place for a 
 tender girl, the daughter of a family like ours. So if 
 you cannot yet bear the trammels of civilisation, if 
 you still prefer a roving existence to your home, send 
 little Sylvia to comfort and console me.” 
 
 When he first read this, George was indignant. 
 “ Part with my child ? No, never— that I could not 
 
SYLVIA’S HOME 
 
 IS 
 
 do. Let her grow up without knowing me — without 
 loving me ? — I could not — I could not. And to go home 
 is impossible. I could not endure life in England. 
 
 “ Society ! Bah ! it would stifle me. I shall stay as 
 I am. The freedom here suits me to perfection. For 
 many years yet, Europe shall not see me, or Sylvia.” 
 But when he thought of his lonely father, of his 
 anxiety to have some one to love and comfort him in 
 his old age ; when he considered the difficulties of his 
 own position, the many dangers he might encounter in 
 the wilder regions of the Bush, he resolved to grant 
 the latter part of the old man’s request, and send his 
 daughter home. 
 
 “ I cannot do better after all,” he reflected. “ My 
 darling will be safe, well taken care of. Her presence 
 will make up for my absence ; her affection atone for 
 my neglect. Next year, perhaps, if all goes well, 
 I may take a run over to London to see her.” 
 
 Accordingly, a letter was written and despatched 
 to Sir Eustace Atherstone, announcing his grand- 
 daughter’s speedy arrival. 
 
 But after this, things went on as before. George 
 put off the evil hour, and lingered on amongst the 
 flowers, his little one at his knee. The thought of 
 parting with her was anguish, and he kept it away 
 from him as long as possible. 
 
 At last, he heard of an exploring party going far 
 into the country, and he grew feverishly anxious to 
 join it. Before he could do so, however, it was 
 necessary to place his child in safe keeping. He 
 
A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 1 6 
 
 could not take her with him, nor could he leave her 
 alone in the Bush. He decided, therefore, to send her 
 without further delay to England. But who was 
 to take her ? He had so few friends. He knew of 
 no one going to Europe. What was to be done ? 
 Here was a dilemma that had not occurred to him 
 before. And as poor little Sylvia fell in trying to 
 reach the morning glories, he suddenly realised what 
 a helpless atom she was. 
 
 “ If Anne would go with her, all would be well,” 
 he said, as he gazed out over the thick short couch 
 grass, green with summer thunderstorms. “ I have 
 watched her well, as she sat there, hour after hour, 
 with my darling in her lap, or played with her round 
 the verandah, and she has always seemed kind, 
 watchful, and trustworthy. My dear wife loved her. 
 Sylvia adores her. I feel I might trust her — if only 
 she would go. But she may have friends who will 
 refuse to part with her. She may ” — 
 
 “You wished to speak to me, sir. Baby is asleep, 
 so I came at once.” 
 
 George looked up at the speaker, and gravely noted 
 every point of her form and face. The survey pleased 
 him. She was exactly what he thought : strong and 
 well-built, neither too old nor too young. She had a 
 fresh, wholesome complexion, a kindly smile, and an 
 affectionate, motherly expression. “ She will do, I 
 think ; and if she will only consent to go, I may 
 safely trust my darling to her care,” flashed quickly 
 through his mind, as he bade the woman sit down. 
 
SYLVIA’S HOME 
 
 i7 
 
 “ Anne,” he said gently, “ you are very fond of 
 little Sylvia, I believe 1 ” 
 
 Anne’s colour deepened ; her eyes grew bright. 
 
 “ Fond of her ? I love her as if she was nry own, 
 Mr. Atherstone. I loved her sweet mother, and on 
 her deathbed she gave her to me, saying, ‘ Anne, you 
 have been a faithful servant, be true to my child; 
 never leave her — take care of her and love her.’ I 
 vowed to do it, and do it I will as long as I live.” 
 George looked at her gratefully. “ Thank you. 
 You are a good woman, and — and — your words, your 
 manner, encourage me to ask you a favour.” 
 
 “A favour ? Oh, sir, it is granted before you ask it. 
 There is nothing I would not do for you and Miss Sylvia.” 
 “ Then will you be ready to undertake a long 
 journey to please me ? Will you leave your friends 
 in Australia, and go to England by the next steamer 
 from Melbourne ? ” 
 
 Anne startled and turned pale. 
 
 “ To England ? Oh, Mr. Atherstone, that is a' long, 
 long way ; and what would my little pet do with- 
 out me ? ” 
 
 “ I do not mean you to go alone. Sylvia shall go 
 with you.” 
 
 “ Sylvia go with me ? Would you — oh, sir, would 
 you part with your child ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, Anne, I must. But only for a time. My 
 father is lonely, and implores me to send her to him. 
 I am going away from here — far up country — and I 
 cannot take baby with me. So I have resolved to 
 
i8 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 send her home. Will you go with her ? If you do, 
 your wages shall be doubled. I will bind my father 
 to keep you with my child, always. No matter what 
 turns up, he must not part with you or dismiss you 
 from his service. Will these conditions suit you ? 
 Will you take charge of Baby Sylvia ? ” 
 
 Anne turned her head aside. Tears gathered in 
 her eyes, and her lips trembled with emotion. 
 
 “ My dear master,” she stammered presently, “ you 
 are too good. Even if I did not love the child as 
 dearly as I do, I would feel bound to accept your 
 generous offer, for I have a sick mother dependent 
 on me for her entire support, and I am anxious to 
 earn all the money I can.” 
 
 “ Then you will take my child to England ? ” 
 
 “ Indeed, I will. When and how you please. And 
 believe me, sir, my whole life and strength will be 
 devoted to her, not because of your generosity, but 
 because I love her, the treasure confided to me by my 
 dying mistress.” 
 
 George grasped her hand and shook it warmly. 
 
 “ Thank you, Anne — thank you. You are indeed 
 a good and faithful servant.” 
 
 “ I trust I am, sir,” she said earnestly. “ And if 
 ever I seem to fail in my duty to you or your child, 
 it will not be my fault. I shall never do so of my 
 own free will.” 
 
 “ I believe you. I have full confidence in you.” 
 
 “ Thank you, sir.” 
 
 And Anne curtseyed and withdrew. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 sylyia's escort 
 
 On a hot summer day, about a week later, George 
 Atherstone strolled leisurely down Bourke Street. He, 
 Baby Sylvia, and Anne, the faithful nurse, had arrived 
 in Melbourne the evening before. 
 
 Atherstone had not visited the metropolis of 
 Victoria since the happy day of his marriage; and he 
 felt sad and lonely as he wended his way through the 
 busy streets, and recognised the various points of 
 interest, that he had seen for the first time, in company 
 with his beloved Sylvia. He gazed at the imposing 
 piles of masonry, churches, institutes, and warehouses, 
 and wondered at the groups of humble little shops 
 devoted to the sale of fruit, toys, and sugar-plums, 
 that intervene, and are all that remain of the early 
 shanty days of Melbourne. He admired the lofty 
 dome of Messrs. Goldsborough and Co.'s wool palace, 
 and then thought joyfully that very soon he should 
 leave all this glare and magnificence, this push and 
 bustle, to return to the delightful solitude of the Bush. 
 
 As he turned down Collins Street on his way to his 
 hotel, he heard a quick step close behind, and someone 
 
 19 
 
20 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 called him by his name. He looked round in surprise ; 
 for in all this busy crowd he did not expect to meet a 
 single acquaintance. 
 
 An elderly man with a careworn face, thin and 
 shrunken in form and figure, approached him eagerly, 
 and held out his hand. 
 
 “ My dear Atherstone, I am glad to see you. You 
 look remarkably well.” 
 
 “ Neil ! Can it really be you ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I do not wonder at your not knowing me. I 
 am much changed, Atherstone.” 
 
 “ Changed ! I should just think you were. What 
 have you been doing to yourself ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing. But the fates have been against me. 
 Everything has gone wrong with me. I have sold my 
 house and land, and am going back to England.” 
 
 “ Is that wise ? ” 
 
 “ I am not sure that it is. But my wife is eager 
 to go.” 
 
 “ Your wife — is she in Melbourne ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. She and my two children are at a small 
 hotel just out of Bourke Street. We sail for England 
 to-morrow.” 
 
 “ My dear Neil,” cried George, “ I am glad. I was 
 longing to meet a friend going in the Cimbria’’ 
 
 “ Are you coming, then ? ” 
 
 “ No. I do not care to return to Europe at present. 
 But I am sending my little girl home to my father.” 
 
 “ My poor fellow, have you then lost your pretty 
 wife ? ” 
 
SYLVIA'S ESCORT 
 
 21 
 
 “ Yes, she is dead. My darling died last year ; ” and 
 his voice grew low and husky. “ She is a terrible loss 
 to me and the little one.” 
 
 “ I am sure of it. I feel for you extremely,” said 
 Neil ; “and if there is anything that my wife and I can 
 do, pray tell us, and we shall be delighted to do it.” 
 
 “ Thank you, you are very kind. There is not 
 much to be done. But if Mrs. Neil would look after 
 baby a little ” — 
 
 “My dear fellow, of course she will, with the greatest 
 pleasure. What sort of person is your nurse ? ” 
 
 “A most estimable person, and I can trust her 
 thoroughly. But it would be a great happiness for 
 me to know, that during the voyage my darling had a 
 lady to be kind to her, and little friends to play with.” 
 
 “ Of course ; and we shall take splendid care of her. 
 My Madge is like a second mother to her small sister 
 Dora. She will be the same to your child. How old 
 is she ? ” 
 
 “ Two years and a month or so.” 
 
 “ J ust Dora’s age. They’ll be companions for each 
 other.” 
 
 George laughed. 
 
 “ They’ll probably pull each other’s hair. Is Madge 
 much older ? ” 
 
 “ Oh yes ; Madge is twelve. The wisest little 
 woman in the world ! Her mother would trust her 
 over the whole universe with little Dora. Come along 
 and see them. My wife will be pleased to have a 
 talk with you. But she’ll be deeply grieved to hear 
 
22 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 of Mrs. Atherstone’s death. Dear me ! She was a 
 winsome creature. Well, well, my dear fellow,” con- 
 tinued Mr. Neil, sighing, “ there are many things worse 
 than death. It has been a trial, a great trial, to you 
 to lose your darling wife. But believe me, I have 
 suffered terribly in seeing mine, the beautiful girl I 
 loved, grow thin and pale, lose her health and spirits, 
 and all because of my misfortunes and bad luck.” 
 George grasped his hand and shook it warmly. 
 
 “ I am sorry you had so much trouble, very sorry. 
 But I trust you may do better in England. I’ll give 
 you a letter to my father. For my sake he will find 
 something for you to do. He is in want of an agent, I 
 know, and he will surely give you a trial at my request. 
 It is a good post, and would suit you admirably.” 
 
 “ God bless you, Atherstone ! Your words fill me 
 with hope. It was a wonderful chance my meeting 
 you to-day.” 
 
 “ It was. But a still greater that you should be 
 going home in the same steamer as my Sylvia. Your 
 fate is in her hands. She will plead for you with 
 her grandfather. Kindness to her will be a powerful 
 passport to his favour.” 
 
 “ Then my life will be a brighter one than I ever 
 hoped for ; for there is nothing that can be done for 
 your child that I shall not do. But here we are at 
 our hotel. I hope you don’t object to stairs, for we 
 have to mount a good many. I’ll lead the way.” 
 
 The staircase was narrow and steep ; and the room 
 into which the two gentlemen walked unannounced, 
 
SYLVIA'S ESCORT 
 
 23 
 
 was small and dark. The blinds were drawn down to 
 keep out the sun, and so close was the day, that the 
 white mosquito curtains were undisturbed by the 
 breeze, although all the windows were wide open. 
 Trunks of every shape and size were ranged round the 
 walls, and the chairs and sofas were strewn with gar- 
 ments large and small. There was no one visible. But 
 suddenly, from behind a tall screen, there rose the 
 sweet, fresh voice of a child, singing a pretty lullaby — 
 
 “ Oh, hush thee, my baby ! 
 
 Thy sire was a knight, 
 
 Thy mother a lady, 
 
 Both gentle and bright.’* 
 
 “ There, that’s my Madge,” whispered Mr. Neil. 
 “ Just peep round, and see how she is taking care of 
 her sister.” 
 
 George did as desired, and was charmed with the 
 picture that he saw before him. 
 
 On a low seat, her long, well-shaped legs and neatly 
 shod feet stretched out before her on the floor, sat 
 Madge. She wore a white cotton frock, with short 
 sleeves and low neck. Her brown hair, which was 
 thick and wavy, was tossed back from her face without 
 comb or ribbon to confine it, and hung loosely over her 
 shoulders. On her knee, her eyes closed, but her lips 
 smiling, lay a beautiful child of about two years old. 
 
 “ Go to sleep, darling ; my Dora must go to sleep,” 
 cried Madge, interrupting her song to remonstrate with 
 little wideawake. “ Poor Sissy has work to do. So 
 you must go to sleep.” 
 
24 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 The baby laughed and pulled her sister’s hair. 
 Madge hugged her to her breast and covered her with 
 kisses. 
 
 “ You see,” said Mr. Neil, “ Madge has the temper 
 of an angel. No matter how that child torments her, 
 she is always kind. She has a heart of gold, and a 
 wise little head of her own.” 
 
 Before George had time to answer, the baby caught 
 sight of her father, and, struggling off her sister’s knee, 
 ran forward to meet him. 
 
 “ Naughty Dora, not to go to sleep,” he cried, tossing 
 her in the air. “ Madge ought to whip you.” 
 
 Madge gave a groan of horror, and sprang to her feet. 
 “ Oh, father, what an idea ! I wouldn’t touch the 
 darling for the world.” 
 
 “ I should think not,” he answered gaily. “ I know 
 you love our pet too dearly for that. But you must 
 not spoil her.” 
 
 “ You are more likely to do that, father,” said 
 Madge gravely. 
 
 “ Perhaps so. But it would not be wonderful if we 
 all spoiled her. Isn't she a beauty, Atherstone ? ” 
 
 “ She certainly is,” said George warmly. “ I don’t 
 think I ever saw such a pretty child.” 
 
 “ What ? Not even your own ? ” 
 
 “Not even my own. Sylvia is fair and dainty- 
 looking. . But this child is a beautiful little creature.” 
 
 “ So she is,” cried the delighted father ; “ and we are 
 all very proud of her. Aren’t we, Madge ? ” 
 
 “ I am quite sure you are,” said Atherstone ; “ and I 
 
SYLVIA'S ESCORT 
 
 25 
 
 hear you are a first-rate little mother in your way, 
 Miss Madge. Now my poor baby is going to England 
 in the same steamer with you. Will you be good to 
 her ? She is a lonely bairn, and will have neither 
 father nor mother to look after her.” 
 
 Madge raised her large grey eyes to his face, and, 
 looking at him earnestly, said — 
 
 “ I will be kind to her. She shall be another little 
 sister. But are you not afraid to send her away 
 from you ? ” 
 
 “ Afraid ? Oh no. There is nothing to fear.” 
 
 “ Now, Madge, don’t make us nervous,” cried her 
 father. “ The fact is, Atherstone, with all her wisdom, 
 my little girl is a bit of a coward. She hates the sea.” 
 Madge shivered slightly. 
 
 “ I don’t like long journeys,” she said. “ And I 
 don’t want to go to England. I like Australia best.” 
 
 “ So do I,” answered George. “ But I suppose your 
 father has good reasons for going.” 
 
 The child clasped her hands tightly together ; and 
 as Mr. Neil moved away to the window with Dora, 
 she whispered sadly — 
 
 “ He thinks hell get work to do, and earn money 
 there. But hell never get it, poor father — never. 
 Here comes my mother. So, hush ! not a word to 
 alarm her.” And, putting her finger to her lip, she 
 went after Dora, took her in her arms, and carried 
 her out of the room. 
 
 “ What a strange child ! ” thought George. “ She’s 
 certainly old beyond her years. And as her father 
 
26 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 says, she might safely be trusted to take care of her 
 baby sister. She is kind and gentle, and seems 
 wonderfully grave and sedate.” 
 
 “ Atherstone, here is my wife,” said Neil in a low 
 voice. “ You will find her much changed. But do 
 not pretend to notice it.” 
 
 George bowed his head to show that he understood, 
 and went forward to meet Mrs. Neil. He looked at 
 her smilingly ; but as he put his hand in hers, he 
 could scarcely conceal the sorrow he felt, at the terrible 
 change that had taken place in her since he had last 
 seen her, four years before. Could this wan, thin 
 creature be the fine, buxom woman, who had been the 
 life and soul of the company on board ship ? Could 
 this nervous, shrinking lady, be the dashing, merry 
 Mrs. Neil, who had chaperoned his Sylvia, smoothed 
 away all difficulties, and hastened his marriage ? 
 
 “ We have had many troubles, Mr. Atherstone,” she 
 said, and her voice trembled as she spoke. “ I dare- 
 say my husband has told you.” 
 
 “ Yes. But there is a good time coming,” cried 
 George eagerly, “ when you reach England.” 
 
 “ Ah ! If we ever do.” 
 
 “ My dear lady,” George laughed nervously, “ pray 
 do not suggest such a thing. No wonder the child is 
 frightened at the idea of the long journey,” he thought. 
 “ With such a mother, good heavens ! it is not extra- 
 ordinary she should be prematurely old.” 
 
 “ I suggest nothing,” said Mrs. Neil slowly. “ I 
 long to be off — to leave this hated country. I have 
 
SYLVIA’S ESCORT 
 
 27 
 
 known constant grinding sorrow and anxiety ever 
 since my return to it, the year you were married. But 
 you, too, have been in trouble. I hear your sweet 
 young wife is dead. Why was she taken, I wonder, 
 whilst I, a useless, worthless invalid, have been left as 
 a burden to my poor unfortunate husband ? ” 
 
 “ Kate ! ” cried Neil reproachfully ; “ my darling, do 
 not talk so ! Weak and delicate as you are, you have 
 been my comfort/' 
 
 “ No, no, John; you would have been far better 
 without me. I have but increased your troubles." 
 
 “ Kate, Kate, I know not what to say to you." And, 
 wringing his hands, the poor husband turned away. 
 
 “ You have a child, Mr. Atherstone," she remarked 
 presently. “ And she is coming with us to England. 
 You look surprised. But I was in the adjoining room ; 
 the folding doors are slightly open, and I heard all you 
 said to Madge. Why are you sending her home ? " 
 
 “ To comfort my father, who is lonely." 
 
 “ Quite right. He has grown rich, I hear. She 
 vdll be his heiress." 
 
 “ I never thought of that," said George, smiling. 
 “ But I suppose I, his son, will come first. Sylvia 
 will surely come after me." 
 
 “ First or second, it matters little," she answered 
 gloomily. “ She will be rich — an heiress — a some- 
 body, w 7 hilst my darling, my beautiful Dorothy, will 
 be a pauper. Ah, Mr. Atherstone, what a contrast 
 will be their lot in life ! A striking, a cruel contrast." 
 
 “ Riches do not always mean happiness, Mrs. Neil. 
 
2 $ 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 My Sylvia will have money ; but your Dora will have 
 a mother to love and cherish her.” 
 
 “Alas, my life is uncertain — a mere question of 
 time, Mr. Atherstone. My heart ” — 
 
 “ Mamma dear, you have talked enough ; Mr. 
 Atherstone will excuse you. You must come and 
 rest now.” And little twelve-year-old Madge laid her 
 hand on her mother’s shoulder, and looked as though 
 she meant to be obeyed. 
 
 “ Yes, dearest, I am coming,” said Mrs. Neil 
 meekly. “.Mr. Atherstone, this child is my greatest 
 comfort. And should anything happen to me on this 
 voyage, she will look after your little one, and ” — 
 
 “ Mother, mother, do not talk so wildly.” 
 
 “ It is not wild, dear. It’s only — only — But 
 good-bye till to-morrow, my friend. I am tired, I 
 must rest.” 
 
 And, leaning on her daughter’s arm, she went 
 from the room. 
 
 George gazed after them, with eyes full of com- 
 passion. 
 
 “ Is it not sad to see her thus ? ” asked Neil in 
 broken accents. “ She who was once so strong and 
 full of life ! ” 
 
 “ It is, it is,” cried George. “ But do not fret, my 
 poor friend. I am sure this sea journey will restore 
 her, make her all right.” 
 
 “ I hope so, I trust so. This journey must and 
 will do her good. It will give us all new life, please 
 God, and end our troubles.” 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 ON BOARD THE “ CIMBRIA ” 
 
 When, early next day, George Atherstone stepped on 
 board the Cimbria , with his little daughter in his arms, 
 he found that Mr. Neil and his family were already 
 there, and had taken possession of their cabins. 
 
 Mrs. Neil was not visible ; and George rejoiced not 
 a little at her absence, for her gloomy nervousness 
 affected him unpleasantly. Madge and Dora were 
 walking up and down the promenade deck, watching 
 with much interest all that was going on. When 
 Madge saw Atherstone and his child, she smiled, and, 
 taking her sister's hand, went to meet him. 
 
 "Dora,” she said, “here is a friend for you, a dear 
 little girl to play with.” 
 
 She took Sylvia from her father, kissed her tenderly, 
 and put her down beside Dora. 
 
 The two children stared at each other for a moment, 
 then Sylvia ran forward, put her rosy lips to Dora's, 
 and stroked her curling hair. 
 
 “ Oh, you dea ! ” she cried. “ You pitty dea ! ” 
 
 #< Sylvia has an eye for beauty," said George, 
 smiling. “ I think they will be friends." 
 
 29 
 
3° 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Yes, I am sure they will,” said Madge. “ Sylvia 
 looks a sweet little creature, and Dora, though rather 
 passionate, is a loving, affectionate child.” 
 
 ‘‘I am sure she is, and you are kindness itself. Anne,” 
 he said, turning to the nurse, who stood behind him, 
 armed with packages and wraps, “this is Miss Madge 
 Neil. Her father is an old friend of mine ; and I wish 
 baby to be with her and her sister as much as possible.” 
 “Very well, sir,” replied Anne, whose eyes were 
 red with much weeping. “ It will be pleasant for me 
 to have friends of yours on board.” 
 
 “And it will be nice for me to have you,” said 
 Madge, with a frank smile. “Mother is an invalid, 
 and will be almost always in her berth.” 
 
 “ That is sad for you. But I trust she will soon 
 grow stronger,” said George kindly. “ I hope nurse 
 and baby may have a cabin near yours.” 
 
 “ They are next to us,” she replied. “ Will you 
 leave Sylvia with me, and take Anne down to see 
 where she is ? She had better get the berths ready 
 and arrange all her parcels before we start.” 
 
 “ Wise little woman, your advice is excellent. But 
 I think 111 take my darling with me. Our moments 
 together are precious now. Come, Anne.” 
 
 Then, lifting Baby Sylvia, he hugged her to his 
 breast, and carried her downstairs. 
 
 “ And now, Anne,” he said, when he had made all 
 possible arrangements for his child’s comfort, “ take 
 care of my darling. Watch her night and day, and 
 see that she wants for nothing.” 
 
ON BOARD THE “ CIMBRIA 
 
 3 1 
 
 “ Trust me, sir,” answered Anne, with emotion. “ I 
 will do my duty. Your child will be more precious 
 to me than my own life. I'll watch over her well.” 
 
 “ I believe you will. And now, I think, you have 
 all you require ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, sir. Everything.” 
 
 “ Very well. And here is a letter for my father, 
 with his address in full, lest by any chance he should 
 be prevented meeting you. I have telegraphed and 
 written, but in case of accident it is well to have 
 this with you. And here,” taking a locket and chain 
 from his neck, “ is a portrait of my dear wife. See, I 
 will put it on Sylvia. Show it to my father, that he 
 may know what my darling was like. But let the 
 child wear it always.” 
 
 “ Yes, sir. And 111 teach her to love her mothers 
 memory.” 
 
 “ Do. And may God bless you ! ” 
 
 A bell was heard above. Mr. Neil rushed to the 
 cabin door. 
 
 “ Atherstone, you have barely time to get away. 
 We are just off. Come along.” 
 
 “ God bless and protect you, my pet ! ” cried George 
 in broken accents. “ Good-bye, my dear little Sylvia, 
 my sweet child. Talk to her of me, Anne. Do not 
 let her forget me.” 
 
 He pressed the little one to his heart once more, 
 kissed her over and over again, then, rushing up- 
 stairs, said a hasty good-bye to Mr. Neil and Madge, 
 and hurried on shore. 
 
32 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 The gangway was withdrawn, the anchor raised, 
 the ropes pulled in, and the goodship Cimlria steamed 
 out of the harbour. 
 
 The next few days were passed in the usual fashion 
 on board ship. The wind was high ; the steamer 
 pitched and rolled, and almost all the passengers were 
 laid low. The decks were forsaken — the dining-room 
 but little frequented. After a time, things looked 
 brighter. The wind went down ; the sun shone 
 pleasantly ; and the handsome saloons and comfortable 
 seats on deck were filled with a gay company, anxious 
 to enjoy life, and make their days on board the 
 Cimlria pass as quickly as possible. 
 
 One of the first to come forth from the seclusion 
 of her cabin was Madge Neil. She had suffered much, 
 and longed for a breath of fresh air. In the passage 
 she met her father. 
 
 “Well, my dear? I am glad to see you,” he cried, 
 kissing her tenderly. “ These have been miserable 
 days. How is your mother ? And my sweet Dora, 
 how does she seem ? ” 
 
 “ Mother and Dora are both much better, papa. 
 They are asleep. Will you take me for a walk ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly, dear. Come along.” 
 
 He drew his daughter’s arm within his own ; and 
 they went up on deck together. 
 
 About an hour later, Anne, looking as white as a 
 ghost, came up the stairs, carrying Sylvia on one arm 
 and Dora on the other. 
 
 Madge flew to her side in an instant. 
 
ON BOARD THE “ CIMBRIA 
 
 33 
 
 “ How good of you to think of Dora, Anne ! I 
 thought she was asleep” 
 
 “ Children don’t sleep for ever, any more than big 
 people, Miss Madge,” she answered pettishly. 
 
 “ Oh, I’m so sorry ! ” began Madge. 
 
 “ You need not be. It was no trouble to bring her 
 up, poor’ lamb. Perhaps the sea-breezes may do her 
 and Miss Sylvia good. They’ve brought a fine colour 
 to your cheeks.” 
 
 “ Yes, haven’t they ? ” cried Madge, kissing her 
 baby sister. “ I don’t think I ever felt so well in my 
 life. I positively love the sea to-day.” 
 
 “ Well, well, I can’t say as I do,” replied Anne 
 dolefully. “ And, oh dear, England’s a terrible way 
 off.” 
 
 “ Of course it is. Why, we have weeks and weeks 
 before us yet.” 
 
 “ Dear, dear ! How shall we ever get through it 
 all ? I wish I’d never left Australia.” 
 
 Madge laughed merrily, and began to dance the 
 little girls about on her knee. “ Poor Anne ! but 
 you’ll soon change, I am sure. Why, look at me ! 
 
 When I started, I was in such bad spirits. I hated 
 going to England. I was afraid of the sea. I felt 
 that something dreadful would happen to us if we left 
 our home to wander aimlessly over Europe. I had a 
 perfect horror of coming on board. But now ” — 
 
 “ You seem greatly changed, certainly. You look 
 bright and merry — just as if you had heard some 
 very good news.” 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Madge hid her face for a moment ; then uncovered 
 it with a cry of “ Here I am ! ” to the babies. 
 
 They laughed and crowed, and called “ Dain, dain.” 
 
 Their orders were obeyed ; and a lively game 
 ensued. Then the little ones grew tired, and rolled 
 off her knee, on to the deck, where they sat blissfully 
 content, munching a couple of hard biscuits. 
 
 “ What a pretty picture they make ! ” said Madge. 
 “ I never saw such a pair of darlings — both so lovely, 
 and yet such a contrast. I hope they may always be 
 friends.” 
 
 “ That’s not likely,” replied Anne, shaking her head 
 wisely. “Your mother says their lives will be as 
 great a contrast as their looks. Miss Sylvia is going 
 to a splendid home. She will be a great heiress.” 
 
 “ Whilst my poor Dora’s family is certainly not 
 rich ; and she will never have any fortune, but her 
 own bonnie face.” 
 
 “ And a right handsome one that will be. But I 
 would not despair, Miss Madge,” said Anne encourag- 
 ingly. “ There’s many ups and downs in life. And 
 who knows what may happen yet ? Your pa’s clever. 
 He may get on better than ever he did when he goes 
 to England.” 
 
 “ Yes, I am sure he will. In fact I know he will,” 
 cried the girl joyfully. “ And that’s the reason I 
 looked as if I had heard good news. Because I 
 really had.” 
 
 “ A very good reason too,” answered Anne, smiling. 
 “ But what is the good news ? ” 
 
ON BOARD THE “ CIMBRIA 
 
 35 
 
 “ This. My father told it to me to-day, as we 
 walked up and down the deck together. Mr. 
 Atherstone is very fond of papa. He knows him to 
 be good and clever, and he has given him a letter 
 to his father, who is immensely rich, and has large 
 estates, I don’t exactly know where. But papa knows 
 all about them. And Mr. Atherstone has asked him 
 to give papa a situation of some kind there — his 
 agent, I think.” 
 
 “ But will the old gentleman do so ? ” 
 
 “ Of course he will. He would do anything for 
 his son. So you see, even if our Dora is never an 
 heiress, she will be quite in a position to be Sylvia’s 
 friend.” 
 
 “ Certainly. And if their fathers love each other, 
 it is only natural they should, too, the pets.” 
 
 “ So I think. And do you wonder now, Anne, 
 that I feel happy ? ” 
 
 “ No, Miss Madge. And I do hope all these things 
 may turn out as you wish.” 
 
 Madge raised her clear, earnest eyes to the sky, 
 then let them wander away over the wide surging 
 waters of the ocean. 
 
 “Yes, Anne, I hope so. God grant they may,” 
 she said softly. “ I think they will. I feel full of 
 confidence.” 
 
 “ And your mother ? How does she feel ? ” 
 
 “ Mamma is always depressed. But she is better, 
 I think. She has great faith in Mr. Atherstone.” 
 
 “ Which ? Father or son ? ” 
 
3 ^ 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Both. But she never saw the father, you know.” 
 
 “ She saw and knew my master’s wife ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. She knew her before she was married, and 
 was at the wedding. She says Sylvia is very like 
 her.” 
 
 “ Yes. She certainly is. See, this is her portrait.” 
 And, lifting Sylvia on her knee, she showed Madge 
 the pretty miniature that George Atherstone had 
 placed round his child’s neck. 
 
 “ What a sweet, sad face ! ” cried Madge. “ How 
 lovely she must have been ! And yet she looks as 
 if she must have suffered greatly.” 
 
 “ I know nothing of her history,” said Anne, 
 releasing the struggling Sylvia from her arms. 
 “ When I knew her, she was very happy, but had a 
 sad expression, poor dear. She was an orphan, I 
 fancy, from what I have heard. So, unless on her 
 father’s side, Sylvia has but few relations. None, 
 indeed, that I ever heard of.” 
 
 “ I’m afraid we haven’t any either,” said Madge, 
 sighing. “ If anything were to happen to papa and 
 mamma, Dora and I would be utterly friendless and 
 forlorn.” 
 
 “ Why, Madge, how solemn you look ! ” cried her 
 father, coming up at that moment. “ I left you 
 smiling and bright. I find you ” — 
 
 “ Laughing and merry, papa dear,” she exclaimed. 
 “ Everything looks promising for us now ; so, of 
 course, I am gay. And see, aren’t those children 
 well ? They are as rosy as possible.” 
 
ON BOARD THE “ CIMBRIA 
 
 37 
 
 “They are, dear,” he answered, smiling. “And 
 even Anne looks fresher than when she came on 
 board: Your mother, too, has improved marvellously. 
 
 We shall have her quite strong before we reach 
 England.” 
 
 “ Quite ! ” cried Madge joyfully. “ A sea journey 
 is a wonderful cure for faint hearts and tired bodies. 
 But, papa, take Anne round and show her all the 
 beauties of the ship.” 
 
 “ Very well. Come along, Anne.” 
 
 “ But Baby Sylvia,” cried Anne. “ I can’t carry 
 her about. I am too unsteady on my feet, and I 
 don’t like to leave her.” 
 
 “ I’ll take care of the pet,” said Madge. “ See, we 
 three shall have fine games together. Peep — o — 
 Sylvia ! Peep — o — Dora ! Run off and practise your 
 sea-legs, Anne.” 
 
 So Anne went away to explore the ship, and Madge 
 mounted guard over the babies. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 A TERRIBLE NIGHT 
 
 The long voyage was almost at an end. Nothing had 
 occurred to disturb its peace and harmony. The 
 weather had been splendid ; the passengers agreeable 
 and entertaining. And as the Cimbria bowled merrily 
 through the Mediterranean, Madge was enchanted 
 with all she saw. The glorious blue sea, the clear, 
 cloudless sky, filled her with delight ; and when they 
 ran along the lovely shore and cast anchor in the Bay 
 of Naples, words failed her, and she gazed across the 
 unrivalled harbour with flushed cheeks and shining 
 eyes. 
 
 “ To-morrow we shall be in England,” thought 
 Madge one night, as she lay awake in her berth. “We 
 have passed the Bay of Biscay, our journey is almost 
 at an end, and some time to-morrow we shall reach our 
 destination — England. A new country — I wonder 
 what it is like. Shall I feel amongst strangers there ? 
 No. Why should I ? I have father and mother and 
 Dora — sweet little Dora ! I shall never be lonely 
 whilst I have all these dear ones to love. God keep 
 them safe for me.” 
 
 38 
 
A TERRIBLE NIGHT 
 
 39 
 
 Then the girl raised herself on her elbow, and 
 looked down upon her sleeping mother and sister. 
 Mrs. Neil looked white and wan in the dim light ; 
 but Dora was the picture of health and loveliness, as 
 she lay in profound slumber on her pillow. Madge 
 smiled happily and sank back upon the berth. But 
 she could not sleep. She felt restless and unsettled. 
 Thoughts of the new country, the strange home, her 
 father’s prospects, filled her mind and kept her 
 uneasy. 
 
 It was a clear, starry night. There was not a 
 breath of wind, not a ripple on the water. One 
 beautiful star twinkled brightly at Madge through the 
 port-hole, and myriads of little ones covered the blue 
 firmament. 
 
 But suddenly a haziness came over the atmosphere, 
 a heavy curtain of mist fell about the ship, and the 
 shining planets were hidden from view. “ How 
 strange ! ” thought Madge. “ Is it a fog ? Or am I 
 getting sleepy ? Perhaps a little of' both. Now, I 
 must really try to forget everything and go to sleep.” 
 
 She closed her eyes, and prepared to rest. But at 
 this moment a crash was heard, — a horrible, grinding 
 sound, — and then the immense steamer stood still, 
 shuddering through all its parts. Then the place 
 echoed with cries of horror, and shriek after shriek 
 resounded on all sides. 
 
 White with terror, Madge sprang from her berth. 
 
 “ Mother,” she cried, “ something dreadful is going 
 on. Get up, get up.” 
 
40 
 
 A STRIKING CONRTAST 
 
 Mrs. Neil stared at the child. But before she 
 could answer a word, the cabin door was flung open, 
 and a wild, terrified voice announced the awful 
 tidings — 
 
 “ Quick — to the boats — there has been a collision — 
 we are sinking fast.” 
 
 Madge threw her ulster on over her night-dress, 
 wrapped the now weeping Dora in a cloak, and 
 clasped her in her arms. 
 
 “ Mother,” she cried in a voice of anguish, “ rouse 
 yourself — for pity’s sake rouse yourself ! ” 
 
 But Mrs. Neil made no reply. Her white face 
 was set, her eyes fixed and staring. 
 
 “ Madge ! Madge ! ” screamed Anne, rushing in with 
 Sylvia. “ There is not an instant to spare. See, your 
 father will help your mother. Save yourself — come, 
 come ! ” 
 
 Mr. Neil bent over his wife and kissed her lovingly, 
 then started aside with a groan of horror. 
 
 “ My darling,” he murmured in a choking voice, 
 “ we can do nothing for your poor mother now. God 
 has taken her to Himself — this shock has killed her.” 
 
 “ Oh, that cannot be, that cannot be ! Mother, 
 speak to me — speak ! ” And, sobbing bitterly, Madge 
 flung herself upon the dead woman’s breast. 
 
 “ To the boats — children and women first,” cried 
 the captain. “ For God’s sake, be quick ! Bring 
 nothing — think only of your lives. Quick ! we are 
 sinking fast.” 
 
 Mr. Neil caught Dora in his arms, and, raising the 
 
A TERRIBLE NIGHT 
 
 4i 
 
 almost unconscious Madge, bore her out of the cabin 
 up to the deck. 
 
 There all was in wild confusion. The fog enveloped 
 everything like a pall, and nothing could be seen at 
 two yards’ distance. The lower decks were covered 
 with water. People were running about distracted 
 with terror. Men and women grew delirious as they 
 clung to the rigging, imploring the sailors to help 
 them. 
 
 The captain alone remained calm. He never for 
 an instant forgot his duty. The boats had all 
 been lowered ; and by the gleam of the Bengal lights, 
 burned by the chief engineer, he saw that they were 
 filled as fast as possible with the unfortunate women 
 and children. 
 
 As Madge appeared on the scene, clinging to her 
 father’s arm, she was quickly seized and flung, more 
 dead than alive, into the nearest boat. 
 
 “ Help, help ! ” shrieked Anne. And, relieved of his 
 daughter’s weight, Neil turned, and, taking Sylvia 
 from her, dragged her up the stairs. 
 
 In an instant she was hurried away. There was 
 just room for one more in a heavily laden boat, and 
 into it she was thrown. 
 
 “ The child — my master’s child ! ” she screamed. “ I 
 cannot go without her.” 
 
 Mr. Neil made a step forward, tripped on a rope, 
 was jostled ruthlessly by the crowd, and fell on the 
 slippery deck. 
 
 “ The children — they must go in these boats,” 
 
42 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 cried a sailor ; and, catching them roughly, he flung 
 one to Anne and the other to Madge. 
 
 “ Father, father, come with us,” cried Madge, as by 
 the flare of a torch she saw poor Neil struggling to his 
 feet. “ Of what use is life to us without father or 
 mother ? Oh, come ! Let him come, I pray, I 
 implore ! My father, my ” — 
 
 But the sailors heeded her not, and pushed quickly 
 off to sea. The thick fog hid the sinking ship from 
 view ; and with a shriek of anguish Madge fell faint- 
 ing to the bottom of the boat. 
 
 “ Thank God, we are safe ! ” murmured Anne, wrap- 
 ping her cloak closely round the child, who clung to 
 her in speechless terror in the other boat. “ Thank 
 God, we are saved ! ” 
 
 “ So you may say,” answered one of the men. “ We 
 were the last to leave the ship. She is gone — all on 
 board have perished.” 
 
 “ Bow for your lives,” cried another ; “ dimly 
 through the fog I see a light. It is a steamer. Bow, 
 boys ! If we reach her, we are safe ; if not, we must 
 perish of cold and hunger.” 
 
 The men fell to work, rowing with all the strength 
 of their brawny arms. Fortunately the sea was 
 comparatively smooth, or the boat would have been 
 swamped. The men pulled for their lives, and not a 
 word was spoken. Anne, with the baby clasped to 
 her breast, two other women, and a boy of ten, 
 crouched in the stern, peering anxiously for some 
 signs of the saving ship. 
 
A TERRIBLE NIGHT 
 
 43 
 
 For some time nothing could be seen ; and 
 imagining they had been deceived, the men hurled 
 curse after curse at their comrade. 
 
 Then, all at once, a cry of joy went forth. Close 
 beside them, rising like a ghost out of the fog, was a 
 large steamer almost motionless upon the calm waters. 
 
 The shipwrecked party signalled wildly. Their 
 signals were seen. Eopes and ladders were lowered, 
 and men, women, and children were soon in safety 
 on board a homeward-bound vessel. 
 
 They were all kindly treated, provided with food 
 and clothing, and sent to bed. 
 
 Much exhausted, weak and numb with cold and 
 terror, Anne gave the baby to the stewardess ; and, 
 begging her to attend to its wants, staggered to a 
 berth, where she soon fell into a deep sleep. 
 
 Early next morning she awoke, and, sitting up, 
 called loudly for the child. 
 
 “ Pray do not be uneasy,” said the stewardess ; “ she 
 is fast asleep just beside you. See.” 
 
 She raised the counterpane of the next berth, and 
 showed a lovely infant fast asleep, with one little 
 rounded arm thrown above her head. But the hair 
 was a rich auburn ; the long eyelashes that swept the 
 rosy cheeks were dark ; the nose was short and 
 daintily formed ; the pouting mouth was like a cupid’s 
 bow. In one word, it was not Sylvia Atherstone that 
 lay before the distracted nurse, but little Dorothy 
 Neil. 
 
 “ There was another,” gasped Anne, clutching the 
 
44 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 woman’s hands. “ Another — fair — delicate. Oh, say 
 there was another.” 
 
 “ Alas ! no, my poor soul, there was only one. 
 The other must have been drowned. This is the only 
 baby brought on board last night. There were chil- 
 dren of six, eight, and ten, but only one baby, and 
 here she is.” 
 
 “ Drowned ! — my pet — my Sylvia ! Oh, master — 
 
 master ! What shall I do ? ” 
 
 And, wild with grief, Anne flung herself back 
 weeping on her pillow. Hour after hour she tossed 
 from side to side in passionate despair. What was to 
 be done ? Where could she go with this motherless, 
 fatherless, penniless babe ? She had no money, no 
 clothes, no home. If she were to go with this little 
 stranger to her master’s father, and tell him that his 
 grandchild was dead, what would he say ? what 
 would he do ? Cast them both from his door — and 
 then ? Well, they might seek a refuge where they 
 could — starve by the roadside, or go to the work- 
 house. 
 
 Then a terrible temptation took possession of the 
 unfortunate nurse ; and in her hour of extreme need, 
 she yielded to it. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of her anguish, she re- 
 membered that Sir Eustace Atherstone had never 
 seen his grand-daughter. How, then, could he know 
 that this little girl was a stranger ? How guess 
 that she was not his son’s child ? How, indeed, 
 unless he were told. And there and then Anne 
 
A TERRIBLE NIGHT 
 
 45 
 
 resolved that for the present, at least, he should not 
 be told. 
 
 “ We touch at Plymouth directly/' said the stewardess; 
 “ would you like to land ? ” 
 
 “Land ?” cried Anne, aghast at such an idea ; “ with- 
 out money — without friends. Oh, no, I must stay 
 till someone comes for me." 
 
 “ Then send a telegram. The news of the loss of 
 the Gimbria will be, or perhaps is, known every- 
 where. No one will know how or where to find 
 you, unless you telegraph that you are coming 
 home in the Sultana. We shall reach Gravesend 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Anne trembled, and became white as death. 
 
 “ I feel — I — am — weak — I cannot — write." 
 
 “ Poor thing, you have suffered much. But never 
 mind. I will write it for you." 
 
 She took a pen and sat down beside Anne. 
 
 “ Now, what is the address ? " 
 
 “ Sir Eustace Atherstone, > 1 8 Cromwell Houses, 
 London." 
 
 “ Yes ? " 
 
 “ Will reach Gravesend with Miss Sylvia Ather- 
 stone to - morrow. Saved from wreck of Gimbria. 
 Have no money.— Anne Dane." 
 
 “ And will you not mention the other child ? " 
 asked the woman gently. 
 
 “ The — other child ? " 
 
 “ Yes. Just a word to break the news of its 
 drowning." 
 
46 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Anne started to her feet and gazed wildly round 
 the cabin. 
 
 “ Hush ! There — was no other child. I — was 
 
 — dreaming.” 
 
 Then, with a sob and a cry, she fell fainting to the 
 floor. 
 
 “ Poor creature ! the terror of this wreck has 
 turned her brain,” said the stewardess ; “ and, indeed, 
 it is not astonishing that it should.” 
 
 She raised the unhappy Anne, bathed her face and 
 hands, and laid her in her berth. Then, when she 
 opened her eyes, and seemed returning to conscious- 
 ness, she covered her carefully, and hurried away with 
 the telegram. 
 
 Next day the Sultana steamed into Gravesend. 
 A tall, broad - shouldered man of about fifty, 
 with a kindly, anxious face, stood upon the 
 wharf, and immediately the gangway was lowered, 
 he sprang on to it, and made his way on board 
 the steamer. 
 
 “ Where is Anne Dane ? ” he asked at the door of 
 the saloon. 
 
 “ Here, sir, here.” 
 
 And a woman as white as death, and trembling in 
 every limb, staggered forward and placed a lovely 
 little girl in his arms. 
 
 “ My Sylvia, my sweet little pet ! ” he cried, with 
 emotion, and, pressing the child to his heart, he covered 
 her with kisses. “ Welcome, my darling — a hundred 
 times welcome.” 
 
A TERRIBLE NIGHT 
 
 47 
 
 Then, turning to Anne, he shook her warmly by the 
 hand. 
 
 “ Thank you, thank you for your love and care. 
 In the midst of dangers and shipwreck you have not 
 forgotten my little one. I shall never forget your 
 goodness, never. Come, your troubles are at an end. 
 You shall live with and nurse my pretty Sylvia as 
 long as she requires you ; and then — well, then you 
 may do what you please — live as you like; I will 
 always look after you, and give you all you may 
 require. God bless you, and thank you.” 
 
 Anne could not speak for emotion. She was 
 touched by Sir Eustace’s kindness, and longed to tell 
 him the truth. But she dared not do so. It would 
 be risking too much. So she said nothing, and 
 followed him quietly on shore ; and thus she and the 
 orphaned Dora found a comfortable home. 
 
CHAPTER Y 
 
 CAST UP BY THE SEA 
 
 Meanwhile, Madge and Sylvia were suffering sadly. 
 They clung together, sobbing and shivering. The fog 
 was damp and cold, and they were thinly clad. 
 Madge, always unselfish, pressed the little one to her 
 breast, and covered her with her ulster. In the 
 dreadful darkness that surrounded them, she knew 
 not which of the children she held in her arms. But 
 it mattered little which — she loved them both, and 
 felt certain that the other was somewhere near with 
 Anne Dane. The idea of the boats being separated, 
 and their inmates losing each other, never entered her 
 head. She was skinned, dazed with misery, and 
 thought not of the future. 
 
 For many long hours they pitched about upon the 
 sea. It was cold and dark. Ho friendly sail came 
 near them through the night. A barrel of biscuits 
 and a keg of water was all they had to keep them 
 alive ; and they were probably miles and miles from 
 land. The sailors cursed and swore and quarrelled 
 amongst themselves, and poor Madge's heart was sick 
 within her as she listened. Then by degrees she 
 
 48 
 
 * , 
 
CAST UP BY THE SEA 
 
 49 
 
 began to realise the sad fate that was hers, the utter 
 desolation that had fallen upon her — her mother dead, 
 her father swept away to a watery grave, and she left 
 alone to face the cruel world or perish of cold and 
 hunger with a baby in her arms — a fair, delicate baby. 
 For as the morning dawned, she saw it was not her 
 sister she held to her heart, but Sylvia Atherstone. 
 With the morning light their misery became more 
 intense. A gale sprang up, the fog cleared away, and 
 the sea, that had been so calm, grew suddenly wild 
 and tempestuous. The frail bark was tossed unmerci- 
 fully from side to side. Waves broke over her and 
 filled her with water. Then it seemed as though all 
 was over — as though all must perish. Someone flung 
 a life-belt over Madge’s head, and in a moment she was 
 struggling for life in the midst of the angry billows. 
 
 That day, at noon, two ladies sat on the beach at a 
 little seaside place some miles from Plymouth. They 
 were old and thin, with careworn faces that spoke of 
 much suffering and great anxiety. 
 
 “ Well, sister,” said she, who, from a certain air of 
 command, seemed to be the elder of the two, “ there is 
 only one way out of our difficulty. We can no longer 
 do the work ourselves and attend to our shop. Since 
 that sad hour when we heard that we had lost our 
 fortunes through the dishonesty of our guardians, and 
 came to eke out an existence in this lonely village, I 
 have not felt so weak and incapable ; you too are 
 failing in health ; and so the one thing certain is, we 
 must take a servant.” 
 
 4 
 
5o 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ I suppose so, Matilda/' replied her sister, sighing. 
 “ But where shall we get one for the money we can 
 offer ? The maids about here ask such exorbitant wages.” 
 “ So they do, dear. But we must wait and watch. 
 Who knows — something may turn up.” 
 
 This was always Miss Matilda's cry, no matter what 
 happened, no matter what went wrong — something 
 would surely turn up. And so these two kind-hearted 
 maidens had gone through life, living on little, pinch- 
 ing and screwing, always hoping that something would 
 turn up ; that their squandered fortune — squandered 
 by wicked and dishonest guardians — might one day 
 be restored to them, or that they by their own efforts 
 should become rich and prosperous. But in spite of 
 their industry and attention to their shop, things did 
 not mend; nothing of any consequence ever turned 
 up ; and now, as they grew too old and feeble for their 
 work, they were as poor and unsuccessful as on the 
 first day when they had taken up their abode in the 
 little village by the sea. 
 
 “Let us go home, Barbara/’ said Matilda, after a 
 time. “ It is dinner- hour, and some of the villagers 
 may come round to the shop.” 
 
 Barbara sighed, but rose immediately. “ It is so 
 refreshing here, Matty. The sea looks grand to-day.” 
 “ Grand. Yes ; but dangerous. Think of the ships 
 and — But what is that ? " she cried in sudden 
 excitement. “ What are those men carrying ? Bab ! 
 Bab ! It is some one who has been drowned. Who 
 can it be ? ” 
 
CAST UP BY THE SEA 
 
 5i 
 
 The fishermen laid down their burden as Miss 
 Matilda pressed forward to question them. 
 
 “ ’Tis a little lass, ma’am,” said one, drawing down 
 the cloth that covered the girl. “ A little lass, with a 
 baby in her arms.” 
 
 “ Poor child ! Is she dead ? ” 
 
 “ No, no. The life’s in her yet.” 
 
 “ Then, why do you waste time in restoring her ? 
 Bring her into our house. Carry her in at once. 
 Come, you can lay her on my bed.” 
 
 “ You are a good woman, Miss Matilda. God will 
 reward you.” 
 
 “ Come ; waste no time.” 
 
 The men raised the stretcher and followed the old 
 lady into the cottage. The bed was warmed, restora- 
 tives applied, and in a short time Madge and Sylvia 
 were sleeping peacefully, whilst Miss Matilda watched 
 beside them with loving anxiety. 
 
 “ Matilda,” whispered Barbara, stealing up to the 
 bedside and gazing at the children in alarm, “ it was 
 foolish to take them in. W e are poor. How can we 
 feed and clothe these unfortunate waifs ? ” 
 
 Miss Matilda raised her eyes towards heaven. A 
 beautiful smile played round the corners of her mouth, 
 and illumined her withered countenance. 
 
 “ God sent them to us,” she said simply. “ I am 
 glad ; happy to shelter them and save them from 
 starvation — or the workhouse. We are poor, as you 
 say ; but believe me, sister, God is good — something 
 will surely turn up.” 
 
CHAPTEE VI 
 
 A CKUEL SEPAEATION 
 
 In a few days Madge was herself again. The damp 
 night air, the terrors of shipwreck, and the cruel 
 struggle with the angry waves, had done her but small 
 injury. The old ladies who had so kindly taken her 
 in, treated her with such tender care and considera- 
 tion, that in a short time she was once more restored 
 to her usual health and strength. But poor little 
 Sylvia drooped and pined. The cold and fatigue, the 
 long exposure she had endured, had shaken her 
 delicate frame and left her very fragile. The child 
 grew pale and thin ; all her energy seemed gone ; and 
 she would lie for hours together on her bed without 
 word or movement. 
 
 Madge was distracted with grief. Sylvia was all 
 she had in the world to love, and the thought that 
 she too might die, and leave her, was anguish. She 
 watched her night and day. All her time was spent . 
 by her bedside ; all her prayers were for her recovery. 
 
 Then, by degrees, Sylvia grew brighter, and when 
 the sun shone, and the air felt warm and balmy, 
 Madge would wrap her up carefully, and carry her 
 
 52 
 
A CRUEL SEPARATION 
 
 53 
 
 down to the beach. Here they would sit the best 
 part of the day — Sylvia sleeping or playing with shells, 
 Madge reading, or thinking sadly over their unhappy 
 fate. 
 
 One day, about six months after their rescue from 
 the waves, Madge sat as usual amongst the rocks with 
 Sylvia on her knee. The child had improved of late. 
 She had still a white, pinched look about her little 
 face. Her form was slight, her back weak, her 
 shoulders round. But her eyes were bright, and her 
 lips wreathed with smiles, as she looked up at Madge, 
 and listened to her sweet low song. 
 
 Miss Barbara suddenly appeared at the cottage 
 door, and, shading her eyes with her hand, gazed down 
 towards the beach. 
 
 “ Here they are,” she said. “ I must speak to 
 Madge at once. It will be a blow to the child. But 
 what can we do ? ” 
 
 She picked her way across the stones, and, coming 
 behind Madge, touched her on the shoulder. 
 
 She first started and looked round. Then, seeing 
 who was there, moved a little, and made room for the 
 old lady beside her on the rock. 
 
 “ Sylvia is better to-day,” she said brightly. “ See, 
 Miss Barbara, she looks quite gay.” 
 
 “ So she does. And I am delighted to see the 
 change. It will make it more easy for you to part 
 with her.” 
 
 “ Part with her ? Oh, Miss Barbara — I— why ? ” 
 
 “ My dear child,” answered the lady kindly, “ some- 
 
54 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 thing must be done. We cannot go on as we have 
 been doing any longer. We cannot, indeed.” 
 
 “ But — but parting with baby. What difference 
 can that make ? ” 
 
 “ This. And you must not be vexed, child. It is 
 necessity that forces me to speak. There will be one 
 less to feed, and you will have time to work.” 
 
 Madge flushed hotly, and turned away her head. 
 But presently she looked round again. Her eyes were 
 full of tears. “ I have been very thoughtless — very 
 selfish,” she cried. “ But, indeed, from this hour I 
 will work hard. Only — please — please don’t send 
 Sylvia away.” 
 
 “ My dear, we must, and, believe me, it will be for 
 your good and hers.” 
 
 “ Oh, how — how ? ” sobbed Madge. 
 
 “ In this way. You will be able to work and earn 
 your bread, and at the same time educate yourself ; 
 whilst she will be happy and well taken care of.” 
 
 “ But where is she to go ? ” 
 
 “ To the Orphanage at Plymouth.” 
 
 Madge gasped. 
 
 “ To the Orphanage. Oh, Miss Barbara ! ” 
 
 “ Well, dear, it is all we can do for her. And it is 
 only through the kind influence of the squire’s wife 
 that we can manage even that. You tell us the 
 child belongs to rich people — that her grandfather is 
 wealthy — but your information is vague ; beyond that, 
 and that his name is Atherstone, you know nothing. 
 So how are we ever to get at him ? ” 
 
A CRUEL SEPARATION 
 
 55 
 
 “ We must find her grandfather in time.” 
 
 “ In time, perhaps. But that may mean years, or 
 never. Advertisements have been put in the papers. 
 But no notice has been taken. And surely, if any 
 man were in doubt as to the fate of his grandchild, he 
 would have made a fuss, advertised, put detectives on 
 the track, and ” — 
 
 “ He thinks she is dead, I suppose. But one day 
 we shall find him out. How I wish I knew his name 
 and address ! But papa and Anne always spoke of 
 him as Mr. Atherstone’s father, and I never thought 
 of asking where he lived. He was in England, that 
 was enough for me. But now, Miss Barbara, I’d give 
 the world to know more.” 
 
 “ Yes, it would be a blessing, dear. But now, as 
 you don’t, and as we cannot find him, the child must 
 be provided for. So Matilda and I have arranged to 
 take her to the Orphanage at once, to-morrow or next 
 day.” 
 
 “ Poor little Sylvia, poor little pet ! ” 
 
 And Madge bowed her head, and wept bitterly. 
 
 “ My dear, she is not going to prison. She will be 
 kindly treated and carefully trained. You will be 
 allowed to visit her at certain times, and you will be 
 able to take her little things bought out of your wages.’" 
 
 “ My wages ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. Sister and I have been thinking that, when 
 the child is gone, you would be anxious to earn some 
 money, and so we thought you might be our servant. 
 At least, you might help us in our work.” 
 
56 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Dear Miss Barbara, I'll do anything you want,” 
 cried Madge, with streaming eyes. “ You and Miss 
 Matilda have been so good to me. I’ll work all day 
 — and — and — now — I see my darling must go. But, 
 oh, it is hard — so hard, for she is all I have.” 
 
 “ It is hard, I know, dearest. She has taken the 
 place of father, mother, sister,” replied Miss Barbara 
 gently. “ But listen, child ; if you work well in the 
 mornings in the house, you shall go to school in the 
 afternoons. The organist will teach you music, if he 
 finds you have talent ; and the squire’s daughter, 
 Miss Tranmore, has offered to teach you French. 
 You are a lady born, we see ; and we are resolved to 
 do all we can to give you a lady’s education. Our 
 friends are most generous, and anxious to help us.” 
 
 “ You are good, you are good ! ” murmured Madge. 
 “ Miss Barbara, how can I ever thank you ? ” 
 
 “ By working well, and giving up your little sister 
 as cheerfully as you can. And that reminds me, dear, 
 of something I must tell you. We all think that 
 baby’s story need not be told at the Orphanage, or in 
 the village. It is useless, and may cause her annoy- 
 ance as she grows older. It is enough to say she is an 
 orphan, without mentioning her rich grandfather. For 
 who knows ? — if the authorities heard of him, they 
 might refuse to admit her, and then what should we do ?” 
 “ Just as you please ; I don’t suppose it matters.” 
 “And then this miniature and gold chain. You 
 had better keep them for her till she grows up, and 
 you tell her her story.” 
 
A CRUEL SEPARATION 
 
 57 
 
 “ Till she grows up ? Is my darling to be poor all 
 her life, then ? ” 
 
 “ Probably. I see no chance of anything else.” 
 
 “ Poor little Sylvia ! ” 
 
 “ And, Madge, the squire’s wife thinks Sylvia too 
 grand a name ; she says we should call the child 
 something more simple.” 
 
 Madge drew the baby to her breast and kissed her 
 passionately. 
 
 “ Very well,” she said. “ We are two lonely, 
 desolate waifs. She has taken my sister’s place — she 
 shall take my sister’s name. That is simple enough, 
 even for a penniless orphan.” 
 
 “ Dora Neil ? Yes, that will do admirably.” 
 
 Then Miss Barbara bowed her head, and left the 
 children alone. 
 
 The next day Sylvia was carried to Plymouth, and 
 admitted to the Orphanage as Madge’s sister, little 
 Dorothy Neil. 
 
CHAPTEE YII 
 
 A REVELATION 
 
 After this, Madge became invaluable to the two old 
 ladies. At noon, every day, she went to the village 
 school ; on certain evenings she received music-lessons 
 from the organist, and for three hours each week she 
 studied French with Miss Tranmore, the squire’s 
 accomplished daughter. But the rest of her time was 
 devoted to the service of her kind benefactors. She 
 made the beds and swept the floors ; she cooked the 
 dinner and washed the plates and dishes — did every- 
 thing, in fact, that a maid-of-all-work might do. But 
 Miss Barbara helped as much as possible. And so, 
 though often tired and weary, the girl was never 
 taxed beyond her strength. 
 
 Madge was clever, and made rapid progress with 
 her studies. She was bright, intelligent, and orderly ; 
 and as she grew older and stronger, she took upon her- 
 self the entire control of the cottage and its feeble 
 inmates. Her employers began gradually to look to 
 her for direction. Whatever she wished was right. 
 Whatever she wanted done, was done. 
 
 Under her careful management, the little shop near 
 
 53 
 
A REVELATION 
 
 59 
 
 the beach became more attractive; the stock-in-trade 
 more useful and likely to sell. The old ladies them- 
 selves seemed to grow younger, instead of older, and 
 quite enjoyed papering up the many parcels they 
 were called upon to make. For they were doing a 
 good business, and took more money in a week now, 
 than they had done in a month, before Madge came 
 to live with them. 
 
 And the girl herself was very happy. She led a 
 busy, active life, and knew that she was loved by her 
 dear old friends. 
 
 And so the time passed quickly by. And when 
 Madge was twenty, tall, strong, and straight, she had 
 but one trouble in the world, and that was that she 
 was still forced to leave her adopted sister — her 
 darling Dora — in the Orphanage. 
 
 True, she saw her often, and Dora seemed well 
 cared for and content. But she longed to have the 
 child with her, to surround her with the many comforts 
 that love alone can suggest. 
 
 This, however, was impossible ; and she tried not to 
 repine. Till Dora was old enough to earn her bread, 
 it was better she should remain where she was ; and 
 this fact Madge made the little girl understand as 
 soon as she was capable of doing so. 
 
 The events of that awful night, when the children 
 had lost everyone and everything belonging to them, 
 rose frequently in poor Madge’s mind, and filled her 
 with sorrow. 
 
 “ If we could only have found my darling’s grand- 
 
6o 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 father, how different would have been her lot !'” she 
 would think, each time she left the Orphanage. “ ’Tis 
 cruel to see her being brought up in such a severe 
 school, when she should have every luxury that money 
 could buy. However, the child, if not actually happy, 
 is content. She knows nothing of what might have 
 been — I have spared her that pain. Such knowledge 
 would only unsettle her mind, and make her long for 
 what she can never have. I have now come to the 
 conclusion that we shall never find either Mr. 
 Atherstone or his father. So, when Dora is old 
 enough, she must work for herself/’ 
 
 So thought Madge — and so certainly thought the 
 two old ladies, till an incident occurred that changed 
 all their ideas, and encouraged the young girl to under- 
 take the arduous task of finding Sir Eustace Atherstone 
 and placing his grand-daughter in his arms. 
 
 One afternoon, Madge walked along the dusty road 
 leading from Plymouth to the little village where she 
 lived. She had been up to Tranmore Court to see the 
 Squire’s daughter, with whom she still read French 
 two or three times a week. Miss Tranmore was 
 extremely fond of the girl, and very proud of her as a 
 pupil. 
 
 “ I declare, Madge,” she had said that day, “ you 
 are wasting your time here. You are too good for 
 your present position. I really think you ought to 
 go out as a governess ; your music alone would insure 
 your getting an excellent place.” 
 
 u You are very kind to say so,” replied Madge, 
 
A REVELATION 
 
 61 
 
 blushing ; “ and I often wish I could do something 
 of that kind. But I would not like to leave my dear 
 old friends. They are very dependent on me now.” 
 
 “ I suppose they are. And I daresay you are right 
 not to desert them. But if you ever think of becoming 
 a governess, remember, I will help you all I can.” 
 
 Madge thanked Miss Tranmore, and took her leave. 
 And as she walked home, she pondered deeply over 
 her present position and future propects. 
 
 “ If by going out as a governess,” she thought, “ I 
 could earn more money and save for Dora, I might — 
 perhaps I ought to go. There is little to be done 
 here ; and I sometimes weary of this dreary, 
 monotonous existence. But yet, I could not be 
 ungrateful. I owe my life, my health, and strength, 
 to those dear old ladies ; and as long as they live, my 
 time and energies shall be devoted to them. Poor 
 Dora ! if only I could help her to a better — a more 
 agreeable way of living.” 
 
 Feeling hot and tired after her walk in the sun, 
 Madge wandered down on the beach just below the 
 cottage, and, seating herself on a rock, gazed out sadly 
 over the calm blue sea. 
 
 “ How peaceful and still it looks ; and yet how 
 cruel — how cruel it can be ! ” she said, shuddering. 
 “ Shall I ever — ever forget that terrible night ? My 
 mother's sudden death ; my poor father's sinking 
 down — almost before my eyes. 0 God ! my God, 
 how dreadful it was ! And then to think of that 
 child — the injustice she has suffered ! She who 
 
62 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 should have wealth and luxury, she who should have 
 every care and comfort, brought up as a pauper 
 — thrown with common companions — subjected to a 
 treatment which, though not actually cruel or severe, 
 is trying to one of her frail constitution.” 
 
 “ Please,” said a sweet voice, “ could you tell me 
 the name of this stone ? ” 
 
 Madge looked up, her eyes filled with tears, but 
 could not speak for a moment. She was struck dumb 
 with astonishment. 
 
 Before her stood a dainty little lady of about ten 
 years old. She had a beautiful face, large luminous 
 dark eyes, thick chestnut hair, that grew in clustering 
 curls round her forehead ; a clear, fresh complexion, 
 and a merry, laughing mouth. She was dressed in 
 pure white. A broad Leghorn hat and drooping feathers 
 shaded her from the sun. Her pretty feet were 
 covered with the neatest of boots ; her tiny hands in 
 the softest of Su&de gloves. 
 
 Madge was filled with wonder. Such a fairy as 
 this was an unusual sight in Oldport, and she could 
 not imagine where she had come from. Something 
 in the little girl’s expression seemed familiar; yet 
 never in her life had she ever seen her before. She 
 was about Dora’s height and age, but much more 
 healthy. And, alas ! how differently attired. And 
 as a vision of that beloved child, clad in her coarse 
 orphan’s uniform, rose before Madge, she sighed heavily. 
 
 “ You seem sad,” said the little stranger gently. 
 “ I am sorry I disturbed you.” 
 
A REVELATION 
 
 63 
 
 “ No, no,” cried Madge ; “ you only startled and 
 surprised me. I did not know you were near me 
 till you spoke. What did you ask me ? ” 
 
 “ I wanted to know what this stone was called.” 
 Madge smiled. 
 
 “ I don’t think that is a stone. It is only a piece 
 of glass, or of a soda-water bottle, probably, that has 
 been knocked about in the sea and washed over the 
 stones and rocks till it has got worn into that shape.” 
 “ Really ? That’s very curious. Thank you very 
 much. I will put this amongst my treasures. Good- 
 bye. I see nurse beckoning to me. I must go. May 
 I kiss you ? ” 
 
 And before Madge had time to reply, the child 
 stooped and kissed her on the lips ; then, with a smile 
 and a bow, flitted off over the shingle. 
 
 Madge turned to look after her; and just above the 
 beach, on the road, she saw a carriage and pair. Close 
 beside it stood an elderly woman, waving her hand and 
 calling to the little girl. 
 
 “ Miss Sylvia, we are late. Come quickly, please.” 
 Madge grew pale as death, and started to her feet. 
 Sylvia ? What did the woman mean ? Why 
 did she call the child by that name ? 
 
 “ Miss Sylvia ! dear me, do hurry ! There is going 
 to be a thunderstorm. Quick, quick ! ” 
 
 “Yes, Anne, I’m coming. But, Anne, Anne, the 
 stones hurt my feet.” 
 
 The woman stepped down upon the beach, and gave 
 the child her hand. 
 
64 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Madge hurried forward, and, gazing at the nurse, 
 said faintly — 
 
 “ Are you — can you be Anne Dane ? ” 
 
 The stranger looked at her in amazement. 
 
 “ Yes. "Why do you ask ? ” 
 
 “ Because ” — Madge trembled, and her tongue 
 seemed tied to the roof of her mouth ; her voice was 
 low and hoarse, her words indistinct — “ Because, if 
 you are Anne Dane, who was wrecked in the Cimbria, 
 who, or what is that child ? ” 
 
 Anne became livid, and gazed wildly round. The 
 rain came down suddenly in great thick drops. 
 
 “ Miss Sylvia,” she cried, “ jump into the carriage — 
 quick ! ” 
 
 The little girl did as she was told. Anne followed 
 her at once, and as she closed the door, she said to 
 Madge — 
 
 “ I am Anne Dane. I cannot think why you ask ; 
 but I was wrecked in the Cimbria. And this child is 
 Miss Sylvia Atherstone.” 
 
 “ No, no ! ” shrieked Madge, running towards her 
 with outstretched arms ; she is not — “ she cannot be 
 — Sylvia is” — 
 
 But she talked to the wind. The carriage had 
 whirled off down the road, and she was alone. The 
 rain now fell in torrents, the thunder crashed loudly 
 over her head ; and, feeling dazed and bewildered, she 
 ran on to the cottage. 
 
 That evening Madge could think of nothing but 
 this strange meeting. She related all that had 
 
A REVELATION 65 
 
 happened to the two old ladies, and together they 
 talked it over, and wondered what it all meant. 
 
 “ Miss Matilda,” said Madge thoughtfully, “ I have 
 had a revelation to-day. I now know, what I never 
 before suspected. Anne Dane was saved from the 
 wreck, and is doing well. That is evident, and is not, 
 after all, so very wonderful. But the child — Sylvia 
 — that is what I cannot, cannot understand.” 
 
 “ Well, dear,” answered Miss Matilda, “ it is possible 
 that there may he another Sylvia Atherstone, daughter of 
 another son. She, of course, would be the old gentle- 
 man’s grandchild as well as our poor darling, and ” — 
 
 “ That is not probable, for she is, I should say, just 
 the same age — and — But oh, Miss Matilda, a wild, a 
 strange idea has taken possession of me. Anne has 
 deceived Mr. Atherstone, defrauded the real Sylvia of 
 her rights, and put another — a strange child — in her 
 place.” 
 
 “ My dear Madge ! But what child ? Who ? ” 
 
 “ You know I told you that my little sister Dora 
 was the same age as Sylvia ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. But she was drowned, remember.” 
 
 “ How do we know ? We thought Anne Dane was 
 drowned, but she’s not.” 
 
 “ Then you think ” — 
 
 “ I think, I believe,” cried Madge in great excite- 
 ment, “ that Dora was not drowned, but that Anne 
 and she were saved together ; and that this child, this 
 pretty little girl I saw with her to-day, is no other 
 than my sister, Dora Neil.” 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Dear, dear ! ” cried Miss Barbara ; “ what a strange 
 idea ! But how can we prove such a thing, even if 
 we knew where to find these people ? ” 
 
 Madge paced restlessly up and down the little 
 parlour. 
 
 “ How, indeed ? How, indeed ? ” she murmured. 
 
 “ But it shall be done. From this hour I shall 
 devote my life, my time, my energies, to finding Mr. 
 Atherstone, and proving that he has been deceived. 
 My darling Sylvia shall be restored to her rights. 
 J ustice shall be done, and ” — 
 
 “ That will be a difficult task, dear,” said Miss 
 Matilda. “ And how, living in this small, quiet place, 
 are you to accomplish it ? ” 
 
 “ I shall leave this quiet place. Go ” — 
 
 Miss Matilda lay back in her chair and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 “ Will you leave us, Madge ? — leave us, who love 
 you, to run over the world after such a shadow ? ” 
 Madge knelt beside the old lady, and, putting her 
 arms round her, kissed her tenderly. 
 
 “No, dear; I’ll never leave you. Do not fret. So 
 long as you require me, I’ll stay with you here. But 
 I know — I feel certain that some day or other I must, 
 I will restore my poor darling to her proper position 
 in life. The thought that my sister, my pretty, 
 innocent Dora, is usurping her place and defrauding 
 her of her rights is bitter — very bitter to mo. ’ 
 
 “ But you are not quite certain that it is so, dear. Do 
 not worry about if, and something will surely turn up.” 
 
A REVELATION 
 
 67 
 
 The young girl smiled, and pressed Miss Matilda’s 
 hand. 
 
 “ That is not the plan I go on, generally. I am 
 not fond of waiting for something to turn up. But I 
 must be content to do so now. My first duty is to 
 you and Miss Barbara. Therefore we must forget this 
 strange episode, and go on as if it had never happened.” 
 
 Miss Matilda dried her eyes, and looked lovingly 
 at Madge. 
 
 “ God bless you, darling ! Your words relieve me 
 greatly. I thought you were going to leave us, and I 
 felt sad and sick at heart. You are the one bright 
 spot in our lives, Madge. Without you we should 
 die.” 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A VOICE FROM TI1E WILDERNESS 
 
 Madge was true to her word. She talked no more 
 of leaving Oldport, and life in the cottage went on as 
 before. 
 
 So the long years passed. Spring, summer, autumn, 
 and winter came and went in quick succession, with- 
 out making any difference to Madge. But she never 
 forgot that strange meeting on the beach, and fondly 
 imagined that some day or other she would see Anne 
 Dane on that very spot once more. Two or three 
 times a week she would go and sit upon the self-same 
 rock, hoping to see the child Sylvia coming towards 
 her over the stones. 
 
 “ Perhaps I may meet her to-day,” she would say. 
 “ Then I shall question her closely, and find out the 
 true state of the case.” 
 
 But every visit was a fresh disappointment. 
 Neither nurse nor child ever appeared upon the beach 
 again, and Madge was as far as ever from discovering 
 the truth. 
 
 At last, despairing of ever meeting them, Madge 
 
 made one more effort. She wrote out a long adver- 
 se 
 
A VOICE FROM THE WILDERNESS 69 
 
 tisement, calling upon Anne Dane to do justice to 
 her master's child, and imploring her to communicate 
 with M. N., Oldport, near Plymouth. This she sent 
 to the Times, paying for it out of her savings. 
 For days, weeks, months, she watched eagerly for an 
 answer. But, alas ! none came. Stealing away from 
 her work to the newsvendor's, where she was allowed 
 a peep at the supplement by the good-natured woman 
 who kept the shop, Madge would search anxiously 
 for some sign that her advertisement had been seen. 
 This went on for two years, and then the girl lost 
 heart, and resigned herself to the inevitable. 
 
 “If only I were rich,” she would say, “I might 
 discover this woman, and punish her for her treachery. 
 As it is, I am utterly powerless.” 
 
 One evening Madge stood at the cottage door, 
 silently weeping. Kind-hearted Miss Matilda was ill, 
 and as the girl came out from the sick-room, and gazed 
 across the sea, her heart was heavy, her thoughts full 
 of sadness. The old lady was dying. So the doctors 
 said. And after fourteen years spent in her service, 
 — fourteen years daring which she had been treated 
 with much tenderness, — Madge was overwhelmed with 
 grief as she saw the gentle friend fade slowly, but 
 surely, to the grave. 
 
 Dear Miss Matilda ! ” she murmured, whilst tears 
 filled her eyes, and ran unheeded down her cheeks ; 
 
 but for you, where should I be to-day — I and — my 
 poor Dora ?- and now you are going to leave us ! ” 
 And, bowing her head, the girl sobbed aloud. 
 
7 ° 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Madge ! " A pair of arms stole about her neck, 
 and a little face, surrounded with a halo of short 
 golden curls, was laid fondly against her breast. “ You 
 must not weep, dearest. Miss Matilda is happier 
 than we are.” 
 
 “ Why, darling ? ” And Madge clasped the speaker 
 tightly in her arms. 
 
 “ Because she is leaving this weary world, and going 
 home to God. She looks so happy, so peaceful, I am 
 sure she is going to heaven. Oh, Madge, Madge, what 
 a happiness it would be to go in her place — or with 
 her ! ” 
 
 “ But, Dora, you are not unhappy, love ? ” 
 
 “ Not now, Madge. Not when I am with you.” 
 Madge sighed, and kissed the girl passionately. 
 
 “ Would that I could keep you always, pet ! And 
 perhaps soon I may be able to do so.” 
 
 “ I could work, dear. I am small and thin, but 
 I can sew beautifully.” And, with a shudder, “ I do 
 so hate the Orphanage.” 
 
 “ But they are not unkind to you there ? ” 
 
 “ No, not exactly ; but they are rough and rude. 
 And you see I am not like the others, Madge.” 
 
 “ No, dearest, not at all like.” 
 
 “ They are, for the most part, big, healthy girls, 
 strong and tall and well made, whilst I ” — and the 
 poor child hid her blushing face. “ I — oh, Madge, I 
 am deformed.” 
 
 “ My darling, who told you so ? ” 
 
 “ The girls. They laugh at me, and call me 1 Humpy.’ ” 
 
A VOICE FROM THE WILDERNESS 71 
 
 “ What a shame ! ” cried Madge, with flaming 
 cheeks. “ But do not mind them, darling ; it is not 
 true. You are small and fragile. Your shoulders 
 are a little round because you are weak. That cruel 
 shipwreck injured your poor spine ; but the doctor 
 says if you could lie, you would outgrow it, and become 
 as straight as anyone. That night upon the sea nearly 
 killed you, my delicate child ; and so ” — 
 
 But Madge could say no more. The sight of those 
 appealing eyes, the sad spectacle of Doras thin, bent 
 little frame, was more than she could bear, and she 
 sobbed bitterly. 
 
 “ Even you, with all your love, cannot deceive me,” 
 said Dora sadly. " I know I am not like other girls. 
 I used not to mind it so much. But now, since you 
 told me who I am— since I have heard what I ought 
 to be, everything seems harder. I know it is God's 
 will, and I try to bear it ; but still ” — 
 
 “ Oh, Dora, Dora, I would die to make you happy. 
 But what can I do ? ” And Madge pressed the girl 
 to her heart. 
 
 “ Let me stay with you,” pleaded Dora. “ Do not 
 send me back to the Orphanage.” 
 
 “ My darling, if it lay with me, I would never part 
 with you again. But you see our poor old friends.” 
 
 “ Are we quite dependent on them ? ” 
 
 “ Quite. We have not a penny in the world except 
 what they give us.” 
 
 “ But you work well for them, Madge — sweeping 
 and dusting and cooking, when you are fit for much 
 
72 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 better things. The matron says you are very well 
 educated, and that you are wasting your time here. 
 She says you ought to go out as a governess.” 
 
 “ Dora,” said Madge gravely, “ I am not wasting 
 my time. I do work for my dear friends ; but that is 
 because I think it right. They were good to me in 
 my childhood — they took me in when I was rescued 
 an unhappy waif from the sea, and loved and cared 
 for me all these years. Therefore I cannot — I must 
 not desert them in their old age. Were it not so — 
 had I not this sacred duty to perform — I should 
 certainly be out in the world, seeking for some trace 
 of that cruel, deceitful woman who has robbed you, 
 my pet, of your birthright.” 
 
 “ But she does not know I am alive, perhaps. Do 
 not be too hard on her, Madge.” 
 
 “ She must know. I feel she knows. There was 
 guilt in her face that day on the beach. If she had 
 nothing to fear, Dora, why did she not speak to me ? 
 Why did she hurry the child away ? She knows, or 
 for some reason dreads to know, that you are alive. 
 But some day — some happy day, she shall be un- 
 masked, and you, my pet, shall be rich and ” — 
 
 “ I don’t want to be rich, Madge. I only want to 
 be with you. And — and — this fine rich gentleman, 
 
 my grandfather, would not care to acknowledge a poor 
 little creature brought up in an orphanage as his 
 grand-daughter. I am sure he would not.” 
 
 “ But he must. He shall ! ” cried Madge fiercely. 
 If only I could find him — if only I could find him 
 
A VOICE FROM TIIE WILDERNESS 73 
 
 But I am tied here, Dora, and know not what 
 to do.” 
 
 “ Do nothing, dearest. Forget the whole affair. 
 Forget that such persons as Anne Dane and these 
 Atherstones exist ; and let us consider what we can 
 do to earn money and be independent. I am nearly 
 sixteen, Madge ; and I long — I cannot tell you how 
 much — to leave the Orphanage.” 
 
 “ I will speak to Miss Barbara in a day or two. 
 For the present, whilst Miss Matilda is ill, you are 
 useful, and she likes to have you. She sent for you, 
 Dora — I would not have dared to do so, my darling.” 
 
 “ I shall go up to the Court to-morrow morning, 
 and ask MLss Tranmore for some work. I can sew 
 beautifully, Madge ; and I intend to be a dress- 
 maker.” 
 
 “ Poor little Dora — poor little Dora ! ” murmured 
 Madge ; “ how different— how different should have 
 been your fate ! ” 
 
 “ You must not complain, Madge ; God has, after 
 all, been very good to us. He gave us kind friends ; 
 for, although poor, our dear old ladies have loved and 
 watched over us well.” 
 
 “ You have a sweet, loving nature, my darling,” cried 
 Madge, drawing the girl towards her and kissing her 
 tenderly. “You are always good and patient. But I 
 fear your life at the Orphanage has not been a happy 
 one.” 
 
 “ Yet not unhappy. Had I been — well, stronger ” 
 
 • — Dora blushed deeply — and a little rougher, I 
 
74 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 would surely have got on better. Still, dear, I was 
 never unkindly treated.” 
 
 “ Yet you long to leave the place, even at the risk 
 of wanting much and working hard. Oh, Dora, Dora, 
 you have suffered much. But believe me, dearest, I 
 was powerless to prevent it.” 
 
 “ Of course. I know that well, my darling sister,” 
 said Dora caressingly. “ And now that I am almost a 
 woman, I feel I must work, and do what I can for 
 myself. So if you will allow me, I’ll stay with you 
 here, and seek work in the village.” 
 
 “ You shall do so if I can manage it, dearest ; and 
 I know our friends will keep you if they can. Miss 
 Tranmore would help you too. However, we shall 
 see. I must go in now, Dora; Miss Matilda may be 
 awake, perhaps.” 
 
 “ Yes, she has slept long this afternoon. But stay 
 for a moment, Madge. There comes the postman — he 
 may have something for you.” 
 
 “ I think not, dear,” said Madge, smiling. “ A 
 letter for me is an unheard-of event. We are utterly 
 friendless, you and I, Dora ; outside this small village 
 there is not a creature knows of our very existence.” 
 
 “ Then Anne Dane is not the cruel, hard-hearted 
 woman you sometimes make her out,” said Dora 
 roguishly. “ If she doesn’t know ” — 
 
 “ Anne Dane. I forgot her for the moment. But 
 she does not care to remember. In fact ” — 
 
 “ A letter for Miss Madge Neil,” said the postman, 
 • — “ a registered letter.” 
 
A VOICE FROM THE WILDERNESS 75 
 
 Then, as the girl gave him her signature for the 
 letter, he touched his hat, smiled at the look of sur- 
 prise on her face, and, bidding her “good evening, 1 ” 
 passed on. 
 
 Madge stared at the address, and turned the letter 
 round. 
 
 " Who can it be from ? ” whispered Dora. 
 
 “ I don’t know, dear. I cannot think.” 
 
 “ Perhaps it is a mistake ? ” 
 
 “ No, dear,” replied Madge slowly, “ it must be for 
 me. See, it has my name in full. It cannot be a 
 mistake.” 
 
 “ Then look at it, Madge. Quick. I am longing 
 to know what it is about.” 
 
 Madge tore open the envelope, and a cry escaped 
 her lips. 
 
 Within the packet W’ere Bank of England notes — 
 five crisp ten-pound notes, and round them was a 
 sheet of paper, on which was written — 
 
 “ To Madge Neil, from one who wishes her well in 
 life” 
 
 The young girl flushed hotly ; then grew suddenly 
 white as marble. 
 
 “ It is from Anne Dane,” she cried, with trembling 
 lips. “ She has seen my advertisement. She knows 
 now — has known for years, that you live.” 
 
 “ But, Madge, perhaps it is not from her. 
 How 
 
 “ My dear, it must be from her. She is the only 
 creature in the world, outside this village, who ever 
 
?6 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 heard of Madge Neil. She must have seen my last 
 advertisement in the Times . She is stricken with 
 
 remorse ; but alas ! alas ! it only makes her after all 
 these years send a little money. If she had but 
 given her address ! Would that she had — would 
 that she had ! ” 
 
 “ This comes from London, Madge,” said Dora, 
 examining the postmark. “ She lives in London, 
 perhaps.” 
 
 “ A voice from the wilderness,” said Madge 
 dreamingly, as she took the envelope ; “ from the 
 wilderness, but still distinctly a voice — for this small 
 indication will be a help, a ray of light, dear, that 
 may aid us to discover her. Some day, as soon as 
 I am free, we shall go to London, and with God's 
 assistance we shall find this woman, and restore you 
 to your home and friends.” 
 
 “ If you are determined to do so, it shall be done,” 
 cried Dora, clinging to Madge and laying her head 
 upon her breast. “ But, indeed, darling, I want no 
 other friends than you. They would all be strangers 
 to me, and I hate strangers.” 
 
 “ Poor little girl,” said Madge gently, smoothing 
 the golden hair, — “ poor little tender-hearted darling. 
 But one thing is certain now, pet. You need not 
 return to the Orphanage. This money makes that 
 quite unnecessary.” 
 
 “ Oh, Madge, what joy ! ” cried Dora rapturously, 
 “ I positively love Anne Dane. Her money has made 
 me happier than I have ever been before. To live 
 
A VOICE FROM THE WILDERNESS 77 
 
 with you has been the dream of my life. This cottage 
 always seemed a small paradise to me. So, Madge, 
 Madge, Anne Dane is my benefactor after all ! ” And 
 Dora’s sweet, silvery laughter rang out on the evening 
 air. 
 
 “ I am thankful to her for having made you happy, 
 darling,” answered Madge gravely. “ But oh, the 
 years of happiness she has robbed you of ! ” 
 
 “ Do not be unjust, dearest. It has not been 
 altogether her fault, remember ! ” 
 
 “ Of course not. She did not cause the shipwreck, 
 or our separation in the boats. However, some day 
 we shall know all. Come in now, dear, and see if 
 Miss Matilda still sleeps.” 
 
 And Madge kissed little Dora’s earnest, pleading 
 lips, and drew her into the cottage. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 ON THE TRACK 
 
 Miss Matilda’s sleep that afternoon was long and 
 deep, for never again did she open her eyes to look 
 upon sister or children, but passed away in silent 
 peace. 
 
 From the hour of her sister’s death, Miss Barbara 
 drooped and pined. She fell into a state of 
 melancholy and depression, grew weak in mind 
 and body, and was an object of constant care and 
 attention. 
 
 Madge watched over her with all the love and 
 tenderness of a loving daughter, whilst Dora helped 
 with the housework and looked after the little shop. 
 
 But at last, as winter changed into spring, the poor 
 lady caught a severe cold, and in a few short days 
 followed her beloved Matilda to the grave. 
 
 Madge mourned deeply for the loss of her kind 
 friends ; and yet she could not but rejoice at the 
 freedom that their death had given her. She was 
 now her own mistress; and after many years of 
 patient waiting was at liberty to leave Oldport, and 
 go forth into the world, in search of Anne Dane. 
 
 7S 
 
ON THE TRACK 
 
 79 
 
 So, without delay, she resolved to give up the 
 cottage and start for London, The sale of the stock 
 that remained in the shop, and the simple furniture 
 of the house, brought her some ten or twelve pounds. 
 This, and the money sent by her anonymous friend, 
 was the sum total of her fortune. But with that 
 amount the girls felt they could make their way to 
 the metropolis, and live with economy, till Madge got 
 on as a daily governess, and Dora as a dressmaker's 
 assistant. 
 
 All these arrangements took some time to make ; 
 but at last they were complete. Everything was 
 sold. The cottage passed into the hands of strangers ; 
 and Madge and Dora, having packed up all their 
 belongings, were looking forward eagerly to their 
 much-talked-of journey. 
 
 During the days of the sale, and whilst Madge 
 wound up her affairs, the two girls stayed at the 
 house of a respectable woman, who had known them 
 from their childhood. She had a married sister who 
 let lodgings in London, and to her Madge wrote, 
 asking if she could give her a couple of rooms in her 
 house. 
 
 But when Mrs. Skinner's reply came, the girl was 
 horrified at the sum demanded for the small accom- 
 modation she required. It was more than Miss 
 Matilda had paid for the cottage in which they had 
 all lived comfortably, and she feared she could not 
 afford to spend so much upon her rooms alone. 
 
 “ Lor’ bless you, that’s nothing for London,” said 
 
So 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 their hostess. “ J ust you wait, Miss Madge, till you 
 
 see how dear everything is. You'll be astonished.” 
 
 “ But there must be cheaper places than this, 
 surely,” replied Madge. “ I must try and find one, 
 Mrs. Fleet. I must, indeed.” 
 
 “ Well, miss, take my advice and go there first ; it’s 
 a respectable place. And my sister’s an honest 
 woman. You didn’t ought to go wanderin’ through 
 London promiscuous like, you an’ Miss Dora. You 
 didn’t ought to, indeed.” 
 
 “Perhaps not, Mrs. Fleet,” said Madge, sighing, 
 “ It is a large rent, but I suppose I’d better take the 
 rooms for the present.” 
 
 And she wrote off engaging them at once. 
 
 “ And now, my darling,” Madge said to Dora on 
 the morning of their departure from Oldport, “ we 
 have two farewell visits to pay. One to the cemetery, 
 to place our last flowers upou our friends’ grave, 
 the other to Miss Tranmore. Are you nearly ready 
 to start ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. I have just finished,” answered Dora. 
 And she held up a beautiful wreath of primroses and 
 violets. “ Is it not pretty ? ” 
 
 “ Lovely, dearest. You have the fingers of a fairy. 
 You could make anything, I believe.” 
 
 “ I wish I could, Madge. And I do hope that 
 Madame Garniture, of London, may think as highly of 
 me as you do. Miss Tranmore says she has promised 
 to give me plenty of work, if she finds I can do it 
 well.” 
 
ON THE TEACH 
 
 81 
 
 “ I am not uneasy about that, Dora. But I’m 
 afraid the workroom will try you. It is sure to be 
 hot and stuffy. And you are not strong, my pet.” 
 
 “ No. But I think I shall be able to bear the heat 
 of the room, for the sake of what I shall earn,” 
 answered Dora, smiling. “ I am longing to make 
 piles of money for you, Madge.” 
 
 “ And I am bent on getting you a fortune before 
 the year is out. Not by work, but by restoring you 
 to'your rights. Something tells me I shall soon find 
 Anne Dane.” 
 
 Dora laughed. 
 
 “ I am not so sanguine, dear. And if you did find 
 her, it would probably be of no use. We have no 
 proofs, remember.” 
 
 “ That’s what Miss Tranmore always says. She 
 declares Anne Dane would never confess, or acknow- 
 ledge you as the lost child, and that I may just as 
 well not look for her.” 
 
 “ And I think she is right. Although, I must say, 
 I’d like to find her, even if it were only to know 
 what she has been doing all these years, and how she 
 was rich enough to send you fifty pounds ; also why 
 she sent it, and yet will not write and let you know 
 where she is.” 
 
 “ I know where she is,” said Madge quietly. “ I 
 have known it all along.” 
 
 “ Madge ! ” Dora looked at her in astonishment. 
 
 “ Well, dear, do not open your eyes so wide. We 
 both know. We feel certain that Anne Dane must 
 6 
 
82 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 be with Mr. Atherstone. So in that way we know 
 indirectly where she is.” 
 
 “ Yes, indirectly. But there may be any number 
 of Atherstones in London. Miss Tranmore says it is 
 an enormous place — a wilderness, and that people 
 don’t know their next-door neighbours. In fact, she 
 says it’s like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay, 
 to set out to find anyone there, unless you really 
 know where they live and who they are.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so. But I may as well live in London 
 as in Oldport. And I am determined to find Anne 
 Dane. If I could only meet her and confront her 
 with you, and that portrait of your mother, Dora, 
 she would be obliged to recognise you as Sylvia 
 Atherstone. That is the one proof we possess. And 
 I don’t think it’s a bad one.” 
 
 “ No,” said Dora, drawing out the miniature which 
 she always wore round her neck since leaving the 
 orphanage. “ I can see myself that I am like it. 
 Dear little mother, you were prettier than I. Your 
 shoulders were straight, your figure well-formed. 
 But still, your child is wonderfully like you. What 
 was my father like, Madge ? ” 
 
 “ Tall and noble-looking, with, oh, such a kind face 
 and sweet, gentle eyes ! ” said Madge, with much 
 animation. “I was only a little girl when I saw 
 him, Dora, but I shall never forget him. He was 
 so good to us all — so — so kind to father. Oh, if I 
 could but let him see you, our troubles would soon 
 be at an end, darling.” 
 
ON THE TRACK 
 
 83 
 
 “ I wonder where he is, Madge ? ” 
 
 “ Somewhere in the Bush, dear. Father said he 
 enjoyed his free, careless life there so much that 
 nothing would tempt him to go home.” 
 
 “ It seems strange that he should like it so 
 much.” 
 
 “Not at all, dear. It is a glorious country. If 
 you only saw the flowers, Dora — the exquisite ferns, 
 that only grow in hothouses here, growing by the 
 roadside ; the gorgeous scarlet lilies thirty feet high, 
 the splendid trees, the beautiful birds. Oh, my dear, 
 if you saw all this, you would not wonder that people 
 should love Australia.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not,” said Dora thoughtfully. “ But if 
 I were a father, and had a little daughter in England, 
 I think I would leave even the most beautiful land 
 to see her, and take her in my arms.” 
 
 “ But he may have been told that you were 
 drowned.” 
 
 “ So he may. But who then is the child you saw 
 with Anne Dane ? I thought you believed she had 
 taken my place — that she was ” — 
 
 “ The real Dora Neil. I sometimes think so. But 
 I may be wrong. I hope I am. I could not bear to 
 think of my sister usurping your place.” 
 
 “ And I would rather think she did, dear. I often 
 wonder what that little girl was like, Madge, whose 
 fate was so curiously mixed up with mine. It would 
 make me very happy to think of her grown up tall 
 and beautiful, enjoying the comforts of my grand- 
 
8 4 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 father’s house, instead of lying cold and dead at the 
 bottom of that cruel sea.” 
 
 “ You have a tender, loving heart, my pet. But 
 remember that if my sister is really in your place, it 
 will make it much harder for me to prove that you 
 are Sylvia Atherstone, and punish Anne Dane.” 
 
 “ Yes, I know that ; but except that I should 
 have money to help you, I don’t want to be Sylvia 
 Atherstone. I am not fit to be a fine lady, and I am 
 quite happy with you.” 
 
 “ God bless you, my darling ! Your love is very 
 precious to me,” said Madge, drawing the fair head 
 upon her breast, and kissing the sensitive lips. “Your 
 happiness is the one thing I wish for. But I have 
 a duty to perform, Dora, and do it I will.” 
 
 “ Dear, strong, determined Madge,” answered Dora, 
 smiling. “ But come, dear. Let us go to the 
 
 cemetery at once. Our hours are passing, and we 
 have much to do.” 
 
 “ Quite true, dear. We have not much time, and 
 I must see Miss Tranmore. I have several things to 
 ask her. So come along. I’ll carry this.” And, 
 taking the wreath, Madge drew Dora’s hand within 
 her arm, and they left the house together. 
 
 It was a warm day. One of those close, heavy 
 days that sometimes come upon us in the early 
 spring. The road to the cemetery was long and 
 dusty ; and when the girls had laid the wreath upon 
 the grave, Dora felt tired and weary, and begged 
 Madge to go on to the Court without her. 
 
ON THE TEACH 
 
 S'5 
 
 “ I saw Miss Tranmore yesterday, dear, and I bade 
 her good-bye. She will not expect to see me again. 
 I do not feel able to walk so far. So I’ll wait under 
 this tree till you return.” 
 
 “ I’m sorry you cannot come on to the Court, 
 dearest. You might have rested, and had some milk 
 in the housekeeper’s room. You will be lonely 
 here.” 
 
 “ Not at all. I like solitude, remember. Aud 
 I — well, I don’t care for the housekeeper’s room at 
 Tranmore Court. So away you go, Madge. I’ll 
 dream of my future greatness till you return.” And 
 Dora laughed softly. “ Good-bye, Miss Neil.” 
 
 “ Good-bye, dear. I’ll not be very long.” 
 
 And Madge kissed her hand, and started off at a 
 brisk pace. 
 
 As her sister disappeared from sight, a cloud passed 
 over Dora’s sweet face, and she lay back with a sigh 
 upon the grass. 
 
 “ It is strange how that old feeling comes back,” 
 she murmured; “always tired, tired. Just as I used 
 to be at the Orphanage. And I thought — I felt sure, 
 that when I had my Madge to love me and take care 
 of me, it would pass away. But it has not. Oh, 
 God, make me strong. Grant that in our hard 
 struggle for life in London, I may not be a burden 
 on my darling.” 
 
 And, clasping her hands, Dora raised her blue eyes 
 appealingly to heaven. 
 
 The air w r as soft and balmy ; not a sound was 
 
86 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 heard save the sweet singing of the birds, and the 
 burr of a steam plough in a neighbouring field. 
 
 “ Surely England is a good country to live in, too,” 
 thought Dora dreamily, as she gazed out over the 
 beautiful landscape. “ And yet my father prefers 
 the wilds of Australia — at least we think he does. 
 He may have come home long ago, for it is wild, in 
 spite of what Madge says about the flowers and the 
 birds. It is wild — very. It is all so strange. Such 
 an odd thing my story. That I, poor little I, should 
 have a father and grandfather, both rich, strong, and 
 powerful, and yet be dependent on Madge for every- 
 thing I possess. But it shall not be so long. I’ll 
 work, and work, and with God’s help support myself.” 
 Suddenly the girl sat up and looked anxiously 
 around. The sound of a distant cry, the tramp of 
 horses’ feet, the noise of approaching wheels fell upon 
 her ear. On it came, nearer, rapidly nearer, till at 
 last she saw a carriage dashing down the road towards 
 her. It was some way off still, but, from the mad 
 action of the horses and the swift pace at which they 
 were going, she quickly realised that they were 
 running away. 
 
 Dora sprang to her feet, and, running into the 
 field where the plough was at work, called loudly to 
 the men to come and stop the runaway horses. 
 
 “ You are dreaming, young lady. There is no such 
 a thing about here,” said one of the labourers roughly. 
 “ Go along, and leave us to our work.” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, they are coming down the road. Quick, 
 
ON THE TRACK 87 
 
 there is not a moment to lose.” And, catching his 
 arm, she tried to drag him along. 
 
 He resisted, and pushed her aside with an oath. 
 Then, as the carriage turned a corner and came into 
 view, she started away with a cry of horror. 
 
 “ There, see ! If you will not stop them, I must.” 
 And she sped quickly away. 
 
 “ Good God ! shell be killed,” cried the man. “ Go 
 back, miss, go back.” 
 
 In a few strides, he overtook the terrified girl, 
 and, thrusting her out of his way, ran on to the 
 road. 
 
 As the horses came madly on, the carriage swaying 
 to and fro, its occupants calling loudly for help, the 
 man jumped suddenly from the hedge. The animals 
 swerved a little ; their pace became less rapid ; and, 
 making a violent effort, he sprang at their heads, and 
 seized one of them by the bridle. At first he seemed 
 powerless to stop them, and was dragged along in 
 the dust. But he held on bravely ; and on his 
 fellow workman coming to his aid, they at last 
 brought the frantic creatures to a standstill. 
 
 The coachman, who had dropped the reins and was 
 holding on to his seat like grim death, soon recovered 
 himself, and, jumping to the ground, ran to the horses’ 
 heads. 
 
 Within the carriage were an elderly lady and a 
 young man of about twenty or twenty-one. They 
 were both white and frightened, and their voices 
 shook with emotion as they thanked their deliverers. 
 
88 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Come up to Ashfield Park this evening, my men,” 
 said the lady. “ You have behaved nobly. We owe 
 our lives to you. My son and I are grateful, deeply 
 grateful ; and we thank you from our hearts. But 
 you — we must give you some reward, some substantial 
 reward, for what you have done for us.” 
 
 u Thank you, my lady,” answered one of the men, 
 bowing and touching his hat respectfully. “ We only 
 did our duty.” 
 
 “ Well, you did it nobly, bravely,” she replied, 
 smiling. “ Aud I am indeed thankful for our escape.” 
 “ Yes, Lady Ashfield, I am truly thankful that my 
 comrade and me was able to save you and his lord- 
 ship,” he said. “ But had it not been for this little 
 lass, your ladyship, we'd never have seen or heard 
 anything till too late, not with the noise of the plough 
 and the distance from the road.” 
 
 “ Really ? ” cried the lady, stretching out of the 
 carriage and shaking Dora warmly by the hand. 
 “ Thank you, dear, thank you. But you look very 
 white. W ere you frightened ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Dora faintly, and clasping her hands 
 tightly together. “ But — but — thank God you are 
 saved ! I did very little, I assure you. I was too 
 weak and small to stop the horses, and I only just 
 called and made the men come.” 
 
 “ You showed wonderful presence of mind, dear. 
 Didn't she, Charlie ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, mother, she certainly did. But I am afraid,” 
 said the young man kindly, u that the effort has been 
 
ON THE TEACH 
 
 89 
 
 too much for her. She looks ill and faint. If she is 
 not too nervous to trust herself in the carriage with 
 us, after what she has seen, I think we should drive 
 her home. She seems unable to walk, and the horses 
 are quiet now. Aren't they, Smith ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, my lord,” replied the coachman. “ They are 
 right enough now.” 
 
 “ Will you get into the carriage beside my mother ? ” 
 asked Lord Ashfield, turning to Dora. “ And we’ll 
 drive you wherever you wish to go.” 
 
 “ Oh, please, I can't,” she answered. “ I ” — 
 
 “ What ? Are you nervous ? ” 
 
 “No. But I am waiting here for my sister, and if 
 she came and found me gone, she would be alarmed. 
 I must not go, please. I can sit and rest till she 
 comes. So pray, pray do not mind me.” 
 
 “ But these men would tell her.” 
 
 “ Oh, no, no, I would rather wait. I would, indeed.” 
 “ Very well. You shall do as you like. But I 
 hope you will come and see my mother to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Lady Ashfield; “ please do.” 
 
 “ But I cannot. We — Madge and I go to London 
 this afternoon.” 
 
 “ To London ? ” 
 
 “Yes. We are going there to live and work.” 
 
 “ Is Madge your sister ? ” 
 
 “ Yes — that is ” — Dora blushed as it suddenly 
 flashed across her that after all Madge, her darling 
 Madge, was not her sister. For years, all her life 
 in fact, she had called her by that sweet name, and 
 
9 ° 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 had forgotten that she was not so in reality. But 
 now, with Lord Ashfield’s inquiring eyes fixed upon 
 her, she remembered that she was not speaking the 
 truth in saying that she and Madge were sisters. 
 
 “ What is your name, dear ? ” asked Lady Ashfield, 
 wondering at the girl’s confusion. 
 
 “ My name.” Dora paused, then, smiling, she raised 
 her beautiful eyes to the lady’s face. “ I am called 
 Dorothy Neil.” 
 
 “ Have you been long in Oldport ? ” 
 
 “ Not long. I was brought up at B Orphanage. 
 
 Madge lived in Oldport with Miss Matilda and Miss 
 Barbara Parry.” 
 
 “ Then you are one of the children saved from the 
 wreck of the Cimbria some fourteen years ago ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. I was a tiny child at the time.” 
 
 “ The Cimbria ? ” cried Lord Ashfield. “ Why, that 
 was the name of the steamer in which Sylvia Ather- 
 stone was wrecked.” 
 
 Dora started and grew white to the lips. 
 
 “ Yes, the very same,” replied his mother, " She 
 and her nurse were fortunately picked up by a 
 passing steamer. This child and her sister were 
 washed ashore at Oldport. I have lived so much 
 abroad that I only heard of them the other day. If I 
 had known sooner, I would certainly have told Sir 
 Eustace. He would surely have helped them, had he 
 been told. The very fact of their having been in the 
 same wreck with his beloved grandchild would have 
 made him love them.” 
 
ON THE TRACK 
 
 9 1 
 
 “ Yes, I am sure it would,” said Lord Ashfield, 
 smiling. “ For truly he idolises his beautiful Sylvia.” 
 
 “ Oh, pray tell me,” asked Dora in a shaking voice, 
 “ do you know her ? ” 
 
 “ Sylvia Atherstone ? Oh yes, very well.” 
 
 “ But is she really the Sylvia I mean — my — the 
 child that came home from Australia ? ” 
 
 “ In the Cimbria . Yes.” 
 
 “ And,” continued Dora eagerly, “ was her nurse 
 Anne Dane ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly,” answered Lady Ashfield, smiling. “ But 
 you cannot remember either of them. You are just 
 about Sylvia’s age.” 
 
 “I am Sylvia,” rose to the girl’s lips. But she 
 suddenly reflected how foolish it would be to make 
 such a statement to strangers, who would probably 
 think her mad. So she choked back the words, and 
 said in a low voice — 
 
 “ Yes, the same exactly. I was sixteen my last 
 birthday.” 
 
 “ You look younger,” said Lady Ashfield. “ But 
 then Sylvia is tall and ” — 
 
 “ And straight,” cried Dora. “ I hope — oh, say she 
 is straight, please ! I was injured in the wreck. But 
 she 
 
 “ Was more fortunate, dear child. She escaped all 
 injury, and is straight and strong.” 
 
 “ Thank God for that, thank God for that ! ” 
 murmured Dora, half to herself. “ Straight and 
 beautiful, she is more fit to be a fine lady than a poor 
 
92 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 weak little girl like me. And oh,” she added aloud, 
 “ Madge will be so glad to hear that ” — 
 
 Then she stopped abruptly, as she remembered how 
 much Madge longed to know where Anne Dane lived, 
 how anxious she was to discover her grandfather, and 
 restore her to his arms. 
 
 “ Well,” said Lady Ashfield, “ why do you stop ? 
 Madge will, of course, be pleased to hear that Miss 
 Atherstone is well. And Anne also, for I suppose 
 she has not forgotten them. ,, 
 
 “ No,” answered Dora, “ she has not. And oh, dear 
 Lady Ashfield, could you tell me where Sylvia and 
 Anne Dane live ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly. Sylvia lives with her grandfather.” 
 
 “ And Anne Dane ? ” 
 
 “ Is her maid, I believe.” 
 
 “ But where ? In what place do they live ? ” Dora 
 questioned eagerly. 
 
 “ Generally in the country. I declare you are quite 
 curious about them.” And Lady Ashfield laughed. 
 “ But I suppose that is only natural, so I will give 
 you all the information I can. The Atherstones, and 
 I presume Anne Dane, are abroad now, and do not 
 return for another year and a half. They will be in 
 London then, as Sylvia is to be presented.” 
 
 “ But where are they abroad ? ” cried the girl. 
 “ What is their address ? Dear lady, do not think me 
 rude. Forgive me, if I ask too many questions. But 
 Madge is longing to see, to know where Anne Dane 
 
ON THE TRACK 
 
 93 
 
 “ Indeed ? I suppose she was kind to her on board 
 ship ? Well, it is very nice of Madge to be grateful. 
 But I really cannot tell you where she is at present. 
 My son and I left the Atherstones in Paris a month 
 ago. They were going on into Italy. Where, I don't 
 exactly know." 
 
 Dora sighed heavily, and murmured sadly — 
 
 “ Poor Madge ! And I thought I should have good 
 news to tell you." 
 
 “ Well," said Lady Ashfield, “ in about a year and a 
 half Madge may have the happiness of meeting her 
 old friend. At the end of that time, call at my house 
 in London, 16 Belgrave Street, and I will tell you 
 where the Atherstones are." 
 
 “ Oh, thank you," cried Dora, smiling brightly. 
 “ Madge will be so glad ! " 
 
 “ And now, dear, tell me, what is Madge going to 
 do in London ? " 
 
 “ Teach music. She is so clever." The girl's eyes 
 shone with proud delight. “Miss Tranmore says she 
 plays most exquisitely." 
 
 “ Who taught her ? " 
 
 “ The organist of the church and Miss Tranmore." 
 
 “ That is very good. I may be able to get her 
 some pupils. So tell Madge to come to see me in 
 London next week. I should like to help her and 
 you all I can." 
 
 “ Thank you so much. You are too kind, too 
 good." 
 
 “ Not at all. You saved our lives, remember, by 
 
94 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 your presence of mind. I wish I could be of real 
 assistance to you. What are you going to do ? ” 
 
 Dora blushed deeply, and tears rushed into her 
 eyes. 
 
 “ Alas ! there is not much I can do,” she said 
 sadly. “ I learned but little at the Orphanage. But I 
 am determined not to be a burden upon Madge. I 
 can sew w 7 ell. I shall try to be a dressmaker.” 
 
 “ A dressmaker ? ” cried Lord Ashfield in a tone of 
 horror. “ Such a thing is quite impossible. The air 
 of the workroom would kill you. And association 
 with the apprentices would be torture for you. You 
 are not fit for such a life.” 
 
 “ It is the only thing I can do,” said Dora gravely. 
 “ It will be torture, I daresay. But it must be done.” 
 “ But surely there must be other ways,” he cried 
 impetuously. “ It is not right that a young lady 
 should lower herself, and mix with common work- 
 girls.” 
 
 Dora laughed merrily. 
 
 “ I don’t think I shall mind that,” she said. “ The 
 children at the Orphanage were not ladies, and I got 
 on very well with them for nearly fourteen years.” 
 
 " Yes, but then country girls are quite different 
 from those in town. I do not think you should lower 
 yourself in such a manner,” he said earnestly. “ I 
 don’t indeed.” 
 
 “ I shall not lower myself, Lord Ashfield,” replied 
 Dora, with much dignity. “ My father was a gentle- 
 man, my mother a lady. I shall not forget what I 
 
ON THE TEACH 
 
 95 
 
 owe to their name. But did I refuse to do what lay 
 in my power, in order to help Madge — did I sit idly 
 by, lest I should lower myself by working as a dress- 
 maker, I should feel myself unworthy to be their 
 child.” 
 
 “ Bravely spoken, dear,” said Lady Ashfield approv- 
 ingly. “ And you are quite right. No honest work 
 can lower anyone. A lady born remains so, no 
 matter what her employment is. I always respect 
 and honour a poor lady who works for her own 
 independence, instead of living in idleness at the 
 expense of some hard-working friend.” 
 
 “ Why, mother, you are quite eloquent,” cried Lord 
 Ashfield. “ And I must confess I stand rebuked. 
 But, all the same, I do not think Miss Neil’s choice 
 of work a good one. The life will not suit her.” 
 
 “Well, we must consider what is to be done,” she 
 answered. “ Come and see me soon, dear child, and 
 I will help you all I can. And now, Ashfield, we 
 must say good-bye to our deliverer. It is late, and 
 we have a long drive before us yet. Good-bye, little 
 Dora, till next week.” 
 
 And, drawing the girl towards her, Lady Ashfield 
 kissed her on the forehead. 
 
 “ Good-bye, Miss Neil,” said Ashfield, raising his 
 hat, and holding Dora’s hand for a moment within 
 his own. “ I am very grateful to you for your good- 
 ness to us this afternoon. I hope we may soon meet 
 again. Do not forget my mother’s address, 16 Belgrave 
 Street. Good-bye.” 
 
9 6 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Good-bye,” said Dora faintly, and as she raised 
 her large earnest eyes to his face, they were full of 
 tears. “ God must have sent you and Lady Ashfield 
 to me to-day. It will make everything easy for 
 Madge and me, when we have such friends to look 
 after us in London. Good-bye.” 
 
 Then Lord Ashfield stepped into the carriage beside 
 his mother, and the horses, now perfectly quiet, started 
 at a brisk pace down the road. 
 
 “ What a sweet face that child has ! ” said Lady 
 Ashfield, looking back and waving her hand to Dora. 
 “ She is really quite pretty.” 
 
 “ Pretty ? ” he cried earnestly. “ She is beautiful.” 
 “ Beautiful ? Oh no.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, mother, she is beautiful,” he insisted. 
 “ That simple child has the face of an angel.” 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 Dora's account of the runaway horses, and her con- 
 versation with Lady Ashfield and her son, was listened 
 to with much interest by Madge. 
 
 That after all these years of waiting they should at 
 last come across people who knew the Atherstones and 
 Anne Dane, was great happiness for the girl. And 
 the promise of help from a lady of position filled her 
 with hope for her own success in the arduous life she 
 was about to enter upon. 
 
 She longed to see Lady Ashfield at once, to question 
 her closely about Anne Dane ; to ask more particulars 
 about the supposed Sylvia ; and if she should find it 
 necessary or useful in carrying out the great object 
 she had in view, to take the lady into her confidence. 
 But as she and Dora were obliged to go to London 
 that afternoon, and Lady Ashfield remained a week 
 longer in the country, she was forced to postpone the 
 much-desired interview whether she wished it or not. 
 
 Miss Tranmore had given Madge a letter of intro- 
 duction to a Mrs. Prim, who kept a school at 
 Kensington, and required a governess to help her 
 7 
 
9 8 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 with her pupils. To this lady, therefore, the girl 
 went on her arrival in town, and was immediately 
 engaged at a very moderate salary. For this she was 
 obliged to take a large part in the teaching of the 
 school. She taught music to the older girls, and 
 everything else, including the elements of French, to 
 the small children. 
 
 The hours at Penelope Lodge were nominally from 
 nine to four. But when the bell rang for the scholars 
 to go their way, they handed their finished exercises 
 to Madge, and whilst they rushed off gaily to their 
 homes, the weary governess had to sit down to correct 
 their work, and make up the mark-books accordingly. 
 And so the poor girl soon found that she had but little 
 spare time, as, for one reason or another, she never 
 left the schoolroom till past seven, and it was generally 
 eight o’clock before she got home to Dora and supper. 
 
 So the days passed quickly by, and it was with 
 deep regret that she was obliged to delay still longer 
 her visit to Lady Ashfield. 
 
 But at last, one day, at the end of her first month 
 in the school, she was informed that she might leave 
 early on the following Saturday afternoon. This was 
 pleasant news for Madge, and she resolved to take 
 advantage of her holiday and go to Belgrave Street. 
 So at three o’clock Dora called for her at Penelope 
 Lodge, and the two girls set out together to pay their 
 much-talked-of visit to Lady Ashfield. 
 
 They were both in good spirits and much excited, 
 Madge had determined to tell Lady Ashfield the true 
 
A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 99 
 
 story of the wreck, and felt certain that in a short 
 time her darling would be rescued from her present 
 wretched life and restored to her proper position. 
 
 For much as Madge had suffered in her badly-paid 
 situation, poor Dora had suffered infinitely more. The 
 hours in Madame Garniture’s dressmaking establishment 
 were long and wearisome, the work monotonous, the 
 rooms hot and stifling, the girls vulgar, coarse, and 
 frivolous. And sweet, delicate Dorothy pined and 
 grew thin in the unwholesome atmosphere. But she 
 never complained. Her heart was set on helping 
 Madge, and no matter how tired she felt in the 
 evenings, she had always a smile of welcome for her 
 dear sister on her return from the school. Neverthe- 
 less, Madge was not deceived by this forced gaiety, 
 and she became more and more anxious to find the 
 Atherstones, and put an end to her darling’s troubles 
 as speedily as possible. Through Lady Ashfield she 
 felt sure she could do this. And so she longed most 
 ardently to see and speak to her. 
 
 “ I hope Lady Ashfield may not have forgotten me,” 
 said Dora nervously. “ It is so long. It seems almost 
 a lifetime since that day in Oldport.” 
 
 “ It is only a month, dearest,” said Madge gently. 
 “ You saved her life and her son’s by your presence of 
 mind. No one, not even the coldest, most thoughtless 
 person, could forget that in a few short weeks.” 
 
 “ And I am sure she was neither cold nor thought- 
 less. She had a kind, though a proud face. And 
 Lord Ashfield ! Oh, Madge, he had such a strong, 
 
100 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 straightforward look. He would never forget, I am 
 sure. He is too noble for that.” 
 
 And Dora's pale cheek flushed, and her blue eyes 
 sparkled. 
 
 Madge looked at her curiously. 
 
 “ You seem to have made him your hero, darling — 
 your ideal.” 
 
 Dora laughed, and her colour deepened. 
 
 “Is that wonderful, Madge? He was so good and 
 kind, and looked so splendidly handsome, yet so 
 unconscious. His manner to me, poor little weakly 
 me, was as polite and — and gracious as though he 
 had been speaking to his equal.” 
 
 “ And so he was, dear. He felt what you were. 
 He could not mistake you, for you are a true lady 
 my pet, in spite of your poor surroundings.” 
 
 “ I don't know about that, Madge. A lady should 
 not feel nervous and frightened when speaking to 
 strangers. A lady should forget herself and her 
 looks, and I can’t.” 
 
 “ That is only shyness natural at your age, dearest. 
 I am sure the highest lady in the land has felt that 
 at sixteen.” 
 
 “ But I always remember my deformity,” said Dora 
 in a low voice. “ I known it is wrong and foolish. 
 But ”— 
 
 Madge stopped short, and, looking Dora's tiny figure 
 up and down with close attention, said gravely — 
 
 “ My dear child, you are not deformed.” 
 
 “ Oh, Madge ! ” 
 
 / o 
 
A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 IOI 
 
 “ Oh, Dora ! I would not deceive you for the 
 world. And what I tell you is true. I think I told 
 you so long ago at Oldport. You are not deformed. 
 You are small, you are thin, slighter than anyone I 
 ever saw. Your shoulders from weakness are round 
 — one perhaps a trifle — mind, I say a trifle — higher 
 than the other. But that is not remarkable, and would 
 disappear very soon if you could rest and grow strong. 
 Then your face, my pet, makes up for everything ; it 
 is lovely. Your eyes are the purest of blue, your hair 
 like threads of gold.” 
 
 “ Enough, Madge,” cried Dora, laughing. “ In your 
 anxiety to comfort me, you are going too far. But 
 nothing you can say will change my opinion of 
 myself. I have known it,” — sighing — “ for many 
 years. But I never felt it so keenly as on that day 
 when Lord Ashfield spoke to me, and I read pity in 
 his eyes.” 
 
 “ What a shame ! He is not such a hero after all, 
 then, my darling He must be weak and stupid.” 
 
 “ Hush, Madge, I cannot listen to you. Such words 
 do not describe him. They should never be used 
 when speaking of him.” 
 
 “Well, dearest, when you are recognised as Miss 
 Atherstone ” — 
 
 “That would make no difference. I am as near 
 him as Dora Neil as ever I could be. But oh, Madge, 
 when I heard that Sylvia — for she will always be 
 Sylvia to me — was tall and beautiful, I put her next 
 him in my mind, and I thought : She will look well by 
 
102 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 his side. She, if she is as good as she is said to be 
 beautiful, will be worthy to be his wife. ,, 
 
 “ Dora, you are a dreamer. And in your dreams 
 you have given this young man too high a place. You 
 know nothing of him, and yet you have endowed him 
 with all kinds of virtues that, perhaps, he does not 
 possess. When you meet him again, you will probably 
 find him full of faults, a mere frivolous worldling.” 
 
 “ No,” replied the young girl gravely, “ that could 
 never be. With such a noble face he could not be that. 
 If we ever meet — But here we are at Belgrave 
 
 Street. Oh, Madge, have you courage to go in ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly. I came to see Lady Ashfield, and if I 
 can manage it, I will do so.” 
 
 And walking boldly up the steps, she rang the bell. 
 Several moments passed, and not a sound was heard 
 within the house. No one appeared to open the door. 
 
 “ How strange ! ” said Madge. “ Where can all the 
 servants be ? ” 
 
 “ Perhaps the bell did not ring,” suggested Dora. 
 “ Try again, dear.” 
 
 Madge did so, and this time more successfully, for 
 almost immediately footsteps were heard coming up the 
 hall. A chain rattled noisily, a bolt was withdrawn, 
 and a dirty-looking old woman put out her head. 
 
 “ Wot does yer want ? ” she inquired, staring hard 
 at the visitors. 
 
 “ We want to see Lady Ashfield, please,” said Madge. 
 
 “ Lady Ashfield ain’t at ’ome. She ” — 
 
 “ But she would like to see us. She told us to come.” 
 
A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 103 
 
 “ I tell yer ’er ain’t at home. She’s in furrin parts.” 
 “ Where ? ” asked Madge. 
 
 “ I’m blest if I know. Mrs. Downside, the ’ouse- 
 keeper, knows, but she’s hout. She sends papers and 
 letters and cards to some outlandish furrin place. 
 But I’m not much of a scholard, so I don’t right 
 remember it. Will you leave a card, miss ? ” 
 
 “ Oh no, it doesn’t matter,” cried Dora. “ We have 
 no cards. But when did Lady Ashfield go abroad ? ” 
 
 “ Nearly a month ago. ’Er father took ill, and she 
 went off all of a sudden.” 
 
 “ When will she be back ? ” said Madge. 
 
 “ Don’t know. Not for many a month, I’m thinkin’. 
 Perhaps more nor a year.” 
 
 “ Oh, Madge, what a pity we did not come here at 
 once, the very day after we arrived in London ! ” cried 
 Dora. “ I am so sorry.” 
 
 “ So am I, dear. But we could not help it. I was 
 obliged to go to the school first,” said Madge sadly. 
 “ It was a certainty. Lady Ashfield’s promised help 
 was not. She has probably forgotten all about us.” 
 
 “ I cannot believe that. And Lord Ashfield, he 
 would not, he could not forget.” 
 
 “ But, my dear, he could do nothing for us — at least, 
 perhaps, after all, he might. Through him, Dora, we 
 might find the Atherstones. Tell me,” Madge said, turn- 
 ing to the old woman, “ Is Lord Ashfield in London ? ” 
 “ No. ’E’s at Oxbridge, or on the Continong. I 
 don’t rightly know,” she replied. “ But ’e’s not in 
 Lunnon, I know that.” 
 
104 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Thank you,” said Madge. “ Good morning. Come, 
 Dora, there is no more to be done. Let us go home.” 
 “ Oh, Madge, I am so disappointed ! ” And, forget- 
 ful of time and place, Dora burst into tears. 
 
 “ Come, darling, you must not weep,” said Madge 
 soothingly. “ I, too, am bitterly, keenly disappointed. 
 But we must not give way to despair. We may 
 come across the Atherstones some other way.” 
 
 “ Always those Atherstones, Madge,” cried Dora, 
 impatiently. “ I hate their name. I don’t care if I 
 never see them. But ” — 
 
 “ My dear child, you forget how much depends on 
 our finding them. Of what value are these Ashfields, 
 except as a means to attain the end we have always 
 had in view ? If I thought they could not help me 
 to that, I should never wish to see them, I assure you.” 
 “ Madge ! ” 
 
 Dora’s voice was full of indignation, and her eyes 
 flashed angrily, as she looked at her sister. Then her 
 lips trembled slightly, and a faint colour rose to her 
 pale cheeks. " But, of course,” she added softly, “ that 
 is not wonderful. You do not know the Ashfields 
 as I do.” 
 
 “ Well, darling, we must both forget them as fast as 
 we can,” said Madge cheerfully. “ Come, Dora, dry 
 your eyes, dear, and let us go home to tea.” 
 
 As the two girls turned away and disappeared into 
 the Grosvenor Eoad, a hansom dashed up to 16 
 Belgrave Street, and a young man sprang out and 
 ran up the steps. 
 
A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 105 
 
 The old woman was standing at the door, gazing 
 about her, but on seeing the cab stop, she fled into the 
 hall, and began scrubbing her face and hands with 
 her apron. 
 
 “ Ts ludship, as I live. Goody, goody ! an’ Mrs. 
 Downside hout for the day. Wot hever shall I do ? ” 
 “ Where is the housekeeper ? ” asked Lord Ashfield as 
 he entered. “Tell her I want to see her for a moment.” 
 “ Please, yer ludship, she’s hout,” said the old woman, 
 making a low curtsey. “ She’s gone for the day.” 
 
 Lord Ashfield walked up and down the hall. 
 
 “ That is most awkward. I had a message to give 
 her, a most important message from my mother.” 
 
 “ She’ll be in by eight, or half-past, yer ludship.” 
 
 “ Too late. I cannot wait. My grandfather is 
 dying. I have many things to do this afternoon, and 
 I must go by the evening mail to Paris. I am very 
 sorry not to see Mrs. Downside. It may make a 
 considerable difference to those poor girls,” he mur- 
 mured. “ I cannot get that child’s lovely, pale, sad 
 face out of my thoughts. She haunts me, and yet I 
 am powerless, utterly powerless. Our ingratitude, our 
 seeming forgetfulness is terrible, and yet — But they 
 may come. I must give this woman my message. 
 Perhaps she may deliver it properly. And to make 
 quite sure, I’ll write from Paris. Look here, Mrs.” — 
 “ Partridge, my lud.” 
 
 “ Weil, Mrs. Partridge, I want you to give a message 
 to Mrs. Downside.” 
 
 “ Yes, my lud.” 
 
io6 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ You are to give her this packet, and tell her that 
 Lady Ashfield wishes her to give it with her love to 
 two young ladies, who may call here any day. My 
 mother does not know their address, and ” — 
 
 “ Is one dark and the other fair, my lud ? ” 
 
 “ One is fair, certainly. Fair as a lily.” 
 
 “ She's been, my lud.” 
 
 “ Been ? When ? Did she leave any address ? I 
 might have time.” 
 
 “ She left no address, my lud, an’ cried sadly, poor 
 little lady, when she ’eard as ’er ladyship was away. 
 She an’ her sister ’ad just turned the corner when yer 
 ludship drove hup.” 
 
 “ How provoking ! Why didn’t you tell me ? 
 Why — But, of course, you could not know. Pray 
 excuse my heat. But Lady Ashfield is anxious, most 
 anxious to hear from these young ladies. So tell Mrs. 
 Downside that when they come again, she must be 
 kind to them, and, having learned their address, send 
 it on at once to her mistress.” 
 
 “ Yes, my lud. I’ll not forget.” 
 
 “ Have these young ladies been here before ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know, my lud. I don’t open the door 
 but seldom, an’ they might ’ave come without my 
 knowin’ of it.” 
 
 “ Yes, of course. I’m sorry I missed them. Do not 
 forget my message. By Jove, I must be off. How 
 the time does pass ! Good evening, Mrs. Partridge.” 
 And Lord Ashfield jumped into his cab and drove 
 away. 
 
CHATTER XI 
 
 ANXIOUS DAYS 
 
 Haying learned that Lady Ashfield had left England 
 for an indefinite period, Madge resolved to put her out 
 of her thoughts, and forget, if possible, the bright 
 hopes that her promises to Dora, on the day of the 
 accident, had raised in her mind. 
 
 She was busy at the school ; and during the long 
 hours spent at the piano, or hammering history and 
 grammar into some twelve or fourteen lazy girls, she 
 had little time to wonder or speculate over Lady 
 Ashfield’s absence or return to town. 
 
 But Dora's work was not so absorbing. And from 
 morning till night she thought of nothing but her next 
 meeting with the kind lady who had promised so 
 earnestly to help her and Madge in London. So each 
 evening, as she returned from the dressmaker's where 
 she spent her day, unless the weather were very bad, 
 she would walk round by Belgrave Street, and, stand- 
 ing on the opposite side of the road, gaze up at the 
 windows. 
 
 “ When she comes back," she would say to herself, 
 “ the shutters will be open, the blinds pulled up. 
 
 107 
 
io8 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Then Madge and I will ring the bell, and ask to see 
 dear Lady Ashfield. Until then I shall never go 
 nearer the house than this.” 
 
 And so Mrs. Downside never saw the girls, and 
 Lord Ashfield's packet lay forgotten in a drawer. 
 
 Day after day, week after week, Dora suffered the 
 same keen disappointment. The house remained shut 
 up. Lady Ashfield did not return. 
 
 This wearing anxiety, this feverish longing for 
 something to happen, was very trying to a girl of 
 Dora's sensitive nature. It made her restless and 
 unsettled, and her work became a trouble to her. But 
 she did her best to shake off the feeling of disgust, 
 and struggled bravely on. 
 
 At last, however, the heavy atmosphere of the 
 workroom, the long hours and close work, began to 
 tell upon her health. She grew irregular in her 
 attendance at Madame Garniture's establishment, and 
 before the end of the second year she was obliged to 
 stay at home altogether. This was a terrible grief to 
 her. She was now unable to earn any money, and so 
 became quite dependent on her sister. And Madge's 
 salary was so small. Barely enough to support one, 
 it was now called upon to do double duty, and provide 
 both girls with the necessaries of life. 
 
 “ Lady Ashfield may come home soon, Madge — she 
 is sure to come soon,” cried Dora feverishly one evening, 
 when her sister had come back from the school a little 
 earlier than usual. “ It is now nearly two years since 
 she went away. If she were in London, she might 
 
ANXIOUS NAYS 
 
 109 
 
 give me some work to do. I am better now. I could 
 sew here and help you. We have no money left. Oh, 
 Madge, wliat shall we do to pay our rent ? ” 
 
 “ Darling, do not fret,” said Madge, putting her arm 
 round the girl and kissing her lovingly. “ Something 
 will surely turn up.” She smiled. “ Don’t you 
 remember how dear Miss Matilda used always to say 
 that? So don’t cry, pet. Our landlord has promised 
 to wait. That in itself is a boon.” 
 
 “ Horrid old man ! I wish we had stayed with 
 Mrs. Skinner. She was so kind and ” — 
 
 “But, my love, you know her terms were impossible.” 
 “ I know, I know. If only Lady Ashfield would 
 come home ! ” 
 
 “ Dora, I do not believe in Lady Ashfield. My 
 only hope, my constant prayer, is that I may soon 
 come across the Atherstones in some way or another.” 
 “ Well, we have both a different plan for getting 
 out of our present difficulties,” said Dora, with a faint 
 smile. “ Neither is likely to succeed, I fear. But 0I1, 
 my darling, if I could only work and help, I would 
 not find it so hard, so very hard to wait.” And two 
 large tears rolled slowly down the girl’s pale cheek. 
 
 “ Now, I tell you what I will do, Dora. I’ll go off 
 to Madame Garniture,” cried Madge, “ and ask her to 
 give you some work to do at home. Why did I never 
 think of this before ? I suppose because I fancied 
 you were too ill to do anything. But I will go this 
 moment. And when my darling feels her fingers 
 busy, she may become more reconciled to her fate.” 
 
no 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Dora’s face grew bright. A sweet smile played 
 about the corners of her mouth as she nestled up to 
 Madge, and laid her head upon her shoulder. 
 
 “ Dear little sister,” she whispered, “ if only I had 
 work to do, you should never hear me grumble. Your 
 idea is a good one. And oh, I hope, I pray, that 
 Madame Garniture may grant your request. I think 
 she will. She was always very kind.” 
 
 “ Yes. I think she will. And now I must be off. 
 I have no time to spare.” 
 
 Then, kissing Dora tenderly, Madge sprang to her 
 feet, and putting on her hat and jacket, turned to 
 leave the room. 
 
 “ Madge,” called Dora softly, “ it is rather windy 
 and cold, but if you wouldn’t mind, you might go 
 round by Belgrave Street. It is just possible that 
 Lady Ashfield may have returned. We have neither 
 of us been there for many months.” 
 
 “Very well, dearest. I shall certainly go round 
 that way. I don’t mind the wind in the least.” And, 
 lowering her veil, Madge went quickly downstairs. 
 
 As the door closed behind her sister, Dora flung 
 herself back upon the little hard sofa, on which she 
 now spent much of her time. Her cheeks were flushed. 
 She was nervous and excited. 
 
 “ Something tells me they will soon return,” she 
 murmured, “ and- then — and then how happy I shall 
 be. I am sure to get nice, fresh, dainty work from 
 Lady Ashfield and some of her friends. A visit now 
 and again from her. Music lessons for Madge — well- 
 
ANXIOUS DAYS 
 
 nr 
 
 paid lessons, perhaps three or four a week. The ladies 
 at Penelope Lodge must not refuse her time in which 
 to give them — of course not. And that will mean 
 much more money. My work and Madge's lessons. 
 Oh, we shall grow quite rich ! And my darling shall 
 have some new dresses — some silk ones, too — a pretty 
 brown silk with coffee lace, and some jewels — bright 
 gold earrings, and a brooch at her collar. Ah, how 
 nice she will look, my bonnie Madge ! And I- — well, 
 it doesn’t much matter about me. But I think a blue 
 cashmere might suit my complexion.” Dora laughed 
 softly. “ What castles in the air ! Very much in the 
 air, I’m afraid. I’m like the child in the song — 
 
 c The wee bonnie bairn 
 Sits pokin’ in the ase, 
 
 Glowerin’ at the fire 
 
 With his wee round face. 
 
 Laughin’ at the fuffin’ lowe. 
 
 What sees he there ? 
 
 Ah the bonnie bairn 
 
 Is biggin’ castles in the air.’” 
 
 Dora’s voice was not powerful, but it was sweet, 
 round, and full. She sang with much expression, and 
 there was something very touching and sympathetic 
 in her manner of singing. This was one of her 
 greatest pleasures. And many a weary hour it had 
 helped her to while away, as she lay alone in the poor 
 little lodging, longing to work, and yet not able to go 
 out to do so. 
 
 As the last words of her song died away, the door 
 was rudely opened, and a small, grey-headed man 
 
I 12 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 entered the room. lie had a sharp, thin, face, a 
 hooked nose, and a pair of fierce, cruel eyes. lie 
 walked up close to the sofa on which the girl lay, and 
 glared at her angrily. 
 
 “ A fine young lady, to be sure,” he hissed from 
 between his teeth. “ Lying all day upon my couch, 
 instead of working hard to pay me my rent.” 
 
 Dora started up in alarm. 
 
 “ Oh, please, Mr. Lrimage, please do not be angry ! 
 I — I cannot work. I am so weak and ” — 
 
 “ But you can sing. I heard you just now. Go 
 out and sing round the squares. You’ll get money 
 fast enough there, I’ll bet.” 
 
 “ Oh, I could not do that ! ” cried Dora in horror. 
 “ Indeed, I could not.” 
 
 “ Bosh ! ” he answered contemptuously. “ Beggars 
 can’t be choosers. Girls like you have no business to 
 be proud. Better to sing than to starve.” 
 
 “ Yes. But pray have a little patience, Mr. 
 Brimage,” she said imploringly. “ Madge has gone to 
 look for work for me, and ” — 
 
 “ Work for you ? A fine lot of work you’ll do ! 
 How, I tell you, what it is, my girl, if you and that 
 sister of yours cannot pay me by to-morrow, out 
 you go.” 
 
 Dora burst into tears, and, sinking back upon the 
 sofa, covered her face with her hands. 
 
 “ To-morrow ? It is impossible,” she sobbed. “ We 
 have no money. We ” — 
 
 “ Go out and get it then. Bend your proud spirit, 
 
ANXIOUS DAYS 
 
 113 
 
 or take the consequences. I have had a good offer 
 for these apartments, and if you do not pay, why, you 
 must go. Good evening.” 
 
 And he went away, shutting the door with a bang 
 that shook the house. 
 
 Dora raised her head and stared blankly round her. 
 Her eyes rested on the dingy carpet, on which it was 
 no longer possible to trace any pattern ; on the faded 
 curtains, the rickety chairs and table, the shabby cloth. 
 
 “It is poor, more than poor,” she murmured. “ But 
 it is a home. And if we are turned out, where shall 
 we go ? ” 
 
 She wrung her hands in despair and groaned aloud. 
 
 “ Oh, Madge, Madge, how can I tell you such a 
 thing? My poor darling, ’tis I who have brought 
 you to this. Oh, why was I not drowned the night 
 of the wreck ? Why did I live to be a burden ? 
 But no, it shall not be.” She jumped up. “ That 
 man suggested a way. I will sing in the streets. 
 Oh, mother,” and, taking out the miniature that she 
 always wore, she gazed lovingly at the sweet face, 
 
 “ to think that your child should come to this ! But 
 it must be done. I’d die for Madge. And now, if 
 I have only strength to do it. I’ll sing for her.” 
 
 Dora put on her hat, buttoned her jacket up tight 
 to her throat, and put on a thick veil. 
 
 “Few know me in London. So, after all,” she 
 thought, “ what does it matter ? If I can manage it, 
 it will be a good thing. But,” she clung to the table, 
 
 “ how strange I feel ! ” 
 
 8 
 
H4 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 And, growing suddenly faint and giddy, she sank 
 upon a chair. 
 
 “ My God, help us, two lonely, unhappy girls.” 
 
 The door opened again, and Mr. Brimage stood 
 smiling upon the threshold. 
 
 Dora shivered and turned away. 
 
 “ Come, now, don’t look so vexed to see me. I’m 
 worth bein’ friendly to, I can tell you. I bring you 
 good news.” 
 
 “ Good news ? ” gasped Dora. 
 
 “ Yes. The best you could hear to-day, I’m thinkin’. 
 Your rent’s been paid.” 
 
 The girl grew white to the lips, and trembled in 
 every limb. 
 
 “ Do not torture me so,” she cried. “ It may 
 amuse you, but it is a matter of life and death to 
 me. I am going to sing in the streets, and if I get 
 any money you shall have it to-morrow. But leave 
 me now. I must rest before I go out.” 
 
 “ Hear the girl ! Can’t you understand ? I have 
 been paid, more than paid, for I have received a 
 whole quarter in advance.” 
 
 Dora stared at him wildly. 
 
 “ Paid ? Our rent paid ? Am I dreaming ? or, 
 are you really Mr. Brimage ? ” 
 
 “ I am really Mr. Brimage, without a doubt, my 
 dear,” he answered, laughing. “And I am here to 
 tell you that a friend has turned up to help you in 
 your distress.” 
 
 “ A friend ? ” 
 
ANXIOUS DAYS 
 
 IT 5 
 
 “Yes. An’ one you'd be glad to see, for he’s a 
 fine young fellow, with the air of a prince. A man 
 any girl might be proud to meet." 
 
 “ Then it was not Madame Garniture, or Mrs. Prim 
 from Penelope Lodge ? ” 
 
 Mr. Primage laughed loudly. 
 
 “I should think not. Those good ladies are not 
 so generous. But he told me not to mention his 
 name." 
 
 “ He — we know no one. That is, at least " — 
 
 Dora flushed hotly, and her heart began to beat 
 fast, her lips to tremble. 
 
 “ Well, I think you’ll hear from him soon. He 
 seemed greatly pleased to learn where you lived. 
 He an’ his mother had been wantin’ to know for a 
 long time. But I fancy, for all you make such a 
 fuss, you know very well who he is." 
 
 “ Yes,” said Dora simply, “ I know now. It was 
 Lord Ashfield." 
 
 “ That was the very man. But, mind you, I did 
 not tell you his name. Good night." 
 
 And Mr. Brimage made a low bow and left the 
 
 room. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 PUT TO THE TEST 
 
 As Madge went thoughtfully through the streets, her 
 heart sad, her mind filled with the all - absorbing 
 problem of Dora and her future, she suddenly found 
 herself face to face with Madame Garniture. 
 
 “ Ah, Miss Neil, there you are,” cried the dress- 
 maker. “ I’ve been wondering greatly about your 
 little sister. What has become of her of late ? ” 
 
 “ She has been ill and weak, Madame Garniture — 
 quite unable to go to work.” 
 
 “ Poor child ! I am sorry. She was the best and 
 most punctual of my workers. But she’ll soon be 
 well enough to come back to us, I hope.” 
 
 “ I fear not. The hot room is too much for her. But 
 I was just going to you to ask you a favour. Could 
 you give her some work to do at home ? She is well 
 enough for that, and I am sure you could trust her.” 
 
 “ Of course. She makes buttonholes beautifully. 
 I’ll send her some bodies to finish to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Thank you, thank you. She is so anxious to earn 
 money. This will give her fresh life. God bless you, 
 Madame Garniture ! ” 
 
 11-6 
 
PUT TO THE TEST 
 
 1 17 
 
 And Madges eyes were full of tears as she shook 
 the good woman's hand. 
 
 “ Well, now, I am sorry you did not come to me 
 before, dear. I often thought of little Dora, for the 
 child pleased me greatly. But I am so busy. I 
 never could find time to go and see her.” 
 
 “ No, of course not. No one could expect you to 
 pay visits.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not. But still I should have sent. 
 However, I’ll look after her now. And I tell you 
 what, I’m going to dress a beautiful young lady for 
 the Drawing-Boom on Thursday. Her maid is young 
 and inexperienced, so I must arrange her train. Ask 
 your sister if she’ll come with me. I may want her 
 to hold pins and things for me, and it will amuse her.” 
 
 “ Yes. I am sure it would. Thank you so much.” 
 
 “ Very well, then, I’ll call for her in a cab about 
 eleven o'clock. Meanwhile, as this is only Tuesday, 
 I’ll send her some work.” 
 
 “ You are very good and kind. I don't know how 
 to thank you.” 
 
 “ Nonsense, dear ! I don’t want any thanks. 
 Good-bye. I’m in an awful hurry. Glad I met 
 you. Ta, ta.” 
 
 And with a smile and a wave of the hand, the 
 kind-hearted dressmaker turned a corner and dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 “ What good news for my darling ! ” thought Madge 
 joyfully. “ I could hug you, Madame Garniture, 
 for your kindness. And now, before going home, I 
 
1 18 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 must take a peep at Belgrave Street, just to satisfy 
 my pet that Lady Ashfield has not yet returned.” 
 
 But when Madge stood opposite the house, and 
 looked up at the windows, she uttered an exclamation 
 of surprise and delight. 
 
 “ At last ! Yes, surely, Lady Ashfield must be at 
 home. This change must mean that she has 
 returned.” 
 
 The once dingy exterior had been freshly painted. 
 Daffodils and daisies filled the window-boxes, and the 
 whole house was brilliantly lighted. The blinds in 
 the dining-room had not been pulled down, and the 
 table, beautifully decorated with choice flowers and 
 rich silver, was plainly visible from the street. 
 
 “ How delightful to sit at such a table ! ” sighed 
 Madge. “ Heigho ! the wealthy have many things 
 to make life pleasant. How happy we should be 
 now, if only my sweet Dora had not been robbed. 
 But there, a truce to such dreams. I must try if I 
 cannot see Lady Ashfield to-night. And then, who 
 knows what may happen ? ” 
 
 And, full of hope, Madge rang the bell. In an 
 instant the hall door flew open, and two men in 
 powdered hair stood silently waiting for her to speak. 
 
 “ Can I see Lady Ashfield ? ” she asked nervously. 
 “ I think she would see me if you told her my name 
 —Miss Neil.” 
 
 “Yes,” answered one of the men promptly. “ Her 
 ladyship will see you, I know. Will you kindly walk 
 this way ? ” 
 
PUT TO THE TEST 
 
 1 T 9 
 
 Madge did as desired, and, having followed the man , 
 across a richly-carpeted hall and down a long corridor, 
 was ushered into a small but exquisitely furnished 
 room. There was no one there ; and placing a chair 
 near the fire, and inviting her to be seated, the foot- 
 man murmured that he would tell her ladyship, and 
 withdrew. 
 
 Left alone, Madge stood still, gazing round her in 
 delight. Never before had she seen such a room. 
 The colours were soft and harmonious. The furniture, 
 which was of richly-carved ebony, toned admirably 
 with the gorgeous embroideries that were thrown about 
 over chairs and sofas. The cabinets were full of rare 
 china ; the walls covered with Japanese curios and 
 pieces of old tapestry. The whole air of the place 
 was restful. It was a room to dream, read, think in, 
 and Madge fell into a kind of trance as she drank in 
 the many beauties of her surroundings. 
 
 But her dream was of short duration. For 
 presently the rustling of silken garments was heard, 
 and Lady Ashfield swept into the room. She was 
 dressed in a rich dinner-dress of black brocade, 
 with flashing diamonds in her hair and round her 
 neck. She was tall and dignified-looking, and as she 
 came forward to greet her visitor, her face was lighted 
 up with a gracious smile of welcome. 
 
 “ My dear Miss Neil, I am so glad to see you at 
 last ! My son and I had almost despaired of ever 
 finding you out.” 
 
 “ You have been away for so long, Lady Ashfield.” 
 
120 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ True. But why did you not come and see the 
 housekeeper ? She had the names of several friends 
 of mine who would have taken music lessons from 
 you. They promised me they would.” 
 
 “ I am so sorry. But when we called, nearly two 
 years ago, we could get but little information. The 
 old woman at the door knew nothing of your move- 
 ments.” 
 
 “ It was unfortunate altogether,” said Lady Ashfield 
 kindly. “ For my son and I were determined to help 
 you and watch over you. But my father’s long illness 
 and death put everything else out of my head. And 
 now tell me, how is our friend, sweet little Dora ? ” 
 
 “ Alas ! she is far from well, Lady Ashfield,” 
 replied Madge sadly. “ She has suffered much during 
 the last two years, and her health is not good even 
 now. She rarely leaves the house.” 
 
 “ Poor child ! I am extremely grieved to hear such 
 a bad account of her. I will go to see her soon. 
 And how have you been doing, Miss Neil ? Are you 
 getting on well ? ” 
 
 “ Not well. I work in a school all day ; but the 
 salary is small. It is not nearly sufficient for the 
 support of two people, and lately Dora has earned 
 nothing, poor darling.” 
 
 “ Would you have time to give lessons if I could 
 get some for you ? ” 
 
 “ I think so. Mrs. Prim promised to give me two 
 hours a week, if I succeeded in getting other 
 employment.” 
 
PUT TO THE TEST 
 
 121 
 
 “ Then I shall ask my friends and let you know at 
 once. I have not been long in town, and do not 
 know where everybody is.” 
 
 “ Thank you, Lady Ashfield, you are very good.” 
 
 “ Not at all. I wish I could have helped you long 
 ago. But is there anything else I can do for you ? 
 Would you like a little immediate assistance ? My 
 purse is at your disposal.” 
 
 Madge flushed hotly. 
 
 “ Thank you. But I would rather not take 
 money I ” — 
 
 “ Do not be proud, dear. Kemember, little Dora 
 is to be my special care. That child, by her energy 
 and presence of mind, saved not only my life, but the 
 life of my only son ; therefore you must let me help 
 her, save her from further trouble and privation.” 
 
 “ You shall do so, if necessary, Lady Ashfield. 
 And, believe me, I am truly grateful for the offer. 
 But pray let your kindness take the form of getting 
 us work.” 
 
 “ Certainly. But Dora cannot work.” 
 
 “ Yes. She is clever with her needle.” 
 
 “ A poor way to make a living,” said Lady Ashfield, 
 shrugging her shoulders. “ However, I will see what 
 can be done. And now, is that all you will allow me 
 to do for you ? ” 
 
 “ No. There is something else. I want you to do 
 me a great favour. Will you ? ” 
 
 “ My dear, of course. You have only to ask, and, 
 if possible, I shall grant your request. What is it ? ” 
 
122 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Madge drew a long breath and clasped her hands 
 tightly together. 
 
 “ You know the Atherstones, Lady Ash field,” she 
 asked in a voice full of emotion, “ and see them 
 frequently ? ” 
 
 Lady Ashfield looked at her in surprise. 
 
 “ Certainly. I know them intimately. Sir Eustace 
 dines with me to-night.” 
 
 “ And Sylvia Atherstone — you know her ? ” 
 
 “Yes. Ever since she was a tiny child. She is 
 the most beautiful girl and the richest heiress in 
 London. She will make quite a sensation when she 
 is presented next Thursday.” 
 
 “ And you know Anne Dane ? ” pursued Madge, 
 her eyes fixed earnestly on the lady’s face. 
 
 Lady Ashfield laughed, and rose to poke the fire. 
 
 “ Yes. I know Anne Dane also. She is a valuable 
 old servant, who, having rendered a great service to 
 the family years ago, is allowed to do exactly what 
 she pleases, which means tormenting them all, and 
 keeping the other domestics in a state of indignation 
 and jealousy. Oh yes, I know Anne Dane.” 
 
 “ Anne Dane,” said Madge in a clear, firm voice, 
 voice, “ is a swindler and a cheat.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield started. 
 
 “ My dear Miss Neil, that is strong — I may say 
 violent language.” 
 
 “ Not half strong or violent enough,” cried Madge, 
 springing to her feet, her cheeks crimson with excite- 
 ment. “ For she has deceived her generous master, 
 
PUT TO THE TEST 
 
 123 
 
 Sir Eustace Atherstone, and done a cruel, cruel wrong 
 to an innocent child.” 
 
 “ What do you mean ? ” 
 
 “ This, Lady Ashfield. On the night of the wreck 
 of the Cimbria , Anne Dane was put into a boat with 
 a child in her arms. From thence she was rescued, 
 1 don’t know how, and went to London, not with 
 Sylvia Atherstone, but with my sister, Dora Neil.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield stared at the girl in astonishment. 
 
 “ Then you mean to say ” — 
 
 “ That this beautiful girl, this so-called Sylvia, is a 
 usurper; that she has no right to her name, wealth, 
 or position, and that the real Sylvia is the sweet, 
 delicate child who saved you and your son.” 
 
 “ You are — you must be either dreaming or mad.” 
 
 “ I am neither. What I tell you is true, absolutely 
 true. The fair, gentle girl you know as Dora Neil is 
 really Sylvia Atherstone.” 
 
 What proof,” asked Lady Atherstone coldly, “ have 
 you of this ? ” 
 
 Madge cast down her eyes, her colour went and 
 came. 
 
 “ Alas ! none.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield gave a sigh of relief. 
 
 “ I thought so.” 
 
 “ But if I could see Anne Dane for a moment, 
 cried the girl vehemently, — “ if I could bring her face 
 to face ” — 
 
 “ My dear young lady, you talk nonsense. Without 
 proof, and strong proof, no one would ever believe 
 
124 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 such a story. Take my advice, and put this silly 
 fancy out of your head. It can only do harm to you, 
 Dora, and even, perhaps, in a small way to Miss 
 Atherstone.” 
 
 " Silly fancy ? ” gasped Madge, clasping her hands 
 and raising her eyes appealingly to Lady Ashfield’s 
 face. “ Oh, it is no fancy. It is truth, pure, simple 
 truth.” 
 
 “ But even supposing it were true,” replied Lady 
 Ashfield, wondering at the girl's apparent honesty and 
 extreme earnestness, “ you say you have no proof, 
 and ” — 
 
 “ We have the portrait of Sylvia's mother, a 
 miniature hung round her neck by her father as he 
 bade her good-bye on board that ill-fated vessel, the 
 Cimbria. She's so like that ! ” 
 
 “ But no one here ever saw Mrs. Atherstone. She 
 was an Australian. He married her out there, 
 and ” — * 
 
 “ But Mr. Atherstone himself — he would know.” 
 
 “ Mr. Atherstone is still in Australia. Your 
 miniature could not prove anything.” 
 
 “ Then I must see Anne Dane. Let us come upon 
 her unexpectedly, and, in the presence of witnesses, 
 produce Dora and the miniature, and she will be sur- 
 prised, terrified, and will surely acknowledge the wicked 
 fraud she has been carrying on for so many years.” 
 
 “ My dear Miss Neil, pray calm yourself. I do 
 not — I cannot believe your story. You are labouring 
 under some strange, some wild delusion.” 
 
PUT TO THE TEST 
 
 I2 5 
 
 Madge bent her head upon her hands and uttered 
 a deep groan. 
 
 “ Oh, God,” she murmured, “ help me to reveal the 
 truth, to restore this poor child to her home and 
 friends.” Then, looking up imploringly, her eyes full 
 of tears, “ Lady Ashfield, pray, pray help me. You 
 can, you ” — 
 
 “ I am quite willing to help you.” 
 
 Madge sprang forward with a cry of joy. 
 
 Lady Ashfield held up her hand. 
 
 “ Do not misunderstand me, please, Miss Neil. I 
 am ready and willing to do what I can to help you 
 to earn money, and support yourself and your sister. 
 But I do not, I tell you honestly, believe your story. 
 And if I did, nothing would ever induce me to help 
 you in any way to accomplish the end you have in 
 view. Not for the world would I he the means of 
 plunging my dear old friend. Sir Eustace, into such a 
 sea of trouble, as the very suggestion of such a thing 
 would bring upon him.” 
 
 “ Will you give me Anne Dane’s address ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly not. That would surely assist you, and 
 cause much misery. No, no, Miss Neil ; leave Anne 
 Dane in peace, and forget this foolish notion. You 
 have an honest face, and seem much in earnest. So 
 I cannot believe you have willingly invented this 
 story of the wreck. But I feel sure that you are 
 suffering from a delusion, a hallucination, which has 
 probably grown stronger as the years have gone on. 
 But 
 
126 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Madge choked back her tears, and, drawing her 
 slight figure up to its fullest height, said coldly — 
 
 “ I am sorry to interrupt you, Lady Ashfield. But 
 I must ask you to say no more. You do not believe 
 my story. You treat me as a madwoman, and 
 therefore I beg that you will not take any further 
 trouble for me. You canuot, it would be impossible 
 for you, to recommend a liar or a lunatic to your 
 friends. So pray forget that I exist. I regret that 
 I should have taken up so much of your valuable 
 time, and I will now wish you good evening.” 
 
 And with burning cheeks, her head held proudly 
 erect, Madge walked quickly from the room. 
 
 “ What strange infatuation ! ” cried Lady Ashfield, 
 as the door closed upon her visitor. “ The girl’s mind 
 must have suffered severely from the shock of the 
 wreck. But I trust that this silly nonsense may 
 never reach Sylvia’s ears, nor Sir Eustace’s. What 
 pain, what trouble it would cause, false though it be. 
 Intense misery, I am sure. But, dear me, how late 
 it is ! And I have not quite finished my dressing. 
 I really feel much upset by this strange scene. I 
 must try and compose myself before my guests 
 arrive.” 
 
 And, sighing heavily, Lady Ashfield left her boudoir 
 and hurried upstairs to complete her toilet. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 LORD ASHFIELD IS MUCH PUZZLED 
 
 As Lady Ashfield seated herself before the glass in 
 her dressing-room, and called to her maid to bring her 
 some Eau de Cologne, a sharp knock was heard on the 
 door, and a cheery voice said gaily — 
 
 “ May I come in, mother ? ” 
 
 Lady Ashfield smiled. All her cares were forgotten 
 in an instant. In the presence of her son, her idol, 
 she knew no sorrow. 
 
 “ Certainly, dear boy,” she cried ; “ come in, by all 
 means.” 
 
 Lord Ashfield was in radiant spirits, and his eyes 
 were full of happiness as he kissed his mother. 
 
 “ What, not dressed yet, Ashfield ? It is nearly 
 dinner-time.” 
 
 “ Yes,” he answered, throwing himself into an arm- 
 chair, “ I am a bit late. But I don’t take long to 
 dress. Ill be ready in time, mater mine.” 
 
 “ I hope so. Sylvia dines with us to-night.” 
 
 “ Does she ? That’s right. But, mother, I have 
 such a splendid piece of news for you.” 
 
 “ Indeed, Ashfield ? ” she replied absently, and 
 
 127 
 
128 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 bending forward to arrange the diamond pins in her 
 hair. “ What is it ? ” 
 
 “ Something you have been wishing should happen 
 this ever so long has come off at last. Guess what it 
 is, mother.” 
 
 “ I never could guess anything, dear boy. Perhaps 
 one of your favourites has won a race.” 
 
 Ash field laughed heartily. 
 
 “ Now, did you ever wish that to happen, mother ? ” 
 “ Not exactly. But really, dear, you should go and 
 dress. This news will keep.” 
 
 “ Oh no, it won’t. But here goes. Well, after long 
 searching and many unsuccessful inquiries, I have at 
 last found the Neils, Dora and her sister.” 
 
 “ Indeed ? ” said Lady Ashfield coldly ; “ that is quite 
 an unexpected event. And how did it happen ? ” 
 Ashfield looked at her curiously. 
 
 “ Why, mother, how calmly you take my news ! 
 You don’t seem much pleased. I thought you would 
 be delighted.” 
 
 She laughed nervously, and looked about impatiently 
 for some missing article. 
 
 “ Sarah is so careless. I can’t find my ruby ring. 
 Ah, here it is. Yes, yes, of course I am glad, dear. 
 But is it necessary to be quite as excited as you are ? 
 I thought we should probably find them some day. 
 Where did you meet them ? ” 
 
 “ I did not meet them. But I came to find them in 
 rather a curious fashion. You remember Paul Yyner ? ” 
 “ What, the artist ? ” 
 
LORD ASHFIELD IS MUCH PUZZLED 129 
 
 Lady Ashfielcl started round as she asked this 
 question, her face full of interest. 
 
 “ Yes. He is an artist. One of the best fellows ” — 
 
 “ You need not tell me his perfections/' she said 
 stiffly, and turning back to her glass. “ But I thought 
 he was in America." 
 
 “ Was. But is in London. I've been sitting to 
 him for my portrait." 
 
 “ What folly ! " 
 
 “ Folly ? My dear mother, why should it be folly ? " 
 
 “ Because you know, we should keep that young man 
 at as great a distance as possible, Ashfield." 
 
 “My dear mother, I am sorry to be obliged to 
 contradict you. But I really know nothing of the 
 kind." 
 
 “ Have you then forgotten all that happened before 
 he went away ? " 
 
 “ No, mother. I remember perfectly well. I 
 remember how Sir Eustace Atherstone educated him, 
 took him to Italy, treated him in every way like his 
 son, till one day he discovered, through Paul’s own 
 manly confession, that he loved his grand-daughter, 
 Sylvia, and that he then cast him off, allowing him 
 to shift for himself, refusing to see or help him. This, 
 of course, affects the Atherstones, but what it has to 
 do with us I cannot see." 
 
 “ You are very dense, my son, or surely you would 
 see that it would be better to keep this young man at 
 a distance, just at present. You know what my hopes 
 are where Sylvia is concerned ; and — and this hand- 
 9 
 
A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 * 3 ° 
 
 jome artist, with his wrongs and grievances, may prove 
 a formidable rival.’’ 
 
 Lord Ashfield sprang to his feet and took two or 
 three turns up and down the room. His face was 
 flushed, his eyes full of anger. But presently he grew 
 calmer, and, coming closer to his mother, he laid his 
 hand affectionately on her shoulder, and bent to kiss 
 her cheek. 
 
 “ Mother mine,” he said gently, “ you must not 
 build castles in the air. You have no right to form 
 any hopes, or speculate in any way, about my future — 
 or Sylvia’s. That is in our hands. You , my mother, 
 
 must not interfere.” 
 
 “ Ashfield ! ” 
 
 “ I mean it, mother.” He smiled playfully. “ I’ll 
 have no matchmaking. I’ll gang my own gate, as 
 the Scotsman says, and marry who and when I 
 please. But you may rest assured that I’ll never ask 
 you to receive a daughter-in-law who is not in every 
 sense a lady.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield looked up lovingly into his handsome, 
 honest face. 
 
 “ My son, I never doubted that. But I did hope ” — 
 
 He held up a warning finger. 
 
 “ That is just what I object to. You must not hope 
 anything. At least, you must not talk of your hopes.” 
 
 “ Very well. I’ll promise that.” 
 
 “ Thanks. That is something gained. And now, as 
 to Vyner.” 
 
 His mother moved impatiently on her chair. 
 
LORD ASHFIELD IS MUCH PUZZLED 131 
 
 “ I take no interest in him, I assure you.” 
 
 “ My dear mother, how unjust you great ladies can 
 be ! If Paul were an earl or a duke, you would not 
 forbid me to cultivate his acquaintance lest, perhaps, 
 he might become a rival.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield frowned. 
 
 “ That is quite a different thing. It is preposterous 
 that a poor, struggling artist should dare to aspire to 
 Miss Atherstone’s hand.” 
 
 “ And yet Miss Atherstone will have money enough 
 for ”— 
 
 “ Ashfield, you annoy me exceedingly. These new 
 radical ideas of yours are atrocious. If a man be 
 good, honest, and clever, you care nothing for family 
 or wealth ; all men are equal in your eyes.” 
 
 Ashfield laughed good-humouredly. 
 
 “ Not quite, mother dear. The good, clever men 
 are infinitely superior to the mere men of family or 
 wealth. But pray forgive me if I annoyed you. I 
 did not wish to do so, I assure you. And now, let us 
 forget that the Atherstones ever knew Vyner, and 
 remember only that he has done us a great service, 
 and that we owe him a debt of gratitude.” 
 
 “ How so, pray ? ” 
 
 “ Because through him I discovered the Neils.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield’s mouth was set in cold, hard lines. 
 
 “ Indeed ? ” she said icily. “ That was a great service, 
 truly.” 
 
 “ A very great one, mother, and I cannot tell you 
 how thankful I feel. This morning I was in had 
 
i3 2 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 spirits. I thought we should never discover them. 
 And on entering Vyner’s studio, he remarked upon 
 my miserable expression. I told him the story with- 
 out mentioning the Neils’ names, never imagining for 
 an instant that he could assist me. The good fellow 
 was full of sympathy. ‘ But/ he said, ‘ you must 
 cheer up. I could not paint such a doleful counte- 
 nance. Come into my room and look at my treasures. 
 They may enliven you somewhat.’ ” 
 
 “ He led me into a little sanctum hung round with 
 all kinds of curios. But what attracted me, fixed 
 my attention at once, were two small pictures — two 
 of the most lovely heads that I have ever seen in my 
 life. One had a cloud of rich auburn hair, large, 
 luminous, dark eyes, and ” — 
 
 “ Sylvia ! What audacity ! ” 
 
 “ Audacity, mother ? To paint the friend of his 
 boyhood, his almost sister for fourteen long years ! 
 One could hardly call that audacity. However, that 
 we may discuss another time. I want to finish my 
 story. Side by side with this beautiful painting was 
 another. Oh, mother, had you seen it, your heart, 
 which this evening seems like ice, must have melted. 
 It resembles the head of an angel, fair and pure. 
 Masses of golden hair clustering round a marble brow, 
 eyes of the deepest, darkest blue ; but over all an air 
 of sadness and melancholy not natural in one so young. 
 Yyner saw my admiration, and did not speak for a 
 moment, unwilling to disturb my reverie. 
 
 “ ‘ Are they not a striking contrast ? ’ he asked at last. 
 
LORD ASHFIELD IS MUCH PUZZLED 133 
 
 “ I nodded. I could not speak. I felt on the 
 verge of tears. 
 
 “ ‘ And their lives/ he continued, ' are as great a 
 contrast as their looks. More, I should say, for 
 though their faces are different, they are both beautiful ; 
 whilst their lives — alas ! there, indeed, is the contrast. 
 One surrounded with every luxury, the other plunged 
 in the most dire poverty and want/ 
 
 “ ‘ Is that true ? ’ I cried. ‘ Oh, Yyner, I know 
 them both. One is Miss Atherstone, the beautiful 
 heiress. The other is ’ — 
 
 “ ‘ Little Dora Neil, the dressmaker’s apprentice/ 
 
 “ ‘ Where did you find her ? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Find her ? My dear Ashfield, she is close to us. 
 She and her sister live in the rooms just over these/ 
 
 “ I seized his hand and shook it warmly. Yes, 
 mother, you may shake your head, but I did not take 
 the discovery as quietly as you do. I felt overjoyed, 
 and longed to rush upstairs to see them at once. 
 But Yyner restrained me. ‘ Dora was ill. Her sister 
 was out’, he said, so it would be better to wait. I 
 might startle her, if I went up to her then. Suddenly 
 we heard the sound of singing. ‘ That is Dora/ cried 
 Vyner. ‘ She has such a sweet, plaintive voice. Poor 
 child ! her life is hard for one so frail and delicate/ 
 
 “ ‘ She shall lead it no longer/ I said. ‘ That is 
 the girl I was so anxious to find, Vyner. And she, 
 small and fragile as she is, once saved my life and my 
 mother’s. For years we have lost sight of her, 
 neglected her. But, thank God, I have found her, 
 
134 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 and I will now see that she wants for nothing. I 
 must speak to her to-night/ And, heedless of 
 Vyner’s remonstrances, I rushed upstairs. On the 
 landing I could distinctly hear her song, that quaint 
 little Scotch one about ‘ castles in the air/ Unwilling 
 to interrupt her, I stood still and listened. Suddenly, 
 a rough, fierce-looking old man brushed quickly past 
 me, and, muttering, ‘ I’ll make her sing/ burst uncere- 
 moniously into her room. The song ceased abruptly, 
 and the intruder’s voice fell on my ear. His tone 
 was insolent, his language threatening. Then in 
 reply came Dora’s sweet, pleading words. And oh, 
 mother, it would have made you weep to hear her 
 sobs and heart-rending prayer for mercy. But the 
 landlord was obdurate. Nothing would move him. 
 He must have his rent, or she and her sister must 
 leave his house next day. And then he came away, 
 leaving her, I am sure, plunged in an agony of grief. 
 But, thank God, I was there to stay his cruel hand. 
 As he walked downstairs, I met him, and there and 
 then paid the small amount of rent that was due. 
 He returned to tell our little friend the good news, 
 but under promise not to reveal my name, and I came 
 off to tell you that I had at last discovered her.” 
 
 “ It is strange,” said Lady Ashfield, “ that I too 
 have learned her whereabouts this very evening, 
 though in a less romantic fashion. Her sister has 
 called upon me at last.” 
 
 “ Mother ! Why did you not tell me so at once ? 
 Are you not delighted ? ” 
 
LORD ASHFIELD IS MUCH PUZZLED 135 
 
 “ My dear Ashfield, how excitable you are ! Finding 
 these girls seems to have turned your head. ,, 
 
 “Not quite, mother. But I confess it has given 
 me great pleasure. Your manner, however, puzzles 
 me immensely. Did you not like Miss Madge ? ” 
 
 “ No, not much. Her words — her — in fact, I was 
 disappointed in her.” 
 
 Ashfield looked what he felt — deeply pained. 
 
 “ I am sorry for that. Dora’s sister should be 
 charming.” 
 
 “ She is not, or says she is not, the girl’s sister 
 after all,” rose to Lady Ashfield’s lips. But she 
 stopped abruptly. “ Why tell Ashfield this mad 
 story ? ” she thought. “ It is nonsense, and I hope he 
 may never hear it. He shall certainly not do so 
 from me.” 
 
 “ Well ? ” he inquired ; “ she is not what ? ” 
 
 “At all like Dora. She is dark and strong — a tall, 
 rather good-looking young woman, but lacking the 
 extreme refinement of her little sister.” 
 
 “ But she is a lady ? ” he questioned anxiously. 
 “ She must be that.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield flushed. It was unpleasant to be 
 catechised so persistently about a person who had 
 annoyed her so much. She did not care to see her 
 son take such an interest in these Neils. And yet, 
 such is the perversity of men, she knew that, did she 
 but attempt to disparage Madge, it would only 
 increase that interest, and make him more anxious 
 than ever to look after her and her sister. 
 
136 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Yes,” she admitted reluctantly, after a slight pause. 
 
 “ She is a lady, but very proud ; and she did not seem 
 to be as poor as you think her.” 
 
 “Ah, that shows me how noble she is. She did not 
 care to parade her poverty to a stranger. I like that 
 spirit,” he cried warmly. “ But, of course, you 
 promised to get her lessons, and help her all you 
 could.” 
 
 “ Yes. But she drew herself up proudly and 
 declined my help.” 
 
 “ Mother ! you must have offended her. You must 
 apologise, and insist on helping her.” 
 
 Something in Lord Ashfield’s manner and words 
 stung his mother to anger ; and, forgetting her usual 
 caution in her wrath, she replied indignantly — 
 
 “ I most certainly decline to do anything of the 
 kind. Miss Madge refused my help, and I have no 
 intention of pressing my services upon her. And 
 now, Aslifield, go and dress for dinner. We have 
 discussed this matter long enough. Our guests may 
 arrive in a few moments.” 
 
 “ One word, mother. Will you forget your quarrel 
 with Madge, and send for her again ? ” 
 
 “No, I cannot promise to do that,” she answered 
 stiffly. “ My maid shall go and see Dora to-morrow, 
 and take her a few delicacies.” 
 
 “ I did not ask you to help them in that way,” he 
 said in a tone of grave displeasure. “It is surely 
 making the girl a poor return for her brave conduct, 
 doling out charity to her by the hands of your maid.” 
 
LORD ASHFIELD IS MUCH PUZZLED 137 
 
 “You must allow me to be a judge of what is 
 right, Ashfield. I flatter myself I know more about 
 these matters than you. ,, 
 
 “ Perhaps so. But I must confess I am much 
 puzzled by your conduct. You are not acting as I 
 expected you would, when we discovered these girls. 
 But now I must go and dress.” 
 
 And for the first time for many years, Lord Ashfield 
 left his mothers presence with a heavy cloud upon 
 his brow. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 WHO IS SYLVIA? 
 
 After an absence of many years, Sir Eustace Atherstone 
 had at last made up his mind to spend the season in 
 London. Immediately, after the arrival of his grand- 
 daughter and her nurse, he had retired to his country 
 seat, where he remained till the girl was sixteen. 
 Then, for her sake, he suddenly renounced the life he 
 loved, and went abroad. Eor Sylvia was his first, his 
 constant thought, and her happiness the principal 
 object of his existence. Erom the moment that he 
 had received her from Anne Dane, a poor little mite, 
 just rescued from a watery grave, he had surrounded 
 her with everything that love or wealth could 
 imagine or suggest. 
 
 Up to the age of sixteen the girl had been in- 
 structed in all the important branches of education 
 by the best teachers England could produce. Then, 
 all at once, it dawned upon the young lady that she 
 knew absolutely nothing of the world — that she had 
 never heard good music, or seen any of the fine 
 pictures and sculpture that she had read so much 
 about — that her French and German were weak, her 
 
 138 
 
WHO IS SYLVIA? 
 
 i39 
 
 Italian weaker. She mentioned these facts one day, 
 somewhat plaintively, to her grandfather. And he, 
 without a thought for himself or his probable dis- 
 comfort in foreign lands, instantly resolved that they 
 should travel, and that Sylvia should thus have every 
 opportunity for learning modern languages and 
 generally improving her mind. 
 
 For two years they wandered about from place to 
 place, staying six months here, and three there, till 
 at last their time was up, and Sylvia was eighteen, 
 and her entrance into society could no longer be 
 delayed. Then they turned their faces homewards, 
 and arrived in London a week or so before the 
 Drawing-Eoom, at which Miss Atherstone was to be 
 presented by Lady Aslifield. 
 
 On the morning of the day upon which this 
 important event in his grand-daughters life was to 
 occur, Sir Eustace sat alone in his handsome library. 
 Round about him on the table were books, papers, 
 and letters. But he was not reading. He seemed 
 lost in thought. And to judge by the expression of 
 his face, there was a good deal of sadness mixed up 
 with his reflections. 
 
 “Yes,” he murmured half aloud, “I miss him. 
 Here, in this room, where Paul as a little boy used to 
 sit in the old, old days, poring over some big book, 
 and looking up with a smile when I asked him a 
 question, I miss him sadly. In foreign lands, amidst 
 fresh scenes, and in the first burst of indignation at 
 his folly, I fancied I did not care ; but I find I do — 
 
140 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 for very dear was that lad to me, after all. Poor Paul 
 Vyner, with his bright face and his warm, enthusi- 
 astic nature. Why, oh, why did I send him from me ? 
 and yet I could not help it. It was necessary for 
 Sylvia's sake. So what matter how I, how he suffers, 
 if she be happy, as she must — as she shall be. But 
 how strange it seems that those I love are all forced 
 for some reason or other to leave me ! First, my son, 
 George ; then my wife and other children by death ; 
 then Paul ; and now, who knows, perhaps, I may one 
 day lose Sylvia, my pet, my treasure. Such a loss 
 would kill me, and yet after this I may not be allowed 
 to keep her long. Once presented, says Lady Ashfield, 
 she must marry. Paul was banished because he 
 loved her — my poor Paul ! And now, who knows 
 what plot is being hatched, what conspiracy is on 
 foot to rob me of her ? Only last night Lady Ashfield 
 hinted something darkly, asked strange questions 
 about my darling’s fortune, and wanted to know if any 
 change would ever be possible in my manner towards 
 her, no matter what she did or became. What she 
 meant I can’t imagine. As if any earthly thing could 
 alter my love for my dearest child. Why, even if — 
 but here she comes. I declare the fire is nearly out. 
 How stupid of me not to pay it more attention ! ” 
 
 Sir Eustace seized the poker and stirred the fire to 
 a blaze. Then drawing over an arm-chair, he sank 
 into it with a sigh. 
 
 The door opened slightly, and a merry voice called 
 out — 
 
WHO IS SYLVIA? 
 
 141 
 
 “ May I come in, grandpapa ? Madame Garniture 
 promised to come early to help to dress me, as 
 Desiree is rather innocent in the arrangement of 
 Court trains. But she has not arrived, and I am 
 tired of sitting upstairs alone. I am in an unfinished 
 state. But still” — 
 
 “ Come in, love, come in ! ” he cried. “ My sweet 
 Sylvia is welcome in any state. Her sunny face is 
 just what I want to see.” 
 
 “ You dear old darling ! ” said Sylvia ; and, tripping 
 up to her grandfather’s chair, she gave him a loving 
 kiss. 
 
 “ Unfinished ? ” he exclaimed. “ Why, my dear, 
 you look lovely. That dress will be the prettiest in 
 the Palace. Is it a new style of Court dress ? In my 
 day they were not that shape.” 
 
 Sylvia burst into a peal of merry laughter. 
 
 “ You dear, good, stupid old grandfather ! You 
 don’t imagine I could go to Court in this ? Why, it’s 
 only a tea-gown.” 
 
 “ Pink silk, cream lace, hair puffed and curled on 
 the top of your little head. My child, you never wore 
 such finery before.” 
 
 “ No. But you know I am out now. So, of course, 
 my dresses are all quite different. And my hair is 
 done up, ready for my feathers. D4sir4e does hair 
 beautifully. But wait till you see me fully equipped 
 for Court, grandpapa ; you’ll not know me, I’m sure. 
 Feathers and veil, puffs and flowers, train ever so 
 many miles — no, I mean yards long. I declare, dear, 
 
A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 M2 
 
 [ shall feel like a cockatoo. And then — oh, pity my 
 fate ! — I’ve got to go out in this nipping wind in a low 
 body and short sleeves.” 
 
 “ I would not do it.” 
 
 “ But it’s one of Her Majesty’s commands. Surely 
 my dear, loyal, aristocratic Sir Eustace would not 
 disobey his Queen ? ” 
 
 “ Sylvia, you are frivolous.” 
 
 “ I am, grandpapa, I am. But if I were not, I 
 should be cross. Listen, dear, and I will tell you my 
 woes.” 
 
 And, drawing over a low stool, she seated herself at 
 his feet. 
 
 “Woes, my pet? Surely you have nothing to 
 trouble you ? ” And he laid his hand caressingly 
 upon her head. 
 
 The girl turned the sunniest of faces towards him, 
 then, heaving a deep sigh, replied — 
 
 “ Oh, such a number ! ” 
 
 Her manner and air were so comical, her whole 
 expression so full of anything like sorrow, that Sir 
 Eustace burst out laughing. 
 
 “ You naughty puss ! As if you knew what trouble 
 meant.” 
 
 “ You are greatly mistaken,” she said, pouting. “ I 
 know well what it means, for I have had many 
 worries and troubles since — since I came out.” 
 
 “ But you are not out till you are presented.” 
 
 “ True. Well, then, troubles that come from the 
 preparation necessary before taking the great step. In 
 
WHO IS SYLVIA? 
 
 *43 
 
 the first place, Lady Ashfield is much annoyed because 
 I would not do what she told me, and go to Madame 
 Irma for my Court dress.” 
 
 “ And why didn’t you ? ” 
 
 “ My dear Sir Eustace,” she said solemnly, “ Miss 
 Atherstone may bestow her patronage where she 
 chooses.” 
 
 Her grandfather smiled. 
 
 “ To be sure. And where, then, did Miss Atherstone 
 bestow it ? ” 
 
 “ On dear old Garniture, of course. She has made 
 my dresses — not quite since I was able to walk, but 
 still for a very long time, and I was not going to 
 desert her, just when she would most enjoy dressing 
 me, merely because Irma is the fashion.” 
 
 “ Well, I don’t suppose Lady Ashfield cared.” 
 
 “ Oh, but she did. And that is one of my troubles. 
 She was very proud and cross, and that made me more 
 determined than ever — for you know I have a will of 
 my own, dear.” 
 
 “ Most certainly you have, my pet. A more 
 obstinate little person I never met.” 
 
 “ Hot with you, grandpapa, not with you. I’d do 
 anything you asked me.” 
 
 She laid her cheek caressingly against his hand, and 
 raised her large, lustrous eyes lovingly to his. 
 
 “ I gave up Paul, dear, foolish Paul, because you 
 wished it. You have not forgotten that, grandpapa ? ” 
 
 And Sylvia’s sweet face grew crimson, and the 
 sensitive mouth quivered ominously. 
 
144 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ You did, my darling. You were ever gentle and 
 obedient. To-day you go forth into the world, and 
 others more eligible than Paul may see you, and want 
 you. Lord Ashfield, for instance. His mother hinted 
 broadly last night.” 
 
 “ Lord Ashfield shall never steal me from you. Do 
 not be afraid. And do not pay attention to his 
 mother’s hints. In this matter she will find me 
 quite as obstinate as where Madame Garniture was 
 concerned.” 
 
 “ But someone is sure to come and carry you off*, 
 my pet. There is a strange feeling of terror over me 
 to-day, Sylvia, that I cannot understand. It may be 
 that your father ” — 
 
 “ My father ! Oh, grandpapa, you could not surely 
 be jealous of him. Poor dear papa, who has not seen 
 me for years and years, not since I was a tiny child. 
 My darling, he shall not divide us, I know. He’ll 
 come home and widen our circle — increase our family. 
 Instead of separating us, he will draw us more together 
 and strengthen our love.” 
 
 “ My dear, sweet child, would that my love for you 
 were not so selfish ! For years I have longed for your 
 father to return ; but now, as the hour approaches, I 
 dread it, lest he should take from me one iota of my 
 little grand-daughter’s heart.” 
 
 “ He shall never do that. But tell me, have you 
 heard from papa lately ? ” 
 
 “ This morning. He expects to be home in about 
 six months.” 
 
WHO IS SYLVIA t 
 
 i45 
 
 Sylvia clapped her hands ; her face shone with joy. 
 “ What glorious news ! How glad I shall be to see 
 him ! You don’t mind me saying that, dearest ? ” 
 
 “ Ho, my pet. Such pleasure is natural, and shows 
 what a loving child you are.” 
 
 The girl did not speak for a moment, and seemed in 
 deep thought. 
 
 “ Grandpapa,” she said presently, “ I wonder if papa 
 would know me if he were to meet me, and no one 
 told him I was his child. Am I much changed since 
 I came to you ? ” 
 
 He examined her critically, his eyes full of loving 
 admiration as they dwelt upon her. 
 
 “ You were small then. You are now tall and 
 graceful,” he said, smiling. “ Your dark eyes are 
 larger and darker, but your hair, complexion, and 
 tiny mouth are almost the same. You were a lovely 
 baby ; you are a beautiful girl.” 
 
 She jumped up, laid her arms about his neck, and 
 kissed him with a tender love in her eyes. 
 
 “ Dear old flatterer,” she whispered, “ do you wish 
 to make me vain ? ” 
 
 “ Ho. I don’t think that would be possible.” 
 
 Sylvia laughed and blushed, and returned to her 
 stool. 
 
 “ Then you think papa would know me ? ” 
 
 “ That I can hardly tell. And yet I think he 
 would. For truly you are but little changed since I 
 first saw you. But still, I do not quite understand. 
 Either he has forgotten what you were like, or the sea 
 10 
 
146 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 journey worked a considerable difference in your health 
 and general appearance. I will let you hear what he 
 has written about you.” 
 
 And, taking a letter from the table, Sir Eustace 
 began to read. 
 
 “ I wonder what my darling is like now. I always 
 think of her as the small, delicate baby with little 
 pale, fair cheeks, that clung to me so lovingly as I 
 bade her good-bye.” 
 
 “ Now, when I met you at Gravesend, Sylvia,” said 
 Sir Eustace, “ you were as rosy as possible, as strong 
 a child as ever lived.” 
 
 “ The sea air had, of course, tanned my skin and 
 made me look healthy,” answered Sylvia decidedly. 
 “ And I daresay papa has forgotten. It is not easy 
 to remember a baby’s face. But if he looked at my 
 last likeness, he'd see * pretty well what I am like ; 
 everyone said it was capital.” 
 
 “ Yes. But listen, dear, to what he says.” And 
 Sir Eustace continued the letter. 
 
 “ You cannot imagine how I long to see her, 
 especially now, as I know she is grown up, and that I 
 have made up my mind to go home soon. My thoughts 
 are full of my daughter. It is strange that none of 
 the photos you mentioned sending ever reached me. 
 I probably missed them through wandering about so 
 much. But I am just as glad, I never saw them, for 
 now she will burst upon me in all her beauty. For 
 you tell me she is beautiful. Is she like my sweet 
 wife, I wonder ? But, of course, you do not know 
 
WHO IS SYLVIA? 
 
 i47 
 
 that, since you never saw her, and the miniature I sent 
 was lost in the wreck. However, it matters little who 
 she is like. She is my own beloved daughter, and as 
 such she is inexpressibly dear. God bless her and you.” 
 
 Sylvia's were full of tears, and, taking her father's 
 letter from the old man's hand, she pressed it to 
 her lips. 
 
 “ Poor papa, how full of love and longing is your 
 letter ! But why has he stayed away from us all 
 these years, grandpapa ? ” 
 
 “ Why ? So you may ask. He, the heir to my 
 name and rich estates. But he loved a wandering 
 life, and could not bear the trammels of society. 
 Now, as he grows older, he longs for home and his 
 daughter's love.” 
 
 “ And he shall have both. Grandpapa, we must be 
 very good and kind to him, you and I. But I wonder, 
 am I at all like my dead mother ? ” 
 
 “ No, dearest, I think not, unless in expression. 
 For she was small and fair. George told me so 
 frequently in the first days of his married life. She 
 was a fragile creature, with golden hair, and large, 
 childlike blue eyes.” 
 
 Sylvia sighed. 
 
 “ That is not at all like me. Dear little mother ! 
 Who am I like, grandpapa ? Do I remind you of 
 papa ? ” 
 
 And she glanced at the large portrait of George 
 Atherstone, as a lad of nineteen, that hung over the 
 mantelpiece. 
 
148 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ No, dear. You are not like any member of our 
 family. You are an original Sylvia, perfectly unique 
 in your own peculiar way.” 
 
 The girl laughed and looked up roguishly into his 
 face. 
 
 “ Perhaps I am a changeling ? ” 
 
 “ I should not be at all surprised,” he cried, pinch- 
 ing her cheek. “ Brought to us by the fairies, 
 endowed with all their most precious gifts and 
 graces.” 
 
 How they jested, these two. Yet had they but 
 guessed how near the truth they were, what cruel 
 sorrow would have filled their hearts ! 
 
 “ Just so, grandpapa,’* cried Sylvia gaily. “ That 
 sounds very pretty. And now I must really go, and 
 finish my toilet. If I am not ready very soon, Lady 
 Ashfield may have to wait, and ” — 
 
 “ Madame Garniture has gone to your room, Miss 
 Atherstone,” said the footman, opening the door. 
 
 “ I am glad. Good-bye, grandpapa.” And she 
 tripped off upstairs. 
 
 On the first landing hung an old-fashioned mirror, 
 framed in some of Grinling Gibbons’ exquisite carving. 
 In this Sylvia caught sight of her own face as she 
 passed. 
 
 “ Not at all like my mother. Alas ! no. ‘A fragile 
 creature with golden hair.’ Ah ! ” 
 
 Sylvia started and uttered a cry of surprise. 
 Seated on a chair just outside her dressing-room door 
 was a girl of about her own age, small, slight, and 
 
WHO IS SYLVIA? 
 
 149 
 
 fair, with a mass of pure golden hair, and large, sad 
 blue eyes. 
 
 “ Exactly what my darling might have been at 
 eighteen. Poor little dead mother ! ” she thought, as 
 she looked at the stranger. “ She just suits the 
 picture I have made of her in my mind.” 
 
 Dorothy Neil (for it was she) stood up politely as 
 the young lady approached. 
 
 “ Why are you waiting here ? ” asked Sylvia 
 gently. 
 
 “ I am waiting for Madame Garniture, 1 ” the girl 
 replied, with a faint blush. “ I am one of her 
 workers, and came to carry your veil and feathers.” 
 
 “ You look tired. This is not a comfortable seat. 
 Come into my sitting-room and rest whilst you wait.” 
 
 Greatly touched at such kind attention, Dora 
 followed Sylvia into a pretty boudoir, and gladly 
 accepted the luxurious arm-chair that she was invited 
 to occupy. 
 
 “ Here is an amusing book to read,” said Sylvia. 
 “ And Ddsiree must fetch you a glass of wine.” 
 
 “ Please do not trouble about me,” cried Dora. 
 “ I do not care for wine.” 
 
 “ But you must have some, and a little cake. It 
 will do you good. I am sorry I must go and dress. 
 I should like so much to talk to you. You have 
 a sweet face, and ” — 
 
 “ Miss Atherstone.” 
 
 “ Coming, Madame Garniture. Good-bye. I must 
 
 go.” 
 
150 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Sylvia vanished into her dressing-room, and Dora 
 was left alone. For some minutes she looked about 
 her, wondering vaguely in whose house she could be, 
 who the kind young lady was, and if she should ever 
 see her again. She was very tired and very weak, 
 and presently the book she held slipped from her 
 fingers, her eyes closed, and she fell asleep. 
 
 In a short time — very short it appeared to her — 
 she heard the running to and fro of many feet, the 
 murmur of voices, and her own name repeated loudly 
 in tones of evident displeasure. 
 
 She started up and ran out upon the stairs. Here 
 she found Madame Garniture and the French maid, 
 Desiree. 
 
 “ Well, upon my word, this is nice conduct in 
 a strange house ! ” cried the dressmaker angrily. 
 “ Where have you been hiding, I’d like to know ? ” 
 
 “ I was not hiding,” replied Dora, flushing painfully. 
 “ I was sitting in the room where the young lady 
 left me.” 
 
 “ Oh, dear, of course,” said Desmie. “ Miss 
 Atherstone told me you were in the boudoir. Did 
 you get the wine ? ” 
 
 “ No. But ” — 
 
 Dora gasped. She grew suddenly pale. 
 
 “ Then you shall have it now,” cried the maid. 
 “ I’ll go for it at once.” And away she went. 
 
 “ Madame Garniture,” asked Dora, with trembling 
 lips, “ do you — will you tell me who is that beautiful 
 girl you came to dress for the Drawing-Boom ? ” 
 
WHO IS SYLVIA? 
 
 151 
 
 “ Certainly. But I thought you knew, child. She 
 is Miss Sylvia Atherstone, the greatest heiress, and 
 loveliest young lady in all London.” 
 
 Dora's head spun round ; she suddenly felt faint 
 and giddy, and she clung to the banisters for 
 support. 
 
 “ Sylvia Atherstone ? ” she murmured. “ Are you 
 sure ? ” 
 
 Madame Garniture laughed scornfully. 
 
 “ Why, I’ve made Miss Atherstone’s dresses for the 
 last seven years, and very proud I am of the honour. 
 Hers is a figure to do a dressmaker credit — straight, 
 graceful, and shapely. She is a true aristocrat, is 
 Miss Atherstone — a real lady to the very tips of 
 her fingers. But come, dear, let us go home. You 
 don’t seem well.” 
 
 Dora passed her hand across her forehead. 
 
 “ I am dazed — bewildered. I know not what may 
 
 happen now. Sylvia Atherstone at last ! So good, 
 so beautiful, so ” — 
 
 Madame Garniture looked at the girl in astonishment. 
 
 “ My dear, you are half asleep. This visit appears 
 to have upset you. But come along. I have a cab 
 ready this half-hour.” 
 
 And, without waiting for Desiree to appear with 
 the wine, she hurried Dora into a hansom and drove 
 away. 
 
 “ Take my advice and lie down,” she said, as she 
 dropped the girl at the corner of the street in which 
 she lived. “ You want a little rest.” 
 
I 5 2 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Yes, thank you,” answered Dora dreamily. 
 “ Perhaps I do.” 
 
 “ Poor child ! ” murmured the dressmaker. “ She 
 looks somehow as if she had seen a ghost. What a 
 delicate creature she is. Her life will not be long, 
 I fancy. But maybe it’s just as well, for she has not 
 much of a future before her.” 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 LADY ASIIFIELD MAKES UP HER MIND 
 
 By all who saw her on the day of the Drawing-Room, 
 Sylvia Atlierstone was much admired, and universally 
 allowed to be the handsomest and most distinguished- 
 looking of all the fair debutantes . She was, declared 
 
 these judges of female beauty, the loveliest girl they 
 had ever seen, and worthy in every respect of the 
 good old name she bore. 
 
 But of all this admiration, Sylvia was calmly 
 unconscious. She was pleased when the ordeal of 
 making her curtsey to the Queen was over, and 
 rejoiced to think that she had passed through it 
 without betraying any undue nervousness or agitation. 
 But more than this she did not care. For, as Sir 
 Eustace had said, she was not vain, nor likely to 
 become so. Her mind was of too high an order to 
 admit of such a petty vice as mere personal vanity. 
 So she troubled herself but little as to what anyone 
 might say about her looks or bearing on the day of 
 her presentation. 
 
 But if Sylvia were indifferent as to the judgment 
 pronounced upon her by society, on her first appear- 
 
 153 
 
I S4 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 ance at Court, Lady Ashfield was keenly anxious upon 
 the subject. For some time she had been tortured 
 with doubts as to the truth of Madge Neil’s story. 
 The horrible idea that Sylvia might, after all, be the 
 daughter of poor, insignificant people had kept her 
 awake at night, and unhappy by day. The dream of 
 her life had been to see this beautiful heiress married 
 to her only son, Charles, Lord Ashfield. But as the 
 dreadful possibility that she might not be, after all, 
 what she seemed, rose up before her, she resolved to 
 be cautious — not to push on the marriage till this 
 story had been carefully looked into, and settled one 
 way or another for ever. Sylvia Atherstone, with 
 her large fortune and blue blood, would be a wife fit 
 in every respect for Lord Ashfield ; but the same girl, 
 good and beautiful though she might be, without 
 money or family, should never wed with son of 
 hers. 
 
 Lord Ashfield was full of what his mother was 
 pleased to call “ Badical ideas.” He professed a de- 
 cided contempt for persons whose only boast was their 
 pedigree and ancient family. He admired genius, 
 courting the society of those who had risen by their 
 own talents and industry, rather than that of gentle- 
 men who counted kings and crusaders amongst their 
 ancestors. This strange taste, thought Lady Ashfield, 
 was the sign of some terrible warp in his nature, and 
 would surely lead him into mischief — perhaps be the 
 cause of his marrying someone much beneath him in 
 station. But against this, she was determined to 
 
LADY ASHFIELD MAKES UP HER MIND 155 
 
 guard. And until Madge appeared upon the scene, 
 she had considered Sylvia the one only girl whom she 
 would be pleased to welcome as her daughter-in-law. 
 And even after she had listened to the story of the 
 wreck, and heard of the declared substitution of one 
 child for another, she was still true to Sylvia. She 
 refused to believe Madge’s statement, resolved to treat 
 it as a barefaced invention, and showed Lord Ashfield, 
 as plainly as she dared, that she wished him to marry 
 Sylvia Atherstone, grand-daughter of her best and 
 oldest friend. 
 
 But then, an awful fear took possession of her. 
 What if this tale were found to be true ? And she 
 trembled lest she had already gone too far, had 
 urged this marriage too earnestly upon her son. 
 Then came the recollection of the approaching 
 Drawing-Room. If she presented Sylvia, she was 
 in a manner responsible for her. Hitherto she had 
 not felt uneasy. But now ! What if this girl, whose 
 beauty and elegance she had lauded to her friends, 
 should prove to be a nobody ? What if she were 
 found less lovely, less aristocratic-looking than she 
 had imagined her to be, wanting in the many points 
 that show birth and family ? What if this should be 
 the verdict pronounced upon Sylvia on her first 
 appearance in the world ? How she would be laughed 
 at for her ignorance and simplicity. 
 
 So as the day of the presentation drew near, her 
 soul was torn with anxiety. 
 
 At last the ominous hour arrived, and Lady 
 
A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 J 5 6 
 
 Ashfield swept through the stately rooms of Bucking- 
 ham Palace, with Sylvia by her side. 
 
 Suddenly, her doubts melted away. She became 
 completely reassured. All around, she saw looks of 
 admiration and approval, and she gazed at her com- 
 panion, full of a growing and fixed belief that she 
 was certainly Sir Eustace Atherstone’s grand-daughter. 
 It was not possible to think otherwise. The tall, slim 
 figure ; the graceful, dignified carriage ; the well- 
 shaped head ; the dazzlingly beautiful, yet high-bred 
 face ; the perfectly easy, unconscious manner of the 
 young girl, could only belong to one of good — of noble 
 birth. So, there and then, Lady Ashfield’s mind was 
 definitely made up. This wild story that had filled 
 her with terror was utterly false, and was doubtless 
 concocted for the purpose of extracting money from 
 her. She would see Madge again soon, and buy a 
 promise of silence from her, even though it should cost 
 her several hundreds. Thus all fear of trouble on that 
 score would be speedily disposed of, and Sylvia should 
 marry Lord Ashfield before the end of the season. 
 
 “ Your grand-daughter has had a great triumph, Sir 
 Eustace,” said Lady Ashfield sw r eetly, as she watched 
 the girl move gracefully about amongst the many 
 friends who had come to see her on her return from 
 the Drawing-Room. “ She was universally admired, I 
 assure you. And really I do not wonder. I consider 
 her quite perfect.” 
 
 Sir Eustace smiled, and his eyes rested lovingly 
 on his darling's face. 
 
LADY ASHFIELD MAKES UP HER MIND 157 
 
 - “ Indeed ? ” he said ; “ and was it necessary she should 
 put on a train several yards long before you could 
 find that out ? I always knew she was perfect.” 
 
 “ You have had advantages I did not enjoy. But, 
 even so, had I been in your place, I would have 
 mistrusted my own judgment a little. One never 
 knows what the opinion of society may be, and that 
 is the important point, Sir Eustace.” 
 
 “ Not a bit of it. I don't care one jot what society 
 says or thinks, so long as I know that my Sylvia's 
 heart is in the right place. And I have only to look 
 in her bonnie eyes to know that.” 
 
 “ True. But society will not trouble much about 
 that. Hearts go for very little, I assure you. How- 
 ever, Sylvia is a success, and I congratulate you. And 
 now I must run away. I have two other teas to go 
 to on my way home.”, 
 
 “ It was most kind of you to come to us,” said Sir 
 Eustace, as he gave her his arm downstairs. “ You are 
 very good to my child, and I thank you a thousand 
 times.” 
 
 “ My dear friend, I require no thanks. Bemember, 
 I look upon Sylvia as my daughter. You know I 
 hope to call her so one day.” 
 
 “ Yes,” he answered gravely ; “ and I feel deeply 
 complimented that you should. But pray do not 
 forget that Vhomme propose, et Dicu dispose . My 
 
 Sylvia shall do as she pleases. I sent away Paul 
 Yyner by your advice, but I will not urge her to 
 marry Lord Ashfield.” 
 
158 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Of course not — I never thought of such a thing. 
 Still I like you to know what I feel about the dear 
 child.” 
 
 “ You are very kind — a true friend to us both. 
 And Ashfield is an extremely fine young fellow. But 
 I am selfish in my love. I want to keep my darling 
 to myself.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield laughed. 
 
 “ That you shall not be allowed to do long, I 
 promise you. But good-night. We meet this evening 
 at the Trehernes’, I suppose ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, Sylvia and I are dining there.” 
 
 “ Then au revoir, Sir Eustace, an revoir.” 
 
 And, stepping into her carriage, Lady Ashfield 
 drove away. 
 
 “ Poor old man ! How wrapt up in that girl he 
 is ! ” she cried, as she went along. “ This story of 
 Madge Neil’s would kill him, I believe. But he shall 
 never hear it, if I can prevent it. It is only the 
 raving of a madwoman. But still it would give 
 intense pain and worry. However, I’ll soon put an 
 end to it, and Ashfield shall marry Sylvia — I am 
 determined he shall.” 
 
 But for some days Lady Ashfield was busy, she had 
 many people to visit, many places to go to. And 
 though anxious to see Madge and silence her for ever, 
 she dreaded the interview, and postponed it from hour 
 to hour. Thus the time passed, and, notwithstanding 
 the good resolutions she had made, she neither saw 
 nor heard anything of the Neils. Lord Ashfield did 
 
LADY ASHFIELD MAXES UP HER MIND 159 
 
 not mention them again ; and his manner to his 
 mother was kind and affectionate as before. 
 
 “ He has forgotten them, ,, she said to herself ; “ so 
 much the better. I may take my own time and go to 
 Madge when it suits me. There is no hurry. But I 
 really expected that Ashfield would have made more 
 fuss about my visiting those girls. However, I am 
 pleased that he does not torment me. He seems now 
 as though he did not care whether I went or not.” 
 
 But in this Lady Ashfield was mistaken. Her son 
 was far from having forgotten the Neils. He 
 remembered them only too well ; and not a day passed 
 without his sending fruit, flowers, or books to Dora. 
 True, they were not sent in his name, nor did he visit 
 the girls in their lodgings. But that was because he 
 felt a delicacy in doing so, since his mother held aloof. 
 He was determined to help them more substantially> 
 as soon as he possibly could. This, however, was a 
 difficult thing to do, and gave him many hours of 
 anxious thought. The sisters were ladies, he felt, in 
 spite of their poor surroundings ; and from what he 
 had seen of Dorothy, he was sure she would be keenly 
 sensitive. He wanted a woman to advise him as to 
 how he should act ; and he knew not one to whom he 
 could turn for assistance. He had pleaded for them 
 with his mother, but she had pained him by her cold 
 indifference. Her manner of speaking of Madge, and 
 the apparent dislike she had taken to her, wounded 
 him exceedingly, and he resolved to let the subject 
 drop. He did not wish to see the girls insulted by 
 
i6o 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 having charity dispensed to them through a maid ; 
 and that, he saw, was all Lady Ashfield would do for 
 them at present. So, in her presence, their names 
 never passed his lips ; and she was completely deceived 
 by his seeming forgetfulness. 
 
 One day, as Lord Ashfield strolled through the park 
 pondering deeply over the curious dilemma in which 
 he now found himself, he suddenly thought of Sylvia 
 Atherstone. She would surely help him. He had 
 known her as a child, as a growing girl. She was 
 always kind and generous, and would have no diffi- 
 culty in finding some feasible way in which to assist 
 Dora and her sister. 
 
 “ Why did I not think of her before ? ” he cried. 
 “ If I can interest her in these poor orphans, their 
 troubles and mine are practically at an end. And if 
 I can only persuade her to visit them, and she sees 
 little Dora, she cannot fail to become their friend. 
 And Sylvia is so good, so kind, she is sure to 
 grant my request. But how can I see her, I wonder ? 
 She lives in a whirl of gaiety since her presentation, 
 and is probably never at home. I must ask my 
 mother ; she knows all her doings, and is her chaperon 
 everywhere she goes. It is just tea-time, and perhaps 
 by a stroke of good luck, I may find the madre in the 
 house. I’ll try anyway.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield was at home, enjoying a rest and 
 afternoon tea in her own particular sanctum, the pretty 
 boudoir that Madge had admired so much. 
 
 “ My dear Ashfield, what a delightful surprise ! ” she 
 
LADY ASH FIELD MAKES UP HER MIND 161 
 
 exclaimed joyfully, as her son entered the room and 
 greeted her with a loving kiss. “ Why, it is ages 
 since you came to have tea with me.” 
 
 “ Well, mother, you are not often to be found here 
 at this hour,” he answered smilingly. “ Methinks 
 you more frequently drink tea abroad than at home.” 
 
 “ True,” she said, sighing ; “ I lead a busy life and 
 have many engagements. And since I have had Sylvia 
 to chaperone, I have scarcely a moment’s peace.” 
 Ashfield laughed softly, and helped himself to a 
 dainty roll of bread and butter. “Now, mother, 
 confess. You know you delight in living in a whirl.” 
 
 “ Indeed, you are much mistaken, Ashfield. I 
 delight in nothing of the kind. But it is a duty I 
 owe to society.” 
 
 “ Poor mother ! What a tyrant society is ! But 
 tell me, does Sylvia feel herself a victim also ? ” 
 
 “ Sylvia? That girl is never tired. She rushes 
 here, and rushes there, and always looks as fresh as 
 possible. I tell her it is unladylike to be so strong. 
 But she only laughs, and starts off for something 
 new.” 
 
 “ Quite right. I am glad she enjoys herself. I 
 suppose it would be impossible to find her at home, at 
 tea-time for instance ? I daresay she is either out or 
 entertaining a crowd of people ? ” 
 
 Lady Ashfield looked at her son in astonishment, 
 then bent over the teapot to hide the pleasure in her 
 eyes. 
 
 “ Is he coming round to my views at last ? ” she 
 
162 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 asked herself. “ Is he now anxious to meet Sylvia 
 and woo her as his wife ? It seems like it. For 
 what other reason should he suddenly wish to see her 
 in her home ? He has heard her beauty praised, has 
 seen how she is admired, and has doubtless discovered 
 how much more charming she is than any other girl 
 he has ever met. ,, 
 
 However, she resolved to keep her thoughts to 
 herself, but at the same time give him every oppor- 
 tunity of cultivating Sylvia’s acquaintance. 
 
 “ Our little friend’s moments at home are precious,” 
 she said aloud, “ and are all devoted to her grandfather. 
 She is the sweetest, most loving child possible. Your 
 best chance of meeting her would be if you would 
 come about with me a little more — come to balls and 
 evening parties.” 
 
 “ My dear mother, balls are not in my line. I 
 don’t dance, and ” — 
 
 “ That is a pity — for this very evening Sir Eustace 
 is giving a ball to celebrate Sylvia’s coming out. It 
 will be a brilliant affair. I am to help to receive 
 the guests, as they are both new to everything and 
 everyone. Therefore I go early.” 
 
 “ Then I shall go with you. I don’t affect such 
 entertainments much as a rule,” he said, laughing. 
 “ They rather bore me, I confess ; but I should enjoy 
 seeing Sylvia at her first ball. So you may count 
 upon me as your escort to-night.” 
 
 “ That will be charming. I leave this at ten o’clock 
 sharp. So pray do not be late.” 
 
LADY ASHFI ELD MAKES UP HER MLND 163 
 
 “ Not for worlds. And to make my punctuality 
 more certain, I will dine with you, mother, if you will 
 allow me.” 
 
 “ My dear boy, you know you are always welcome. 
 I am quite alone to-night.” 
 
 “ So much the better. It is a long time since we 
 dined telc-a-tete. Now I must be off. I have some 
 business to transact. Farewell till dinner-time.” 
 
 And, well pleased at the thought of seeing Sylvia 
 so soon, Lord Ashfield got into a hansom and drove 
 off to his club. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 LORD ASHFIELD MAKES A BEQUEST 
 
 The ballroom is ablaze with lights. Every nook 
 and corner is filled with palms and sweet-smelling 
 flowers. The doorways are hung with wreaths of 
 deep yellow roses and maiden-hair fern, and the 
 conservatory resembles a fairy bower, with its dainty 
 lanterns and choice exotics. In a small gallery at 
 the end of the room the musicians are tuning their 
 instruments, and the beautiful parquet shines like a 
 mirror. Everything is ready, and awaits the arrival 
 of the guests. 
 
 “ Oh, grandpapa, is it not lovely ? ” cried Sylvia, 
 gliding across the floor, her white tulle dress floating 
 gracefully about her slim figure. “ I never saw any- 
 thing like the flowers. They are exquisite.” 
 
 “I am glad you are pleased, my pet,” said Sir 
 Eustace, bending to kiss the girl’s eager face. “ And 
 I really think it looks very nice. But Lady Ashfield 
 is late — I hope she will soon come. I feel quite 
 nervous.” 
 
 Sylvia laughed merrily. 
 
 “ Nervous ! Oh, grandpapa, what a confession ! ” 
 
 161 
 
LORD ASHFIELD MAKES A REQUEST 165 
 
 “ A terrible one, I admit. But I am old, Sylvia, 
 and it is years and years, since I played the part of 
 host at a ball.” 
 
 “ Poor darling ! It was a shame to torment you 
 into giving one ; ” and she laid her hand caressingly 
 upon his arm. “You should have been firm, and 
 refused. I would not have cared in the least.” 
 
 “ But Lady Ashfield would, dear. She insisted I 
 should give it.” 
 
 “ You must not allow yourself to be ruled so much 
 by Lady Ashfield, grandpapa.” And the white fore- 
 head was puckered into a frown. “ You must not 
 indeed.” 
 
 “No, dearest, not after to-night. But you will 
 enjoy this ball, my pet ? ” 
 
 The frown vanished ; the beautiful eyes sparkled 
 with pleasure. 
 
 “ Oh yes. I enjoy everything so much, grand- 
 papa.” 
 
 “ That is right. That is what I want you to do.” 
 
 “ But, do you know, I sometimes feel frightened — 
 as if — well, as if I should not always be so happy.” 
 
 “ My dear child, those are foolish thoughts. Put 
 them away. My little grand-daughter shall never 
 have anything to make her unhappy, I hope — I 
 pray.” 
 
 “Dear grandpapa, not if you can help it, I am 
 sure. You have always spoiled me, and saved me 
 from even the smallest trouble.” 
 
 “ Of course I have. And now, let me see my pet 
 
i6 6 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 dance and enjoy herself. That will prevent me from 
 feeling tired or worried. You are looking well 
 to-night, my pretty Sylvia, and your triumph will 
 make me happy.” 
 
 The girl made him a sweeping curtsey, and looked 
 up with a merry glance. 
 
 “ Your grand-daughter Sylvia 
 Is too young ; 
 
 She cannot bear 
 
 Your flattering tongue.” 
 
 Then, suddenly recovering herself, she cried — 
 
 “ But a truce to our gaiety, sweet grandpapa. 
 Here comes our kind assistant, Lady Ashfield. Now, 
 I trust your mind is at rest.” 
 
 “ Quite,” said Sir Eustace, laughing ; “ I breathe 
 more freely.” 
 
 “ Pray do not confess your weakness, or we are 
 undone,” cried Sylvia melodramatically ; “ put on a 
 hold front, my revered grandfather, and let no one 
 say we are afraid to face our guests. Look as though 
 receptions such as this were quite an everyday 
 occurrence. En avant ! Courage ! ” 
 
 And, taking the old man’s arm, Sylvia drew him 
 forward to meet Lady Ashfield and her son. 
 
 “ My dear Ashfield, this is indeed a pleasant sur- 
 prise,” exclaimed Sir Eustace, turning to his young 
 guest and shaking him warmly by the hand. “ I did 
 not expect you would honour us with your company 
 to-night. I fancied political meetings were more to 
 
LORD ASHFIELD MARES A REQUEST 167 
 
 your taste than balls. But believe me, Sylvia and I 
 are delighted to see you. Eh, Sylvia ?” 
 
 “Yes, grandpapa, certainly we are. It was very 
 kind of Lord Ashfield to come.” 
 
 “ He came expressly to see you, Sylvia,” whispered 
 Lady Ashfield ; “ so I hope you will be nice to him.” 
 The girl raised her eyes, full of inquiry, to the 
 lady's face. 
 
 “ Why do you say that ? I always liked Lord 
 Ashfield,” she said frankly ; “ so of course I shall be 
 nice to him.” 
 
 “ To be sure. I forgot. Sir Eustace, your grand- 
 daughter is terribly matter-of-fact.” 
 
 “ She always says exactly what she means, and 
 she is glad to see your son. They are old friends, 
 remember.” 
 
 “ Yes ; but come and take me round the rooms, that 
 I may admire them before the crowd comes.” 
 
 “ With pleasure.” And, offering his arm, he led 
 her away. 
 
 “ It is extremely kind of you and Sir Eustace to 
 welcome me so warmly, Miss Atherstone,” said 
 Ashfield ; “ and I hope you will reward what you call 
 my goodness, by granting me a dance.” 
 
 “ Certainly,” she answered, smiling ; “ which will 
 you have ? I do not dance until number ten, as I 
 must receive my friends.” 
 
 “ May I have number ten ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. But do you remember our first dance 
 together, Lord Ashfield ? ” 
 
i68 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Of course I do. You were a wonderful little 
 fairy in those days, and very impertinent to your 
 elders. I shall never forget how you ridiculed my 
 attempt at dancing.” 
 
 “ But I was only a child,” she said, laughing and 
 blushing, “and a very naughty one, I am afraid. 
 That is eight years ago, remember. I would not do 
 so now.” 
 
 “ I am not so sure. There is a very mocking 
 expression in your eyes, Miss Sylvia. But I shall 
 not put temptation in your way. I shall not ask 
 you to dance, but merely to sit out the waltz with 
 me. I have a favour to ask you.” 
 
 “ I hope it will not be anything very difficult, for 
 I should like to grant it. But see, our guests are 
 arriving. You will find me on the landing outside 
 the ballroom door, when it is time for our dance.” 
 
 And, bowing graciously, she took her place between 
 Sir Eustace and Lady Ashfield. 
 
 The ballroom now began to fill rapidly, and upon 
 every side Lord Ashfield was greeted with exclama- 
 tions of surprise. His appearance at an entertainment 
 of this kind was so unusual, that his friends could 
 not conceal their astonishment on beholding him. 
 But he only smiled, and gave them anything but 
 satisfactory reasons for his coming forth from his 
 seclusion to mix with the giddy crowd. He did not 
 dance, but went about amongst the people he knew, 
 laughing and talking, apparently unconcerned ; whilst 
 in reality he was feverishly impatient. He longed 
 
LORD A SB FIELD MAXES A REQUEST 169 
 
 for the time for his dance with Sylvia to come round, 
 as he felt keenly anxious to know what she would 
 advise about the Neils. 
 
 At last the desired moment arrived, and Lord 
 Ashfield pressed forward through the crowd, to claim 
 his beautiful young hostess for the waltz. 
 
 His mother looked up as he approached, and seeing 
 the evident pleasure with which he reminded the 
 girl of their engagement, she felt much delighted. 
 
 “ How anxious he is to talk to her ! ” she thought, 
 as they vanished into the conservatory together. 
 “ He seems thoroughly in earnest to-night.” 
 
 And so he was. But had Lady Ashfield known 
 why, had she guessed even faintly the cause of his 
 earnestness, the subject of his conversation, she would 
 have done all that lay in her power to separate these 
 two, and prevent the possibility of Sylvia meeting 
 the Neils, at least until she had seen Madge and 
 obtained her promise of secrecy. But she was bliss- 
 fully unconscious of her son’s intentions, and only 
 too well pleased to see him acting, as she thought, on 
 the good advice she had given him. 
 
 Meanwhile Sylvia and Ashfield made their way 
 through the ballroom, and seated themselves on two 
 comfortable chairs amongst the flowers. 
 
 “ It is really a pleasure to sit down again,” said 
 Sylvia gaily; “standing shaking hands with several 
 hundred people is a very fatiguing occupation.” 
 
 “Very. But you seem to have done charmingly,” 
 he replied ; “ your guests are loud in your praises. 
 
170 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 and your rooms are beautiful. They do you great 
 credit. The decorations are perfect.” 
 
 “ Yes, I think they are. But I had nothing to 
 do with them. Mr. Algernon Armstrong did every- 
 thing for us.” 
 
 “ Indeed ? That was kind. Is he a very old 
 friend ? ” 
 
 Sylvia laughed merrily. 
 
 “Well, you are behind the age, Lord Ashfield. 
 But did you really never hear of Mr. Algernon 
 Armstrong ? He does all the smart balls in London.” 
 “ Then I must confess to being wofully behind 
 the age. I never heard of him till this moment. I 
 thought ladies always looked after the decorations, 
 and chose their own flowers.” 
 
 “ Some may. But very few, I fancy. Certainly 
 not ignorant girls like me.” 
 
 “ Then is this man a tradesman ? ” 
 
 Syivia looked very much shocked. 
 
 “ Oh no, he is a gentleman. He was in the — 
 something Hussars, but did not like the life ; so he 
 sold out, and took to this kind of thing. For a small 
 fee — ten guineas or so — he does everything, settles 
 everything, and arranges the rooms.” 
 
 “ A noble profession truly. But I think I should 
 have preferred the hussars.” 
 
 “ I daresay. But I am glad he did not. He has 
 saved grandpapa and me much trouble and anxiety.” 
 
 “ Then he is deserving of both respect and grati- 
 tude.” 
 
LORD ASHFIELD MAKES A REQUEST 171 
 
 “ Indeed he is. And grandpapa and I have had 
 such a glorious day, all through him.” 
 
 “ How is that ? ” 
 
 “ Well, you see, we had nothing to do at home. 
 The house was in a state of confusion, so we went 
 out early, and pretended we were abroad.” 
 
 “ But how did you manage to do that ? ” he asked, 
 feeling rather mystified. 
 
 “ In this way. We had coffee and rolls in our 
 rooms, went off then to the National Gallery, and 
 saw a great many pictures by our old friends, Eaphael, 
 Andrea del Sarto, Francia, and Murillo. Then we 
 visited Westminster Abbey, lunched at Blanchard’s, 
 and went to Olympia. We had afternoon tea at the 
 New Gallery, and dined at the Grand Hotel. And then 
 we came home, just in time to dress for the ball.” 
 
 “ Such a day ! My dear Miss Atherstone, how 
 tired you must be ! ” 
 
 “ Not in the least. And do you know, I could 
 hardly believe I was in London. It was just the 
 kind of way grandpapa and I used to live in Paris 
 and other foreign places. I felt the whole day as if 
 I were abroad.” 
 
 “ You have a lively imagination,” he said, smiling, 
 “ and are easily amused.” 
 
 “ Yes. Lady Ashfield thinks me quite plebeian in 
 my tastes. But,” she cried, blushing deeply, “ how 
 egotistical you must think me. The dance is half 
 over, and I have not asked you what you want me to 
 do for you. Pray tell me now, Lord Ashfield.” 
 
172 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Thank you. It is very kind of you to remember 
 my words, Miss Atherstone. And I trust you may 
 not be annoyed with me for troubling you in this 
 matter.” 
 
 “ Annoyed ? I am greatly flattered that you 
 should think of asking me to do anything for you. 
 I am indeed.” 
 
 “ Your words encourage me. And now tell me, 
 did you ever hear that there were two girls on board 
 the Cimbria with you — one about twelve, the other 
 an infant ? ” 
 
 Sylvia looked at him in astonishment. 
 
 •‘Of course I did. The Neils — Madge and Dora. 
 They were both drowned, poor children.” 
 
 “ Pardon me. They were not; They were washed 
 ashore at a small village on the Cornish coast, where 
 they have lived until now.” 
 
 Sylvia’s eyes shone with pleasure, and she clasped 
 her hands together in delight. 
 
 “ Oh,” she cried, “ how happy this will make papa ! 
 He used to write so much about those children, and 
 mourn their sad fate for a long, long time. Where 
 are they, Lord Ashfield ? I should so like to see 
 them. Poor little things ! ” 
 
 Ashfield gazed admiringly at the beautiful, eager face. 
 
 “ They are not little now,” he said, smiling. “ Madge 
 is a young woman of seven or eight-and-twenty, and 
 Dorothy is about your own age, although I fancy she 
 looks less ; when I saw her last, she was small and 
 ethereal-looking.” 
 
LORD ASHFIELD MARES A REQUEST 173 
 
 “ Where do they live ? ” 
 
 “ Here in London, not far from Belgrave Street.” 
 
 “ I am so glad. Whom do they live with ? ” 
 
 “ No one. They live alone in a poor lodging, the 
 rent of which they find very difficult to pay.” 
 
 “ Are they so very poor, then ? ” 
 
 “ Very. Madge teaches in a school, and would 
 give music lessons if she could ; and Dorothy ” — his 
 voice faltered — “ sweet little Dora, who should have 
 been surrounded with every luxury, tended with the 
 greatest care, was brought up in a wretched orphanage, 
 and was obliged to work for her daily bread in a 
 dressmaker’s establishment, till her health broke 
 down. She now lies on a sofa in their dreary 
 lodging, fretting and pining because she cannot earn 
 money and help her sister.” 
 
 “ This shall not go on,” cried Sylvia decidedly ; 
 “ something shall be done for them at once. Grand- 
 papa ” — 
 
 “ Pray do not say anything about them yet to Sir 
 Eustace,” he said earnestly. “ Go and see the girls ; 
 talk to them, and get to know them, and then we 
 shall see what can be done. They are very sensitive, 
 and may be difficult to help in any substantial manner. 
 My mother has taken some dislike to Madge, and 
 should Sir Eustace mention them, she might say 
 something to prejudice him against them.” 
 
 “ Your mother ! Does Lady Ashfield know these 
 girls too ? It is strange she never told me about 
 them.” 
 
174 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ She was so indignant with Madge, why I cannot 
 think, that she would do nothing for them. Her 
 conduct in this matter has been a great trouble to 
 me. We are bound in honour, if in nothing else, 
 to help them, for Dorothy, by her presence of mind, 
 saved our lives.” 
 
 “ What a brave girl ! But when did she do that ? ” 
 
 “ Two years ago.” 
 
 And then he told her the story of the runaway 
 horses, and Dorothy’s struggle with the labourers. 
 
 “ She must be a darling,” cried Sylvia, “ and 
 wonderfully strong of will. I long to see her and 
 help to make her happy.” 
 
 “ God bless you ! I thought you would take an 
 interest in them.” 
 
 “ Of course. I will go to see them to-morrow. 
 But I really think I must tell grandpapa. I never 
 have any secrets from him, and you need not be 
 uneasy. Papa wrote so warmly about these girls 
 and their father, that, no matter what Lady Ashfield 
 said, he would surely help them.” 
 
 “ Very well. Perhaps you are right. And there 
 is one thing you might do, that would be kind. Take 
 Anne Dane to see them. Madge is very anxious to 
 meet her once more.” 
 
 “ I cannot do that, as Anne is in the country. She 
 is not strong, and does not like London. But I am 
 sure she will be glad to hear about the Neils. She 
 has often wept bitterly in thinking of their sad fate. 
 She was very fond of the little one.” 
 
LORD ASHFIELD MAKES A REQUEST 175 
 
 “ Poor child ! Would that we had found them 
 out sooner. They lived within ten miles of Ashfield 
 Park. But then my mother and I were always away. 
 If we had only heard about them some years ago, 
 their lives might have been very different.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Sylvia in a voice full of emotion ; 
 “ and what a contrast my life has been ! And 
 yet ”— 
 
 She stopped abruptly ; a shudder passed over her 
 slender frame. 
 
 “ I, too,” she whispered, “ might have been cast 
 away on some lonely shore, and never reached dear 
 grandpapa.” 
 
 “ Thank God you were saved from that fate,” he 
 said earnestly. “ But pray do not let this story 
 depress you, Miss Atherstone. See, people are 
 beginning to wonder at our solemn looks. There is 
 nothing to grieve over now. Between us we shall 
 surely be able to make these girls happy.” 
 
 “ I sincerely hope so. And thank you a thousand 
 times, for giving me the pleasure of being the first 
 to come to their assistance.” 
 
 “ The thanks should all come from me,” he answered, 
 smiling, “ for you have taken a load from my shoulders. 
 And now, I must say good-night. Here comes your 
 partner for the next waltz. I shall make my adieux 
 to Sir Eustace and slip away. Good-night.” 
 
 “ Good-night, Lord Ashfield. I shall long for to- 
 morrow to come, and I think you may trust me to 
 do what is right.” 
 
176 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 And as Sylvia put her hand in his, she raised her 
 lovely eyes, full of deep, tender feeling, to his. 
 
 “ I do not doubt it,” he said, with emotion. “ You 
 are as good as you are beautiful. May God bless 
 you ! ” 
 
 And before the girl could speak again, he had 
 vanished into the crowd. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 MADGE LOSES HER SITUATION 
 
 As Madame Garniture drove away, Dora toiled 
 wearily up the high staircase to her room. She 
 walked like one in a dream, and was scarcely con- 
 scious where she went. Habit alone guided her ; and 
 so she unlocked her door, took off her hat, and flung 
 herself down once more upon the old hair-covered 
 sofa. 
 
 Her head was in a whirl, her mind bewildered and 
 excited, her cheeks burned feverishly, and her eyes 
 shone with a brilliant light. 
 
 It was her dinner-hour, and there on the table was 
 the chop that Madge had left ready for her, before 
 going out in the morning. She had only to put it on 
 the fire, in the usual way, and eat it with the roll of 
 fresh bread that her sister had taken care to provide 
 for her. But she forgot the time of day, forgot that 
 she should be hungry, and lay upon the sofa, staring 
 at the ceiling and murmuring sadly from time to time. 
 
 “ Sylvia at last, so good, so beautiful — and yet not 
 Sylvia, but Dora. Mistress of all that should be 
 mine. Happy and proud of her position. Poor girl, 
 12 
 
173 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 poor unsuspecting girl ! Oh, what is to be done ? 
 What is to be done ? ” 
 
 Thus she remained all through the long afternoon, 
 and no one came near to disturb her reverie. But at 
 last, as the clock struck eight, Madge’s foot was heard 
 upon the stair, and Madge’s voice cried out in surprise 
 as she entered the room — 
 
 “ Dora ! What have you been doing ? Why is 
 there no light — no fire ? ” 
 
 Dorothy sprang to her feet. 
 
 “ Oh, Madge,” she gasped, “ I am so sorry. But ” — 
 Then, throwing her arms round her sister’s neck, she 
 burst into a fit of passionate weeping. 
 
 “ My darling,” said Madge gently, and caressing the 
 golden head as it lay upon her breast, “ has that cruel 
 landlord been here again ? Has he ” — 
 
 “ No, no — it is something more than that. Madge, 
 Madge, I have found Sylvia Atherstone.” 
 
 Madge staggered slightly, her lips quivered ; every 
 vestige of colour left her cheeks. Her heart gave a 
 wild bound — a leap of joy, and, raising her eyes to 
 heaven, she murmured, “ My God, I thank Thee. 
 And now, my pet,” she said, drawing Dora down 
 upon the sofa, “ be calm, and tell me all. How and 
 when did you see this girl ? ” 
 
 “ This morning, in her own home, a splendid house 
 in the Cromwell Road — a mansion, Madame Garniture 
 called it. But oh, Madge, she is so good, so beautiful ! ” 
 “ I daresay ; she was a sweet, a lovely child.” 
 
 “She was so kind to me, Madge, so thoughtful, 
 
MADGE LOSES HER SITUATION 179 
 
 although I was there as a poor work-girl,” sobbed 
 Dora ; “ and when I heard who she was, I felt such a 
 traitor, stealing into her home, learning where she 
 lived, that I might betray her and rob her of 
 everything ! ” 
 
 “Do not call it robbery, Dora. It will only be 
 restitution.” 
 
 “ Destitution ? If — oh, if she would but give us a 
 little of her wealth, we might allow her to remain as 
 she is — not ask for restitution, Madge.” 
 
 “ My dear, it must be all or nothing. If I go to 
 Sir Eustace — for that, though I never knew it until 
 Lady Ashfield called him so, is the name of your 
 grandfather — if I go to him, I must say, ‘ This girl is 
 not your grandchild, but an impostor, and my sister. 
 Your son’s daughter has been brought up as a pauper. 
 Restore her to her rights, send away this Sylvia, who, 
 beautiful and graceful as she is, is only a usurper, and 
 take to your heart this little, fragile, golden-haired 
 waif, who has suffered want and privation all these 
 weary years.’” 
 
 “ Yes, yes. So I have,” said Dora plaintively ; “ and 
 you too, my darling, you too. When I am rich, you 
 shall share my wealth. Nothing shall separate us, 
 Madge. Promise me that.” 
 
 “ Not if I can help it, love.” 
 
 “ And Sylvia shall live with us too. She will not 
 mind me taking her place, if I let her stay with me, 
 and be my sister. She has been first all these years 
 She will not mind giving up to me so very much after 
 
180 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 all, perhaps. But oh, I do wish she had not been so 
 kind and sweet. Were she proud, and cold, and hard, 
 I should not care. But knowing that she ” — 
 
 “ Dora, do not wish her different from what she is. 
 If she is good, really good, so much the better. She 
 will then bear this trial — for it will, it must be a 
 trial — in the proper spirit. And now, let us forget 
 her for the present. We know her address, and can 
 go to her when we choose to declare ourselves. But I 
 must think the matter well out, and determine how it 
 is to be done. I do not wish to be scorned as 
 a madwoman or a liar by Sir Eustace, as I was by 
 Lady Ashfield. I must lay my plans, and take Anne 
 Dane by surprise. If I can force her to tell the 
 truth, our troubles will soon be at an end.” 
 
 “ Yes, dear. You are right. And now, my poor 
 Madge, you must want your supper.” 
 
 “ Yes. But you must want it more. For I find 
 that you have never touched your chop, Dora, and 
 that was very wrong. So now I must be quick, and 
 get something ready.” 
 
 Then down upon her knees went Madge, to light the 
 fire whereon to cook their evening meal. 
 
 Several days passed over, and the girls were still in 
 doubt as to the best manner in which to approach Sir 
 Eustace Atherstone. 
 
 Anne Dane, Madge found she could not see, for, on 
 inquiring at Cromwell Mansions, she was told that she 
 did not live there, but in the country. This surprised 
 the girl, and increased her difficulties a hundredfold. 
 
MADGE LOSES HER S/TDATIOJV 181 
 
 She was much perplexed, and knew not what to do. 
 To force her way into the old man's presence would, 
 she felt, be folly, and only expose her to insult and 
 humiliation. Lady Ashfield’s reception of her story 
 had taught her a lesson, and she resolved to wait as 
 patiently as she could, till some fitting opportunity 
 should present itself. But as she went on with her 
 work at the school, she prayed constantly that some- 
 thing might turn up, for her heart was full of anguish. 
 It was hard to make ends meet ; and Dora grew 
 weaker and more fragile every day. This, she knew, 
 was for want of proper air and nourishment. And 
 her mind became embittered, her soul full of hatred 
 against these wealthy people, who were so cruelly 
 defrauding her darling of her rights. 
 
 One night, as she was returning from a weary day’s 
 teaching, she passed by Sir Eustace Atherstone’s 
 splendid mansion. A carriage was waiting, and 
 presently the door opened ; the sound of rippling 
 laughter was heard, and Sylvia, arrayed in pure white, 
 her shoulders covered with a mantle of plush and 
 swansdown, came forth on her grandfather’s arm. 
 
 The light of the lamps fell upon her beautiful face 
 and touched the rich auburn of her hair. 
 
 Madge trembled, and leaned heavily against the 
 railings. 
 
 “ She is lovely,” she cried ; “ but oh, what a cruel 
 wrong has been inflicted on my poor Dora ! And by 
 my sister I All this should be hers, and shall be hers, 
 if there is justice on earth or in heaven.” 
 
l8 2 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 The carriage door was shut, the footman mounted 
 the box, and, all unconscious of the misery she had 
 caused, Sylvia drove away to her dinner-party. 
 
 After this Madge grew morose and taciturn. The 
 girls at Penelope Lodge complained of her irritable 
 temper, and one after the other refused to receive their 
 lessons from her. Her employer was much annoyed, 
 and, sending for Madge, reprimanded her severely, 
 threatening to dismiss her immediately, did she hear 
 any further complaints. Terrified at what might be 
 her fate and Dora’s should she thus lose her salary, 
 which, poor as it was, was their only means of 
 subsistence, the girl promised to watch more carefully 
 over her temper, and left the mistress’s presence 
 firmly resolved to do so. 
 
 But, alas ! she knew not how severely she was to 
 be tried. 
 
 Schoolgirls are frequently wild and thoughtless. 
 They trouble themselves little about the sufferings of 
 their teachers — are selfish and unforgiving. This the 
 pupils of Penelope Lodge soon proved by their unfeel- 
 ing conduct towards the poor hardworked governess. 
 
 Madge had angered them by her irritability and 
 sharp words, and, perfectly callous as to the con- 
 sequences to her, they determined to get rid of her if 
 they could. 
 
 So they set to work in a systematic manner, annoy- 
 ing and insulting her on every possible occasion. It 
 is needless to enter into particulars, or recount the 
 spiteful things that were done, the impertinent speeches 
 
MADGE LOSES HER SITUATION 183 
 
 that were made, the acts of disobedience that were 
 committed. Poor Madge suffered keenly. But she 
 struggled bravely with herself, smiled when her heart 
 was ready to break, and spoke gently to her tormentors 
 when wounded to the quick by their impertinence. 
 
 Had the girl been happy, had her mind been free 
 from care, she would probably have triumphed over 
 these cruel children, and made them see the error of 
 their ways. But her nerves were uustrung. She 
 was full of bitterness and sorrow ; and at last, stung 
 beyond endurance, she flashed out angrily upon her 
 pupils, and upbraided them for their insolence. In an 
 instant the class was in rebellion, and further work 
 was impossible. Mrs. Prim was sent for, and called 
 upon to decide between the girls and the governess. 
 It was a difficult task. There were, doubtless, faults 
 on both sides. But Madge’s were the most apparent. 
 She had been already warned, and had failed to profit 
 by the warning, arid so must go. 
 
 “ I am sorry you could not manage to keep the peace, 
 Miss Neil,” said the schoolmistress stiffly. “ Sorry 
 and surprised. But seeing that you are not capable 
 of doing so, I must ask you to leave my service this 
 day month.” 
 
 Madge bowed her head in silence. Her heart was 
 too full for words. She felt ten pairs of eyes fixed 
 upon her in triumph, and she trembled lest by look or 
 speech she should show the anguish she endured. 
 
 “ And now, young ladies,” continued Mrs. Prim 
 severely, “ I beg that you will pay attention to your 
 
184 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 lesson. Miss Neil, you may go to the junior class. I 
 will remain here.” 
 
 Madge bowed once more, and, with throbbing brow 
 and beating heart, passed proudly across the room and 
 out upon the stairs. Here a sob escaped her, and a 
 shower of tears fell on her burning cheeks. But she 
 had no time to indulge in grief. The class was waiting. 
 She must do her duty. So, drying her eyes, and murmur- 
 ing a fervent prayer for help, she ran on downstairs. 
 
 “ A note for you, Miss Neil,” said the porter, as she 
 passed through the hall. 
 
 And seeing that the writing was Dora’s, Madge tore 
 open the envelope in alarm. 
 
 “ What can be wrong ? Why does she write ? 
 God keep my darling,” she cried, as with trembling 
 fingers she unfolded the letter. 
 
 But she was quickly reassured. Dora’s note was a 
 message of peace. It ran thus — 
 
 “ Come home soon, dearest Madge. I have such 
 good news to tell you. — Doha.” 
 
 Madge kissed the signature and smiled. 
 
 “ I cannot go till my usual hour. I dare not ask 
 such a favour to-night. But your words, sweet sister, 
 have cleared away some of the clouds that enveloped 
 me. The thought of your good tidings will help me 
 to bear cheerfully whatever torture I may have to 
 suffer before I go home.” 
 
 And, feeling considerably brighter, she entered the 
 junior classroom, and quietly seated herself in Mrs. 
 Prim’s place behind the desk. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 doka’s visitor 
 
 When the guests had all departed, and Lady Ashfield 
 had been safely conveyed to her carriage, Sylvia drew 
 Sir Eustace away from the deserted ballroom into her 
 own little boudoir. 
 
 “ Now, grandpapa,” she said gaily, “ we must have 
 a pleasant half-hour before going to bed. You may 
 smoke one of your very best cigars, and I will talk to 
 you.” 
 
 “ But you must be tired, little one,” he replied > 
 patting her cheek. “ If you don’t go to bed, there 
 will be no roses to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Do not be afraid, grandpapa. They will bloom as 
 brightly as ever. But I could not sleep yet. I have 
 something important to tell you.” 
 
 He looked at her quickly, and a shadow passed 
 over his face. 
 
 “Mystery, my darling? Has Lord Ashfield pro- 
 posed ? Does he ” — 
 
 “ God forbid ! ” cried Sylvia fervently. “ No, dearest, 
 he has not. And I sincerely hope he never may.” 
 
 “ Why ? ” 
 
 185 
 
i86 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Grandpapa, need you ask ? You know, oh, you 
 know well I could never accept him.” 
 
 Sir Eustace smiled brightly, and drew her down 
 upon the sofa beside him. 
 
 “ My darling is hard to please. Ashfield is most 
 desirable in every way. But you shall not be coerced. 
 Do exactly as you like.” 
 
 “ I will,” replied the girl dreamily, as she picked 
 the withered leaves from her bouquet. “ Look at 
 these flowers, grandpapa ; is it not sad to see them 
 droop their heads ? ” 
 
 “ Very sad, dearest. But such is life ; all that’s 
 bright must fade — a hackneyed, but true saying,” he 
 remarked, smiling. “ But,” looking closely at the 
 bouquet, “ that is not the one I ordered for you, 
 Sylvia.” 
 
 The girl blushed, and nestled closer to his side. 
 
 “ No, dear ; but I thought you would not mind. 
 It — it matched my dress better than yours.” 
 
 “ Did Lord Ashfield send it ? ” 
 
 “ No. I would not have taken his instead of 
 yours, although I must say it was very pretty.” 
 
 “ Then who sent you this one, that you say matched 
 your dress better than mine ? ” 
 
 Sylvia lowered her eyes, and her lips trembled 
 slightly. 
 
 “ I don’t know, grandpapa — but I think — I feel 
 sure it came from Paul.” 
 
 “ From Paul ? ” Sir Eustace started. “ My dear, 
 that is impossible. He is abroad — in America.” 
 
DORAS VISITOR 187 
 
 “ Yes, so I believe. But in some way — by his 
 orders — this bouquet was made and sent to me.” 
 
 “ Sylvia ! ” 
 
 “I am sure of this, grandpapa. And — and as I 
 
 never concealed or kept anything from you in my life, 
 I tell you what I think now.” 
 
 “ My darling ! ” He put his arm round her, and 
 pressed a kiss upon her brow. “ Was this your 
 important communication ? ” 
 
 Sylvia laughed, and laid her bouquet, fan, and 
 gloves upon the couch beside her. 
 
 “ Ho, grandpapa. What I wanted to tell you was 
 this : those children, the Neils, who came from Mel- 
 bourne with me in the Cimbria , were not drowned.” 
 
 “ My dear child, how did you hear this ? ” 
 
 “ Lord Ashfield told me to-night.” 
 
 “ Ashfield ! How does he know ? ” 
 
 “ It is a curious story, but very interesting.” 
 
 And then she related the various incidents, as she 
 had heard them from Lord Ashfield. 
 
 Sir Eustace listened attentively ; but when she had 
 finished, he made no remark, and sat puffing his cigar, 
 apparently absorbed in thought. 
 
 “ I cannot understand it, Sylvia,” he cried at last, 
 and there were tears in his eyes as he spoke. “Anne 
 Dane saw them go down, and with almost superhuman 
 strength, at the risk of being pitched into the ocean, 
 she saved you as you were sinking with them.” 
 
 “ Anne was mistaken — deceived in her terror. 
 They did not sink, and are now in London.” 
 
i88 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ The number of times she described that night to 
 me, and the certainty she felt that they were drowned, 
 prevented me from advertising — from searching for 
 them, poor little waifs. But now that we have found 
 them, we must make up for lost time, my darling, 
 and do what we can to help them.” 
 
 “ I knew you would say that,” cried Sylvia joyfully. 
 “ I told Lord Ashfield so. He wanted me to keep 
 their existence a secret from you. He fears that if 
 Lady Ashfield heard you were going to help them, 
 she would set you against poor Madge.” 
 
 “ But why ? Is there anything wrong with 
 Madge ? ” 
 
 “ Indeed there is not,” cried Sylvia, forgetting that 
 she knew very little about the girl. “ She is wonder- 
 fully good and clever.” 
 
 “ Well, dear, I shall not mind anything Lady 
 Ashfield may say, and will help these children to the 
 best of my power.” 
 
 “ Then I may go to see them to-morrow ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly ; and when you know them a little, we 
 shall see what we can do for them. They must have 
 had a hard struggle to live.” 
 
 “ Yes, very. And just think, grandpapa, how 
 different has been my life ! ” said Sylvia, clinging to 
 him ; “ and how terrible it might have been if Anne 
 had not saved me, and if I, too, had been cast away 
 with these children — or all alone perhaps.” 
 
 “ My darling, I thank God from the bottom of my 
 heart that such a trial as that was spared us. We 
 
DORAS VISITOR 189 
 
 owe a deep debt of gratitude to Anne. What should 
 I have done without you, my precious Sylvia ? ” 
 
 “ You would have been lonely, I think,” she whis- 
 pered caressingly. “ Although I am a care, and 
 sometimes a worry.” 
 
 “ Never ! ” he cried indignantly. “ Never ! ” 
 
 “ What ? Not even when you are forced into 
 giving balls for my sake ? ” 
 
 “ Not even then, you saucy puss. And now, to 
 bed, or I shall have you looking as limp as your poor 
 bouquet to-morrow.” 
 
 “ There is no fear of that. But now that I have 
 told you my story, I think I shall retire. I do feel 
 tired, I confess.” 
 
 “ I thought so, my pet. So now good-night. Do 
 not come down for breakfast, but take a long sleep to 
 make up for all you have lost. Good-night.” And, 
 throwing aside his cigar, he folded her in his arms 
 and kissed her tenderly. 
 
 The next morning Sylvia did not, however, follow 
 her grandfather’s advice, but rang early for her maid ; 
 and, much to that young person’s astonishment, in- 
 formed her that she wanted breakfast, and was going 
 out at eleven. 
 
 “ Does mademoiselle require the carriage ? ” asked 
 Desiree. 
 
 “ No. I am going into a poor neighbourhood and 
 shall walk. I want you to come with me.” 
 
 “ C'est incroyalle ! ” cried the maid, as she went to 
 obey her mistress’s orders. “ After a ball, and that 
 
A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 190 
 
 ball at home ! But Mademoiselle Atherstone has the 
 strength of — I know not what.” 
 
 However, D6sir4e could only submit, and at eleven 
 o’clock she and Sylvia walked briskly along the 
 Cromwell Road. 
 
 On leaving home, Sylvia felt full of joy at the 
 thought of her expedition, and the good she would 
 surely be able to do these poor orphans. But as she 
 went down Walton Street, and drew near the house 
 where the ISTeils lived, she became nervous and un- 
 comfortable. It seemed an impertinence to walk in 
 to these girls and offer to assist them. They might 
 be offended, and resent the intrusion. It would be 
 better, perhaps, to write first to let them know she 
 was coming. But no, that would cause a delay. She 
 had promised Lord Ashfield to see them at once. She 
 would keep her promise. 
 
 So on she went, her colour a little higher than 
 usual, her heart beating tumultuously. 
 
 She reached the house. Miss Dora was in. Miss 
 Madge was at school. 
 
 “ You can wait here, Desiree, or return for me in 
 an hour,” she said in a low voice. The Neils’ rooms 
 were on the fourth floor. A long way up, it seemed 
 to the visitor. 
 
 On the last landing the girl paused. There were 
 two doors. At which should she knock ? Suddenly 
 the sound of a sweet voice, singing an old Irish air, 
 fell on her ear ; and in an instant she knew it must 
 be Dora who sang. 
 
DORAS VISITOR 
 
 19 * 
 
 She waited till the song was finished, then knocked 
 gently, and was quickly bidden to enter. She opened 
 the door, and stepped across the threshold ; then 
 stopped abruptly, gazing with admiration at the 
 picture before her. 
 
 On the sofa lay Dora. Round about her, like a 
 cloak, fell her long golden hair ; and her fingers were 
 busy with some yards of pale blue silk, that she was 
 hemming industriously. She did not look up for a 
 moment. And as Sylvia stood watching her, Brown- 
 ing’s description in “ Gold Hair ” flashed through her 
 mind, and seemed as though written for the occasion — 
 
 “Hair such a wonder of flax and floss, 
 
 Freshness and fragrance — floods of it too ! ” 
 
 “ Will you kindly shut the door when you go out, 
 Mrs. Sims ? ” said Dora, without lifting her eyes. “ I 
 don’t want to get up just now, and there is such a 
 draught when it is open.” 
 
 Sylvia shut the door, and approached the sofa. 
 
 “ I hope you will not think me very impertinent,” 
 she began, “but” — Dora looked up. She grew 
 suddenly pale as death. A little cry escaped her 
 lips, and, dropping her work, she held out both hands 
 in eager welcome. 
 
 “ Sylvia ! ” Then, flushing crimson, “ I beg your 
 pardon, Miss Atherstone. I am surprised, yet very 
 glad to see you.” 
 
 “ Sylvia it must be, dear ; for we are — at least we 
 ought to be — like sisters, you and I,” replied the visitor, 
 
192 
 
 A STRIKING C0N2RAST 
 
 sinking down on her knees beside the couch and 
 pressing her lips to Dora’s. 
 
 “ Sisters ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, dear. For, although you may not know it, 
 we were friends when we were little, and were almost 
 lost together in the same wreck.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Dora, “ I know ; and you ” — 
 
 “ I was saved by my faithful nurse, and carried to 
 my grandfather, to be loved and petted all my life, 
 whilst you — oh, Dora, how different has been your 
 fate ! You lost your father, mother, all you loved.” 
 
 “ No, thank God ! I did not lose Madge, my sweet, 
 my darling sister.” 
 
 “ No, God was too merciful to rob you of all. But 
 oh, Dora, what a hard, hard struggle you and Madge 
 must have had ! ” 
 
 “ Hard indeed. But Madge has suffered most. 
 
 She has had the hardest fight.” 
 
 “ All that is over, dear. Your future is in our 
 hands. Would that we had found you sooner ! Papa 
 was so fond of your father, and so anxious to help his 
 children, that he wrote continually to grandpapa to 
 look for you. He would not believe you were 
 drowned. But Anne Dane declared you were.” 
 
 “ Anne Dane,” cried Dora, with flashing eyes, 
 “ knew we were not — she knew we were alive.” 
 
 “ No, no, dear, you are mistaken. Poor Anne may 
 have been deceived, but she firmly believed you were 
 dead.” 
 
 “ She ” — began Dora, then, breaking off abruptly, she 
 
DORAS VISITOR 
 
 193 
 
 said, “ Do not kneel any longer, dear. Sit beside me, 
 on that little stool.” 
 
 “ Why are you on the sofa, Dora ? ” asked Sylvia, 
 doing as desired. “ You seemed pretty well that day 
 you came to Cromwell Eoad with Madame Garniture.” 
 
 “ Yes ; but my spine is always weak, and that 
 morning I had a shock. I have not been well 
 since.” 
 
 “ A shock ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. I — we had looked for you so long, so hope- 
 lessly, that when I saw you I nearly fainted.” 
 
 “ But you did not know me when I spoke to you ? ” 
 
 “ Oh no ; but afterwards, when you had gone to 
 the drawing-room, the maid told me.” 
 
 “ Poor little Dora ! I wish I had known. I took 
 such a fancy to you that day, because I thought you 
 like my mother.” 
 
 Dora started, and fixed her eyes upon her in 
 astonishment. 
 
 “ Your mother ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, dear, my dead mother. I never saw her, you 
 know ; but that morning grandpapa had just been 
 describing her to me, from what papa had said about 
 her in his letters. She was small and fair, with golden 
 hair and blue eyes ; and when I saw you upon the 
 landing, I was startled, for you seemed exactly what 
 she might have been, or rather what her daughter ought 
 to be. It made me sad to think that I was so unlike 
 her. Poor little mother, she died so young ! XI as 
 Mrs. Neil fair ? ” 
 
 13 
 
i 9 4 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ I don’t know,” replied Dora in a low voice ; “ I 
 was only a baby at the time of her death.” 
 
 “ Of course ; but then, Madge might have told you.” 
 
 “ She never did.” 
 
 “ And you never asked ? That is strange. Did 
 you never wonder if you were like your mother ? ” 
 
 “Yes, often.” 
 
 “ I thought so. Every girl does, I think ; at least, 
 every girl whose mother is dead, and whom she has 
 never known. I have not even a picture of my 
 darling. She was born and died in Australia, and 
 no one here ever saw her. When papa sent me home 
 with Anne Dane, he put a miniature of mother round 
 my neck ; but, alas ! it was lost on the night of the 
 wreck. Wasn’t that a pity ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 Dora’s lips quivered, and she closed her eyes lest 
 Sylvia should see anything strange in their expression, 
 as she pressed her mother’s portrait tightly against 
 her heart. 
 
 “ Are you in pain, dear ? ” asked Sylvia, noticing 
 this sudden movement. 
 
 “ A little,” whispered Dora ; “ but don’t mind me — 
 it will pass off.” 
 
 “ Poor child, I cannot bear to see you suffer. But 
 we shall soon make you strong. You must leave these 
 stuffy rooms at once; grandpapa will find you a pleasant 
 place ; you shall see a good doctor, and then ” — 
 
 Dora started up, and, seizing Sylvia’s hand, pressed 
 it to her lips. 
 
DORA'S VISITOR 
 
 i95 
 
 “ Do not make me love you too much ! ” she cried ; 
 <c do not show me what a good, noble girl you are, for 
 when you know, when you hear, you will hate me, and 
 then — oh, I cannot bear it ! ” 
 
 And, overcome with emotion, Dora fell back, sobbing 
 bitterly. 
 
 “ My dear child, what can you mean ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing, nothing ! Do not look so frightened. 
 But you must not do, or wish to do, too much for us 
 — Madge would not allow it ; she is proud. But help 
 her to work — find her pupils who will pay her well 
 — and she will bless you. More, neither she nor I 
 could accept, unless — but that Madge would never 
 consent to. ,, 
 
 Sylvia smiled, and, smoothing back the golden hair 
 gently, kissed the girl's fair brow. 
 
 “ What a pair of proud sisters ! ” she said playfully. 
 “ Lord Ashfield was right when he said ” — * 
 
 Dora trembled, her pale cheeks grew scarlet. 
 
 “ Lord Ashfield ? Did he tell you ? ” 
 
 “ He told me all — where you were, who you were, 
 and how anxious he was to help you.” 
 
 “ He has helped us in many ways.” 
 
 Sylvia looked at her in surprise. 
 
 “ Beally ? I thought he had never been able to do 
 anything. Lady Ashfield ” — 
 
 “ Was cruel — oh, so cruel to poor Madge ! ” 
 
 “ I am sorry, very sorry to hear that. For, though 
 fond of managing people and things in her own way, 
 she is not unkind.” 
 
196 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ No,’' said Dora bitterly, “ but she was to Madge ; 
 so much so, that we resolved never to accept any help 
 from her hands. However, she has never troubled us. 
 From the evening that Madge called upon her, we 
 have never heard from her.” 
 
 “ Lord Ashfield told me how grieved he was at his 
 mothers conduct.” 
 
 “ I thought he w T ould be,” cried Dora. “ I told 
 Madge how good, how noble he was. But, although 
 he saved us from terrible misery by paying our rent, 
 she cannot bear to hear his name mentioned — and all 
 because of his mother.” 
 
 “ She is wrong then,” said Sylvia gravely. “ For 
 he is exactly what you say, noble and good.” 
 
 Dora looked at her closely, then turned away to lay 
 her work upon the table. “ Do you like him very 
 much ? ” she asked. 
 
 “ Very much. I have known him since I was a 
 child.” 
 
 Dora sighed, and moved restlessly from side to side. 
 
 “ I might have known,” she murmured to herself — 
 “ I might have known. She has everything — why 
 not this as well ? ” 
 
 “And you will tell Madge 'from me,” continued 
 Sylvia, not noticing the look of sorrow on Dora’s face, 
 " that she must not judge people rashly. It is wrong 
 to blame Lord Ashfield for his mothers fault.” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, cruelly wrong.” 
 
 “ And I think — I am afraid Madge must be rather 
 foolish sometimes. Lady Ashfield was anxious to 
 
DORA'S VISITOR 
 
 197 
 
 help you, but your sister offended her deeply by some- 
 thing she said or did. Of course I was not there, and 
 so do not know how it happened. But Madge should 
 be more careful.” 
 
 Dora covered her face with her hands and groaned 
 aloud. 
 
 “ Poor Madge ! Oh, if you only knew ! But I 
 dare not, I cannot tell you. And now, I hope you 
 may never know.” 
 
 “ Well, dear, you speak mysteriously. But I shall 
 never ask you to tell me anything that you wish to 
 keep secret. And if it is anything against Madge, I 
 should prefer not to hear it, because ” — 
 
 “ Against Madge ! ” Dora’s small frame quivered, 
 and her blue eyes flashed ominously. “ Against 
 Madge ! Sylvia Atherstone, are you dreaming ? Did 
 any one say there was anything against Madge ? ” 
 
 « No, but 
 
 “ Against Madge ! Madge, who is so good and true. 
 Madge, who has laboured and struggled. Madge, who 
 has been father, mother, sister, everything to me. 
 As if there could be anything against her — as if ” — 
 
 Sylvia laid her hand upon Dora’s and pressed it 
 gently. 
 
 “ My dear,” she said soothingly, “ do not be angry 
 with me. I meant no harm. I am sure Madge is 
 all you say. I spoke thoughtlessly. But your 
 mysterious hints misled me.” 
 
 “ I must speak mysteriously unless — But tell me, 
 Sylvia,” she asked almost fiercely, “ are you proud of 
 
198 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 your position, your name ? Would it pain you to 
 become poor, to fall from being Miss Atherstone, to 
 become a poor girl like me ? ” 
 
 Sylvia looked at her wonderingly. She could not 
 understand the drift of these strange questions, and 
 feared the girl’s mind must be as feeble as her body. 
 
 “ I could not imagine such a change, dear,” she said 
 gently. “ So do not let us talk about the impossible. 
 The question now is, how grandpapa and I can help 
 you and Madge ? ” 
 
 Dora flushed painfully ; she did not speak, and two 
 large tears fell from her eyes and ran unheeded down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 “ Dora ! ” cried Sylvia, flinging her arms round her. 
 “ My dear, you are unhappy. Tell me — what is it ? 
 What is this mystery ? ” 
 
 Dora allowed her head to rest upon Sylvia’s breast ; 
 and, raising her face to hers, kissed her with lingering 
 tenderness. Then, suddenly, she pushed her roughly 
 away. 
 
 “ Hush ! ” she said ; “ do not mention this again. 
 My weak health has embittered me ; and for a moment 
 I felt jealous — horribly jealous — and longed to be 
 in your place. To be — what of course I never can 
 be — the beautiful Miss Atherstone.” 
 
 “ I think, dear,” said Sylvia, smiling gaily, “ we 
 cannot do quite that for you, and you must be content 
 to be the lovely Miss Neil.” 
 
 Dora gazed at her with shining eyes. 
 
 “ You are good and kind and beautiful,” she cried ; 
 
DORA'S VISITOR 
 
 199 
 
 “ fit in every way for your place ; far, far better than 
 I could ever be.” 
 
 “ Well, I am glad you approve of me,” replied 
 Sylvia, laughing merrily. “ It is pleasant to know 
 that I am considered a worthy scion of my family by 
 Miss Dorothy Neil. But now we must talk no more 
 nonsense, my fair critic ; we must be grave and solemn, 
 and consider what is the best thing to be done for 
 you at once.” 
 
 “ Ask some of your rich friends to take music 
 lessons from Madge. She plays splendidly, and is a 
 thorough musician.” 
 
 “ That has been done already. Here,” opening her 
 card-case, “ are the addresses of two ladies, who told 
 me last night they wanted a music-teacher for their 
 children. Let Madge go to these houses to-morrow 
 and mention my name. They are wealthy people, and 
 will pay her well. If she plays as well as you say, 
 she will secure three good pupils at least. In time we 
 shall find her more. And she’ll soon grow quite rich.” 
 
 “ And then she can leave that odious school,” cried 
 Dora joyfully. “ This will indeed be good news for my 
 poor darling. Thank you, Sylvia, a hundred times.” 
 
 “ No thanks, dear — and you must give up hemming 
 those frills.” 
 
 “ No, I could not do that. These frills that you 
 speak so contemptuously of save me from — well, too 
 much thinking, and Madame Garniture’s pay is a 
 great help.” 
 
 “But you shall not require it now, my little Dora.” 
 
200 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Certainly I shall. I am not going to live on 
 charity. If I cannot have what is my own — that is,” 
 blushing and stammering, “ if I have nothing of my 
 own, I must earn it.” 
 
 “ You are as proud as Madge, then ? ” 
 
 “ Almost ; so you must leave me my frills, Sylvia, 
 till — well, till something turns up.” 
 
 “ You shall do exactly as you please. Be happy in 
 your own way. And now, good-bye. I’ll come again 
 soon. But I must go now. Desiree is waiting for me. 
 I am so glad to have found you out.” 
 
 And, bending, Sylvia kissed Dora softly on the 
 forehead, and hurried downstairs. 
 
 “ So glad to have found me out. Poor, unsuspecting 
 girl ! ” murmured Dora, as the door closed upon her 
 visitor. “ But oh, how shall we ever let her know 
 the truth ? How shall we drag her from her high 
 position, make her his inferior in birth, unworthy to 
 be his wife ? I could not do it — I could not do it,” 
 and the sweet face was full of pain at the thought. 
 “ Alas ! what a cruel destiny is mine. But now I must 
 try to be happy. I am pleased that she is so kind, so 
 good, and if — but I will write to Madge, and tell her to 
 hurry back. Mrs. Sims will take my note to the school 
 on her way home. I long to tell my darling the good 
 news, that she may soon leave those insolent girls at 
 Penelope Lodge for some more congenial occupation.” 
 And, rising slowly from the sofa, Dora went to the 
 table, and, taking pencil and paper, sat down to write 
 to Madge. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 
 
 As Sylvia went down the stairs, her mind full of 
 Dora, and her pretty, yet perplexing ways, a young 
 man, of about six or seven-and-twenty, entered the 
 house, and came slowly towards her. He was not tall, 
 hardly above the average height, and very slight, with 
 dark grey eyes and a broad, noble brow, from which 
 masses of fair curling hair were thrown in artistic 
 carelessness. His coat was a well-worn black velvet, 
 and the hat he carried in his hand a rather shabby 
 soft grey felt. 
 
 The girl's glance fell upon him as he approached, 
 and she gave a little cry ; then, stopping short, steadied 
 herself against the banister, and examined him more 
 closely. 
 
 “Paul ! ” she whispered. “Oh, Paul, is it possible ? ” 
 
 At the sound of her voice the young man started. 
 The hot blood rushed to his forehead ; his eyes seemed 
 to have absorbed the sunshine. 
 
 “ Sylvia ! ” 
 
 He ran forward joyfully, caught both her hands, 
 
 and carried them rapidly to his lips. She drew them 
 
 201 
 
202 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 gently away, and looked straight into his eyes. He 
 did not flinch or quail beneath her glance. His was 
 as true, as faithful as her own. 
 
 “ Paul,” she asked, with heightened colour, “ why 
 are you here ? We thought you were in America” 
 
 “ I am here,” he cried ; “ because America is too far 
 away. Better to starve in the same town, within a 
 few streets of you, than grow rich with an ocean 
 between us.” 
 
 “ What are you doing ? ” 
 
 “ Working one day, idling the next.” 
 
 “ And is that your idea of how a man should live if 
 he wishes to make a name ? ” 
 
 “ Name ? ” he cried bitterly. “ I shall never make 
 a name.” 
 
 “ I am very sorry to hear that. I hoped — I believed 
 you would. You did not talk so in the old days.” 
 
 “ I was a simpleton then — a fool.” 
 
 “ Then all your dreams — all your ambition has 
 gone ? The promises you made ” — 
 
 “ Sylvia, do not blame me,” he implored. “ I have 
 been unlucky all through. The fates are against me.” 
 “ I do not see that.” 
 
 “ You do not see it ? oh, how can you say so ? Think 
 what my life has been. As a boy, I was taken from 
 my poor home to Sir Eustace Atherstone’s splendid 
 mansion. I was surrounded with luxury, spoiled and 
 petted, a mere plaything for the lonely millionaire. 
 Then you came. I was cast aside. But I cared little 
 for that. I adored you — my sister, my treasure. All 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 
 
 203 
 
 my thoughts were of you — everything I did was to 
 please you. And my first reason for wishing to be 
 an artist was, that I might paint your portrait. Then 
 followed our years abroad. My boyish love grew to 
 passion. I told my love — and the penniless dependant 
 was sent away, turned adrift with hard words, to sink 
 or swim as chance decreed. ,, 
 
 “ You are unjust and ungrateful,” cried Sylvia 
 warmly. “ Grandpapa wished to continue your allow- 
 ance, but you ” — 
 
 “ Refused to eat the bread of charity. Yes, Sylvia, 
 when I suddenly realised that you and I, though we 
 lived in the same house and ate at the same table, 
 were not considered equals, I saw the injustice that 
 had been done to me.” 
 
 “ Injustice ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I repeat it, injustice. What right had Sir 
 Eustace to take me out of my natural position, teach 
 me luxurious habits, bring me up on terms of equality 
 with you, his granddaughter, and then, when I told 
 him of my love for you, spurn me and tell me I was 
 a beggar ? ” 
 
 He paused, and, turning his eyes full of indignant 
 feeling upon her, seemed waiting for a reply. 
 
 But none came. Sylvia did not speak. Her sweet 
 face wore an expression of sorrow, her mouth a look 
 of pain. Her bright colour had faded as Paul became 
 vehement ; and as he gazed at her, longing for a word 
 of sympathy, he was suddenly struck by her extreme 
 pallor. 
 
204 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Sylvia, you are ill — I have annoyed you,” he said, 
 trying to take her hand. “ Oh, my love, my love, 
 forgive me.” 
 
 But the girl sprang aside. 
 
 “ Do not touch me,” she cried, “ nor call me by that 
 name, till you have earned the right — till ” — 
 
 “ Sylvia ! ” 
 
 “ Paul, listen to me. You have spoken unfairly, 
 ungenerously of my grandfather. In the bitterness of 
 your soul, you have taken all that he has done for 
 you, all the kindness he has lavished on you, in a 
 wrong spirit. You have called him unjust. You 
 must unsay those words, and show by your life that 
 they are untrue, or — or never speak to me again.” 
 
 “ But, Sylvia, how can I do this ? ” 
 
 “ By your life ; by giving up your idle ways, and 
 working honestly, manfully.” 
 
 “ Of what use would it be ? ” 
 
 “ Of great use — to show that you are a man, and not 
 a mere creature of whims and fancies ; to show that 
 the affection, the money, and opportunities bestowed 
 upon you by Sir Eustace have not been thrown away; 
 to prove to me that I have not loved a worthless ” — 
 
 “ Sylvia, spare me. I know — I feel my own short- 
 comings. Do not make me hate and despise myself.” 
 
 “ No,” she said, and there were tears in her voice as 
 she spoke, “ that is not my object. Oh, Paul, if you 
 would only be true to yourself, exert yourself, and not 
 fritter away the talents God has given you, how 
 happy we might be ! ” 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 
 
 205 
 
 f< Sylvia, do you mean this ? Could any effort of 
 mine make a difference ? Could I under any circum- 
 stances be received as yours ” — 
 
 The girl’s white face grew crimson, and her eyes 
 fell beneath his gaze. 
 
 “ Alas!” he cried, “you know it could not be. I, 
 the son of a simple farmer, could never aspire to the 
 rich Miss Atherstone. Good heavens ! why are you 
 not poor ? Why are you not like that young girl 
 upstairs, Miss Dora Neil ? If you were only in her 
 position, and that my work could help to support you, 
 I’d toil night and day.” 
 
 “ Then why not do so, if only to please me — and 
 grandpapa ? ” 
 
 “ He does not care.” 
 
 “ There you are mistaken. He cares a great deal. 
 He loves you, Paul, and misses you, I know.” 
 
 “ Then why did he send me away ? Why did he 
 forbid me his house ? ” 
 
 “ He sent you aw r ay because he thought it his duty 
 to do so, because he was told, advised to do so, by 
 Lady Ashfield. He consulted me, and I agreed that 
 he was right. Yes, I felt that you were not working 
 as you should, that you were too fond of a life of ease. 
 I loved you, Paul ; but I saw your faults, and I was 
 full of ambition for you. In Pome, I heard men say 
 that you were clever, almost a genius, and that if you 
 only had patience and industry, you might one day 
 become a great artist. But I was told — ‘ Living as 
 he does, he will never do any good.’ And so, when 
 
20 6 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 grandpapa said that you were to be left behind there, 
 that you were not to live with us any more, I felt 
 he was right. If Paul, I thought, loves me as he says, 
 separation can do no harm — it will inspire him with 
 an anxiety to work. But I and grandpapa have both 
 been bitterly disappointed. At the first mention of 
 leaving us, you lost your temper, your foolish pride 
 was up in arms at once, and with angry words you 
 flung away from Sir Eustace, declaring that you would 
 never take another penny of his money. Since then 
 you have not written, and it was only by chance that 
 we heard you had gone to America ; and now, by 
 another curious accident, I come face to face with you, 
 and so learn that you are in London.” 
 
 As Sylvia's words fell upon his ear, and she told 
 him thus, in a voice full of sorrow and tender feeling, 
 the story of his separation from her, whom he loved 
 with all his soul, and put before him in a new light 
 his quarrel with the man who had been a kind, 
 indulgent father to him since his earliest boyhood, 
 he felt stricken with shame and remorse. With 
 folded arms he stood before her, and as she spoke, his 
 head dropped upon his breast, and he dared not raise 
 his eyes to hers. 
 
 As the girl ceased, she turned away with a sigh. 
 She had spoken plainly, had told him the unvarnished 
 truth, and had, perhaps, offended him beyond forgive- 
 ness. Well, she had done what she thought right, 
 and if he should take her lecture badly, she must 
 bear it. She had delivered it for his good ; she could 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 
 
 207 
 
 not regret having done so. She waited a moment, 
 expecting him to make some angry retort, or mutter 
 some words of excuse. But he stood in sullen silence, 
 showing neither by look nor movement that he had 
 heard her last words. 
 
 Sylvia glanced at him in pained surprise. A mist 
 rose before her eyes, and she felt a strange throbbing 
 at her heart. 
 
 “ Good-bye, Paul,” she said, with a little sob. “ I 
 must go. Good-bye.” 
 
 She walked past him, then turned and gazed at him 
 sadly, longingly. He looked up, and as he met her 
 beautiful eyes fixed upon him in earnest pleading, 
 the last remnant of false pride fell away, and he felt 
 deeply penitent, and full of remorse. In an instant 
 he was by her side again. 
 
 “Sylvia,” he cried in a voice of anguish, “do not 
 leave me just yet. Listen to me, I implore — I 
 entreat. Your words have opened my eyes, torn 
 down the veil that my pride had hung before them. 
 I had always looked upon myself as the person 
 most wronged. But now I see how shameful, how 
 ungrateful, has been my conduct.” 
 
 A look of joy flashed across Sylvia’s lovely face, and, 
 smiling radiantly, she put her hand in his. 
 
 “ Bravely spoken, Paul ! ” she cried. “ Your pride 
 blinded you, I know. But, proud as you are, you are 
 generous also, and, having seen and acknowledged your 
 faults, you will, I am sure, atone for them as quickly 
 and as fully as you can.” 
 
208 
 
 . A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Alas ! I can never do that.” 
 
 “ But you can, if you will ” 
 
 “Will! Oh, Sylvia, if I only knew how, that will 
 never be wanting.” 
 
 “ It is quite easy,” she said gently. “ At least, I 
 think it should not be so very hard. You must go 
 to Sir Eustace, and tell him what you feel, ask him 
 to forgive you, and, believe me, your prayer will not 
 be long unheard.” 
 
 “ And shall I tell him what my life has been ? ” he 
 asked abruptly. “ How I have wasted my time and 
 my talents, painting only when forced to do so by 
 bare necessity ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, tell him all. But also tell him that you are 
 about to change your way, that you are going to work 
 at last.” 
 
 “ I can do little. My room is small. I have bad 
 light.” 
 
 “ Then you must take a studio. There are some 
 excellent ones in the Fulham Avenue. I have been 
 there on Show Sunday, with grandpapa.” 
 
 “ That is impossible. A poor beggar like me cannot 
 afford such a luxury. I told Lord Ashfield so only 
 yesterday.” 
 
 “ Lord Ashfield ? Does he know you are in town ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. He has sat to me for his portrait, like a good 
 fellow, and since then I have received an order to 
 paint the wife of a city-nabob, who is proud to have 
 her portrait done by an artist who has just taken the 
 likeness of an earl.” 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 
 
 209 
 
 “ I am glad to hear that, for it shows me that you 
 are not quite so idle as you would have me believe. 
 Ilut now you must take that studio.” 
 
 Paul looked at her gravely, and shook his head. 
 
 “ I mean what I say,” she replied earnestly. “ You 
 must take it.” 
 
 “ But the money ? ” he asked impatiently. “ Where 
 is it to come from ? ” 
 
 “ From Sir Eustace. Now do not turn away, but 
 listen to me, Paul. Some time ago grandpapa offered 
 you an allowance. You in your anger refused it. 
 But now you see you were wrong, and you acknow- 
 ledge your folly. Then go and say so. He was 
 your father for years. Confess your fault, and, in all 
 humility, ask him to help you for a few years, till you 
 begin to get on. This, surely, is not a very difficult 
 thing to do ? ” 
 
 “ It will be terribly hard, but to please you, Sylvia, 
 I will do it.” 
 
 “ That is right,” she cried brightly. “ You have 
 made me very happy. I am sure if you will only 
 try, you will succeed splendidly. And you must 
 tell grandpapa that you are determined to do so, 
 that you have a high ambition, a noble purpose to 
 achieve.” 
 
 “ And may I say that you, Sylvia, have held out a 
 hope, that should I one day distinguish myself, you 
 will think kindly of me ? And perhaps ” — 
 
 Sylvia held out her hands, and as he pressed them 
 to his lips, she looked at him earnestly. 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Paul,” she whispered, “ work and hope. God will 
 take care of our future.” 
 
 Then she turned from him and ran swiftly down- 
 stairs. 
 
 “ My God ! ” he cried, as she vanished from his 
 sight ; “ what a fool I have been, wasting my life in 
 idleness and folly ! but it shall be so no longer. She 
 — my Sylvia, my love ! — shall live to be proud of me, 
 to rejoice at my success.” 
 
 And he went into his room and locked the door. 
 
 That evening, as Sir Eustace Atherstone sat reading 
 in the library, a footman entered, and asked if he 
 might admit a gentleman who wished particularly to 
 see him. 
 
 “ What is his name ? ” 
 
 “ ITe refused to give it, Sir Eustace” 
 
 “ You may show him in.” 
 
 The servant bowed and retired. A moment later 
 the door opened again, and the stranger walked in. 
 
 Sir Eustace laid aside his book, and, turning, looked 
 at his visitor. 
 
 “ May I ask,” he began, then paused, and sprang to 
 his feet. 
 
 “ Paul — you here ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, Sir Eustace, I am here, here to tell you of 
 my sorrow for my past conduct, and to implore you 
 to forgive my wild words, my bitter ingratitude.” 
 
 <c My boy,” said Sir Eustace, with much emotion, 
 and grasping him warmly by the hand, “ I forgave 
 you long ago. Your behaviour was that of a hot-headed, 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 
 
 2 I I 
 
 foolish youth. I knew you would be sorry when you 
 had time to reflect ; you have taken almost a year to 
 do so ; but better late than never. I am truly glad 
 to see you. This will be good news for Sylvia.” 
 
 “ She knows all. She it was who brought me to 
 my senses, showed me how wicked, how foolish I had 
 been.” 
 
 A cloud passed over the old man's face. 
 
 “ Sylvia saw you, talked to you, and yet did 
 not tell me ? That cannot be ; only last night she 
 spoke mysteriously of a bouquet that she thought 
 came from you, but she never said she had seen you.” 
 “ I did not meet Sylvia till to-day. She was as 
 surprised as you to find I was in London. For 
 although she may have guessed that I sent the bouquet, 
 because of a certain arrangement of the flowers, she 
 could not know that I had come back to England. 
 We met by accident, on the staircase of the house in 
 which I lodge.” 
 
 “ Of course : I might have known my darling would 
 never have concealed your meeting. But I have been 
 away all day, and have not seen her since morning. 
 And now, Paul, what about yourself ? What have you 
 been doing ? Are you getting on in your profession ? ” 
 “ I have made no way, Sir Eustace. I have painted 
 for my daily bread. When I had enough for that, I 
 idled, and spent the money I earned.” 
 
 “ Well, well, you must turn over a new leaf. You 
 have sown your wild oats. Now 7 you must begin to 
 work seriously.” 
 
2 I 2 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ I am determined to do so,” answered Paul 
 decidedly. “ And now, Sir Eustace, I have a request 
 to make. You once offered me an allowance ; I 
 refused it with scorn, because, since I could not have 
 your most precious jewel, I would have nothing. I 
 would now ask you to give me that help, unless you 
 have lost all faith in me, and have ceased to take an 
 interest in me and my career.” 
 
 “ My dear Paul, for years you were dear to me as 
 a son, and, until that unhappy quarrel, I never received 
 a rude word from you. You now return asking for 
 pardon, and I grant it, wholly and entirely. From 
 this hour we are friends again. The three hundred a 
 year I allowed you when in Eome has been duly paid 
 into the Union Bank for you ever since that day when 
 I first mentioned it to you. Send for your bank-book, 
 and you will doubtless find you have a goodly balance 
 to your name.” 
 
 Paul was speechless from emotion, and his eyes 
 were wet and shining, as he raised them gratefully to 
 his benefactor’s face. 
 
 “ You are good, too good,” he stammered at last. 
 “ How shall I show my gratitude ? ” 
 
 “ By working hard, and making a name for yourself. 
 Let me hear you spoken of as an industrious man, a 
 rising artist, and I will be satisfied.” 
 
 “It shall be done. And you will come and see 
 me ; let me paint your portrait.” 
 
 “ Certainly, with pleasure. But, Paul ” — Sir 
 Eustace hesitated, took up a book, and laid it down 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 
 
 2I 3 
 
 again, sighed, and turned away to the mantel- 
 piece. 
 
 “ Yes, Sir Eustace,” said Paul, “ you were about to 
 Bay ” — 
 
 The old man wheeled round, and looked fiercely at 
 Taul. “ My ideas, my wishes as to your intercourse 
 with my grand-daughter are unchanged. You must 
 not come here, or seek to meet her.” 
 
 Paul coloured to the temples. This was the subject 
 of their former quarrel. At these remarks, or similar 
 ones, he had lost his temper, insulted his benefactor. 
 But he was wiser now. Sylvia’s looks and words that 
 morning had filled him with joy, given him hope that 
 nothing could take from him. She obeyed her grand- 
 father, and wished him to do the same. But she would 
 be true to her own heart. So he overcame a rebellious 
 inward rising, and answered quietly, “ I shall do 
 exactly as you command.” 
 
 “ That is right,” cried Sir Eustace cheerfully. “ Your 
 journey to the States has done you good — changed 
 you in many ways.” 
 
 “ It has. But in one thing I can never change, and 
 it is right that you should know it. I love Sylvia now, 
 as dearly as ever. I shall never cease to love her.” 
 
 “ What folly!” 
 
 “ It may be folly, but, whatever it is, it is part of 
 my life. Would that she were poor, that I might win 
 her, and make a home for her by my own exertions ! ” 
 “ That is a cowardly wish. Why should you want to 
 lower her ? Better far to try to raise yourself to her.” 
 
214 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ But of what avail ? She is as far above me as 
 the stars,” he cried, and there was a pathetic ring in 
 his voice as she spoke. “ And you, Sir Eustace, would 
 never help me to reach her. In your eyes my lowly 
 birth would always be an insurmountable barrier.” 
 
 “ It would. I do not approve of people marrying 
 out of their sphere. Therefore, I hope you will forget 
 my grand-daughter.” 
 
 “ And Sylvia ? Is she to be sacrified ? Is her 
 heart to be broken ? ” 
 
 Sir Eustace started. He grew white to the lips. 
 “ Sylvia ? ” he groaned. “ She does not, cannot care ” — 
 
 “ Sir Eustace, pray do not curse me in your wrath,” 
 cried Paul, with emotion. “ It is not my fault that 
 Sylvia has been true ; that all these years, surrounded 
 as she has been with men more worthy, more culti- 
 vated than I, she had grown to love me, the friend of 
 her childhood. I came here this evening, resolved to 
 tell you all ; there shall be nothing deceitful in my 
 conduct.” 
 
 “ Then you mean to tell me ” — 
 
 Paul’s eyes shone radiantly, he stood proudly erect, 
 and shook back the fair hair from his brow with a 
 gesture of delight. 
 
 “ That Sylvia loves me ? Yes, thank God, I am 
 sure of it.” 
 
 The old man sank into a chair, and, covering his 
 face with his hands, murmured sadly — 
 
 “ Oh, my darling, has it come to this ? Has it 
 come to this ? ” 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 
 
 215 
 
 But presently he rose up, and, going close to the 
 young artist, looked at him anxiously. 
 
 “ Paul/’ he said in trembling accents, “ your words 
 are a revelation to me, and change all my ideas. I 
 thought my Sylvia was a child still. And now, as I 
 remember many things she has said, many expressions 
 of her lovely face, I know you are right. She is a 
 woman. Poor darling ! God keep her from sorrow.” 
 
 “ Sir Eustace,” cried Paul passionately, “ you do not 
 think I could ever bring sorrow to my love ? You 
 cannot — you must not say so.” 
 
 “ Paul,” cried the old man solemnly, “ are you 
 worthy ? Has your life been one to make you worthy 
 to lift your eyes to a girl so noble, so pure and holy 
 as my Sylvia ? ” 
 
 “ No, to my shame, I own it. It has not.” 
 
 “ Then, how can you expect me to welcome you 
 as her husband ? I am speaking to you now, as I 
 would speak to any other man, were he of the noblest 
 in the land. Birth, riches, honours are little value 
 compared to that of an upright, a spotless character. 
 And to no one living shall I give my darling till he 
 has proved beyond doubt that his life is honourable 
 in every way.” 
 
 “ Sir Eustace, you are right,” said Paul, with 
 humility. “ I bow to your decree. But I ask you 
 honestly to tell me what your decision is. If I work 
 hard, if from this hour I lead a life of industry, if my 
 labours are crowned, not, perhaps, with world-wide 
 fame, but with a fair amount of success, and at the 
 
2l6 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 end of this year I come to you, and you find that 
 Sylvia still loves me, will you then encourage me to 
 hope to win her as my wife ? ” 
 
 The old man took his hand, and looked straight into 
 his face. 
 
 “ I believe you are in earnest, Paul,” he said, 
 “ God grant you all possible success. Everything 
 that I can do to help you in your profession shall be 
 done. At the end of the year, perhaps before, you 
 shall have a more definite answer. But leave Sylvia 
 to me. Do not seek to see her. Leave her free, and 
 — well, we shall see.” 
 
 “ Then I may hope,” cried Paul, with quivering 
 lips. “ Oh, Sir Eustace, I shall now work night and 
 day. No toil shall tire me, no labour seem too hard. 
 A year will appear as a month ” — 
 
 “ Do not let your enthusiasm mislead you, Paul. 
 Many things may happen in a year. Before that time 
 my son, Sylvia’s father, returns. I may then have no 
 power over my darling’s life. He may have other 
 views, other ideas for his daughter’s future.” 
 
 “ True ; but you will speak kindly of me, think 
 kindly of me ? — promise me that, Sir Eustace.” 
 
 “I promise.” 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 A SUDDEN DETERMINATION 
 
 As soon as Dora had written her note to Madge, 
 and despatched it safely by Mrs. Sims, a good- 
 natured woman who occasionally did a little cleaning 
 up and down the house, she grew restless and excited. 
 She could no longer lie still upon her sofa ; and 
 hemming the blue frills became impossible. So she 
 flung them aside, and began to walk impatiently 
 round the room. 
 
 “ Madge is later than usual to-night,” she cried at 
 last, sinking wearily into a chair. “ J ust because I 
 want her to be early, those people keep her grinding 
 over their exercises. But, thank goodness ! she may 
 soon give them all up. Sir Eustace is rich and 
 
 powerful, and Sylvia will not forget us, I know. So 
 
 if Madge is not too proud ” — 
 
 A sharp knock at the door interrupted her 
 
 reflections, and she started to her feet in surprise. 
 
 " I may come in, I suppose ? ” asked an unknown 
 voice, and a tall lady, in a trailing silk dress, entered 
 the room, and took the girl affectionately by the 
 
 hand. 
 
 217 
 
2l8 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “You do not know me, dear,” she said, “and really 
 it is so dark that one can hardly distinguish one 
 thing from another. But by your fair hair I know 
 you are Dorothy. How it has grown since I saw you 
 last ! Do you often wear it like that ? ” 
 
 “ I beg your pardon. May I ask you who you 
 are ? ” said Dora, surprised at the strange, familiar 
 manner. “ I think you must have come into the 
 
 wrong room. There are many people living in this 
 
 house.” 
 
 “ So there are. But I fancy I have come straight 
 to the place I wanted. You are Dorothy Neil. I 
 am your friend, Lady Ashfield.” 
 
 Dora trembled, and grasped the back of a chair. 
 
 “ Lady Ashfield ! ” 
 
 “ Yes, dear child. You see I have not forgotten 
 
 you, nor my promise to assist you. You helped us 
 
 bravely when our horses ran away. Now we must 
 find out what we can do for you. But pray light the 
 gas ; I want to see what you are like.” 
 
 Dora struck a match and silently lit the gas above 
 their heads. She was very pale, and her eyes flashed 
 indignantly, as she remembered the cruel manner in 
 which Lady Ashfield had treated her sister. She 
 looked upon this visit as an insolent intrusion, and feared 
 to speak, lest she should betray the anger she felt. 
 
 “ That is better,” said Lady Ashfield, looking the 
 girl curiously up and down. “ Now I can see you, 
 and very pretty you have grown, my dear. That hair 
 is worth a fortune.” 
 
A SUDDEN DETERMINATION 
 
 219 
 
 Dorothy crimsoned and turned away her head. 
 
 “I do not wish to make you vain, dear child/’ 
 continued Lady Ashfield, taking off her heavy plush 
 cloak, and laying it on the sofa. “ But you are 
 pretty, as I tell you — and yet,” she added, examining 
 her critically, “ it is not the prettiness, the beauty, I 
 might say, of the aristocracy. No one would ever 
 pick you out in a room, as they would Sylvia 
 Atherstone, for instance. She bears the stamp of 
 nobility, of family, in every feature and movement ; 
 whilst you — well, you are a sweet-looking girl, but 
 you come of a lower class. No living person would 
 ever believe you to be an Atherstone. You do not 
 look it in any way. Sylvia does. It is wonderful 
 how birth shows itself, in the very smallest 
 particulars.” 
 
 And, leaning back in her chair, Lady Ashfield 
 arranged her necklace, and held her satin-shod feet 
 up to the fire. 
 
 As Dora looked at this fashionable lady, in her 
 gorgeous evening dress and sparkling jewels, and 
 heard the cruel words that fell from her lips, a great 
 rage took possession of her. This woman knew the 
 secret of her life, knew that she was really Sylvia 
 Atherstone, and had come there to insult her, and 
 accuse her and Madge of lying. For a moment the 
 room seemed to spin round ; her tongue clove to the 
 roof of her mouth ; her lips refused to utter a sound. 
 
 “ What a silent child you are ! ” cried her visitor. 
 “ You seem to have nothing to say for yourself to-night. 
 
220 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 I came here, at some inconvenience to myself, on my 
 way to a dinner-party, to see you and Madge, and find 
 out what I could do for you. And, instead of being 
 pleased to receive my visit, and tell me all your 
 troubles, you stand there staring as if you were dumb/' 
 “ I am not dumb, nor am I deaf,” replied Dora, with 
 dignity. “ I have heard your words and understand 
 them perfectly. You are not our friend, and Madge 
 and I must respectfully decline all help from you.” 
 
 “ You are insolent.” 
 
 “ No, only honest. When Madge ” — 
 
 “Well, dear, what of Madge? Are you rehearsing 
 for a play, Dora ? ” asked her sister, who came in as 
 she was speaking. “ Or — but I beg your pardon. I 
 thought my sister was alone. Good evening, Lady 
 Ashfield.” 
 
 And, bowing coldly to the visitor, Madge put her 
 arm round Dora, and, having quietly removed the 
 plush cloak to a neighbouring chair, made her lie 
 down upon the sofa. 
 
 “ You look ill, darling,” she whispered. “ Close 
 your eyes and rest. I will talk to Lady Ashfield, and 
 get rid of her as soon as possible.” 
 
 “ Oh, Madge, Madge, why is she here now ? ” cried 
 Dora, clmging to her sister and kissing her tenderly. 
 “ I have such good news, dear, if she’d only go. ” 
 “Hush, love! we must not be rude. We must 
 treat our visitor with proper civility.” And, freeing 
 herself from the girl’s embrace, she went over to the 
 fire and stood beside Lady Ashfield. 
 
A SUDDEN DETERMINATION 
 
 22 1 
 
 “ A pretty picture. Such sisterly affection is truly 
 touching/’ 
 
 Madge’s lips were tightly set, and her dark brows 
 met together in a frown. 
 
 “ To what are we indebted for the honour of this 
 visit ? ” she asked stiffly. 
 
 “ To what ? My dear Miss Neil, have you forgotten 
 that I promised to help you — to find you pupils ? ” 
 
 “ I remember every word that passed between us, 
 Lady Ashfield,” answered Madge quietly, “ and I know 
 that I declined to receive assistance from you. You 
 treated me as though I were a madwoman or a liar. 
 You would not believe my story, or help me to restore 
 that poor child to her home and family. And so I 
 told you that I would not take kindness from you in 
 any shape or form. Is that not true ? ” 
 
 “ Perfectly. But that was some time ago.” 
 
 " Time can make no difference. I think the same 
 to-night as I did then.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield shrugged her shoulders. “ You are 
 very foolish,” she said, “ to refuse help when it is 
 offered. You are poor.” She glanced round the 
 room. “ Your sister is delicate, and requires change of 
 air and nourishment. This story of yours will never 
 be believed. And whilst you are refusing the assist- 
 ance of those kind enough to offer it, because they 
 will not accept your account of the wreck, and try to 
 bring misery upon the Atherstones, Dora may die. 
 Then, perhaps, all too late, you may come to see the 
 folly of your ways.” 
 
222 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Madge looked at the girl upon the sofa, and her 
 eyes filled with tears. 
 
 “ Come, now,” said Lady Ashfield, observing her 
 emotion, “ be sensible. It is impossible to prove this 
 story ; then let it drop. Why bring up such a tale 
 when it can do you no good, and only cause unhappi- 
 ness to others ? Promise never to mention it again ; 
 and see, I will give you two hundred pounds, and 
 help you to get pupils as far as I can.” 
 
 And, opening her purse, Lady Ashfield drew out a 
 bundle of bank-notes, and presented them to Madge. 
 
 Uttering an exclamation of horror, the girl started 
 back. A flood of crimson rushed over her neck and 
 brow, and her eyes shone with an angry light. 
 
 “ Put back your money, Lady Ashfield. I am not 
 — my silence never can be bought.” 
 
 “ But you are poor. It will be useful, and no one 
 need ever know.” 
 
 “ I am poor — God only knows how poor ! ” cried 
 Madge, her whole frame shaken with suppressed 
 passion ; “ for this day I was dismissed at a month’s 
 notice from the school in which I teach.” 
 
 “ Madge ! ” Dora gave a little cry, and sat up on 
 the sofa. 
 
 “ I have not a friend in the world,” continued 
 Madge, laying her hand soothingly on Dora’s head. 
 “ But not for all the riches of the universe would I 
 sell my darling’s birthright. Did I do so, I should 
 deserve to die.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield laughed scornfully. 
 
A SUDDEN DETERMINATION 
 
 223 
 
 “ You would make a splendid actress, Miss Neil. 
 But I must confess your tragic manner does not affect 
 me. You imagine that by talking nonsense like this 
 you may impose upon me, and make me believe your 
 ridiculous story. But I tell you such a thing is 
 impossible. Neither I nor any other human being 
 will ever believe it for an instant. Miss Atherstone 
 is about to marry my son, Lord Ashfield ” — 
 
 Dora started, and caught Madge by the arm. 
 
 “ And it is not probable,” she continued, “ that two 
 poor girls like you could ever prove that Sylvia, 
 grand-daughter of Sir Eustace Atherstone, and wife of 
 a peer of the realm, was other than what she is 
 supposed to be. Give up all thoughts of such a thing, 
 and I will promise to do for you whatsoever you may 
 ask.” 
 
 Dora rose slowly from her seat upon the sofa, and, 
 walking over to the table, leaned heavily against it. 
 She was very pale ; but her sweet face wore a look of 
 strong determination. 
 
 “ Lady Ashfield,” she said, and her voice rang 
 out clearly through the room, “ do not be uneasy. 
 Neither Madge nor I shall ever disturb Sylvia 
 Atherstone.” 
 
 “ Dora ! ” 
 
 Madge flung up her hands, and looked wildly at her 
 sister. 
 
 “ Think of what you are saying, dearest,” she cried 
 in great agitation. “ Think what such a promise 
 
 means. 
 
224 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ I have thought, Madge. I know it well,” and a 
 little sob choked her utterance. “ I have not forgotten 
 what a trouble it will be to you, darling. But my 
 mind is made up. I renounce all claim to the namo 
 of Atherstone. Neither Sylvia, nor Lord Ashfield 
 shall ever suffer in any way through me. And — and 
 I hope they may be happy.” 
 
 Lady Ashfield smiled, and looked triumphantly at 
 Madge. 
 
 “ I am glad,” she said, with a sneer, “ that one of 
 you has sense. I suppose I may make this money 
 over to you, my pretty Dora ; ” and again she held out 
 the notes. 
 
 But Dora shrank away, and, flinging her arms round 
 Madge, burst into tears. 
 
 “Lady Ashfield,” said Madge bitterly, “you have 
 obtained the promise you required. Put away your 
 money and go.” 
 
 “ You may repent your insolence before long, Miss 
 Neil,” cried Lady Ashfield angrily. “ But, as you 
 
 say, I have obtained all I require. So I wish you 
 
 good-night.” 
 
 And, putting on her cloak, she gathered up her 
 silken skirts and swept proudly from the room. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 MADGE IS PERSUADED TO BE SILENT 
 
 Dora's sudden declaration that Sylvia should be left 
 in the full enjoyment of her present happy position 
 filled Madge with dismay. Was this then to be the 
 end of all her dreams, all her hopes for the future ? 
 Was this poor child to droop and pine for ever in the 
 midst of dreary poverty, whilst Sylvia spent her life in 
 luxury, surrounded on all sides by the evidences of wealth 
 and affection, that did not lawfully belong to her ? 
 
 For some moments after Lady Ashfield's departure 
 the two girls were silent. Dora clung to Madge, her 
 face hidden on her breast, her arms round her waist. 
 She trembled violently, and from time to time a sob 
 escaped her. 
 
 Madge sighed heavily, and, smoothing back the 
 golden hair, kissed her lovingly. 
 
 “ You are not angry, dearest ? ” whispered Dora. 
 “ Oh, say you are not angry with me ! ” 
 
 M Not angry, darling ; I never could be that with 
 you — but grieved and surprised. Why did you make 
 that promise, Dora ? Why did you cut the ground 
 from under my feet ? ” 
 
 15 
 
226 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Because — oh, Madge, when you know her, you 
 will feel as I do. Sylvia is so good, so noble, I could 
 not do her harm. ,, 
 
 “ But, dearest, that is no reason. Because Sylvia is 
 good, you must not suffer. That would not be just.” 
 
 “ Just or not, I am determined not to interfere with 
 her in any way. I shall remain Dorothy Neil all 
 my life.” 
 
 “ But what if I object, Dora ? ” 
 
 “You must not, Madge. And you will not, I am 
 sure, when you know how I long to leave Sylvia in 
 the home she believes to be her own.” 
 
 “ But the poverty, Dora ? Think of that. How 
 can I bear to see you want when I remember what 
 your life should be ? ” 
 
 “ All that is at an end, Madge ; we shall be poor 
 no longer,” said Dora, smiling through her tears. 
 “ Sylvia was here to-day.” 
 
 “ Sylvia ? Why did you not tell me that before ? ” 
 “ I did not care to do so before Lady Ashfield.” 
 
 “ Quite right, dearest. I forgot. But how did 
 Sylvia find us out ? Who told her ? Oh, darling, 
 our position grows harder and harder.” 
 
 “ No, Madge, there you are wrong. Sylvia came 
 to us as a ministering angel — her hands full of gifts, 
 her heart full of love.” 
 
 “ But we cannot accept either gifts or love.” 
 
 “ Not if we were planning her ruin. Not if, like 
 Judas, we were accepting her love that it might help 
 us to betray her. But I have resolved — and you, dear 
 
MADGE IS PERSUADED TO BE SILENT 227 
 
 Madge, must agree to do like me — to become her friend 
 to take any kindness she or Sir Eustace may do us 
 with gratitude, and never, by word or look, suggest 
 that she was not born to the high position that she 
 tills so nobly.” 
 
 “ Oh, Dora, how can I ever agree to this ? ” 
 
 “ Very easily, dearest, when you think the matter 
 out. And, believe me, there will be no injustice 
 done.” 
 
 “ But, Dora, what is to become of us ? Mrs. Prim 
 has dismissed me. In four short weeks my time at 
 Penelope Lodge will have expired, and then what are 
 we to do ? ” 
 
 “ My dear, I am delighted to hear of Mrs. Prim’s 
 dismissal. It will save you the trouble of dismissing 
 her.” Dora laughed softly. “ See here, these are 
 the addresses of ladies, friends of Sylvia’s, who require 
 a music mistress for their children. You are to go 
 there to-morrow, and I fancy you will not long regret 
 the large salary you received at Penelope Lodge. 
 Sylvia said these people would pay you handsomely. 
 So now, dear Madge, you must not fret, but promise 
 to do what I ask.” 
 
 “ My darling, I cannot refuse you. And the 
 hopelessness of proving our story tempts me to 
 accept these offers of friendship. And yet, my mind 
 misgives me. I wish it had not come to this. It 
 would have been better had Sylvia stayed away.” 
 
 “ Madge,” whispered Dora, with deepening colour 
 “ her coming, her goodness, was not the only thing. 
 
228 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 That was not what really decided me. She is going 
 to marry Lord Ashfield. His wife must be of noble, 
 of high position. No act, no words of mine shall 
 cast a doubt upon her, since he loves her.” 
 
 “ My darling, two wrongs do not make a right,” 
 said Madge sadly. “ However, I agree to do as you 
 wish. To-morrow I shall go and see these ladies.” 
 
 So, with a heavy heart, and many doubts as to the 
 honesty of her conduct, Madge at last consented to be 
 silent, and gratefully accept any favours that Sir 
 Eustace might choose to bestow on her and Dora. 
 
 And these, she soon found, were beyond anything 
 she had ever expected. There was no niggardliness 
 in the treatment they received — quite the contrary ; 
 for Sir Eustace was as generous as he was wealthy. 
 And Madge felt bewildered and amazed as she saw 
 how effectually he was about to change their lives. 
 She was obliged to leave Penelope Lodge at once. A 
 pretty flat was taken for them in De Yere Gardens, 
 and furnished in the daintiest manner possible by one 
 of the first upholsterers in London. And an income 
 sufficient to keep them in comfort, even luxury, was 
 placed at their disposal by their kind-hearted bene- 
 factor. 
 
 “ My dear,” he said to Madge, when she remon- 
 strated with him for his generosity, “ do not deny me 
 the pleasure of helping you, and so making up, if 
 possible, for my long years of neglect. I was wrong 
 to believe you dead — wrong not to have tried every 
 means to discover you. Had your father lived, he 
 
MADGE IS PERSUADED TO BE SILENT 229 
 
 would have filled an honourable post in my employ- 
 ment. It was my son’s great wish. He is dead, and 
 I look upon you as a sacred legacy left to me by him. 
 This little one,” he continued, laying his hand upon 
 Dora’s head, “ I shall call my second grand-daughter. 
 She is just my Sylvia’s age, and has been beside her 
 in death, I may say. The sight of her makes me 
 remember with gratitude how merciful God was, when 
 He sent my darling safely home to me. You will love 
 me, Dora, and allow me to call you my grandchild ? ” 
 
 Madge coloured deeply, and turned impatiently 
 away. She longed to tell him all — to put an end to 
 this deception. But Dora looked at her warningly. 
 Then, raising her beautiful eyes to Sir Eustace, she 
 put her arms round his neck and kissed him on the 
 cheek. 
 
 “ Yes,” she said quietly, “ you have been very good, 
 very kind. I love you dearly, and will always think 
 of you as my grandfather. I have never known my 
 father. Your affection will make up to me for what 
 I have lost.” 
 
 “ Dear little fairy, your life from this day shall be 
 a happy one,” he answered, returning her embrace. 
 “ Your future is in my hands, and second only to 
 Sylvia in my heart shall be my grand-daughter Dora.” 
 
 And from this hour Dora was indeed happy. Any 
 idea that she would be living on charity, did she 
 accept money from Sir Eustace, had completely left 
 her. In doing so, she was only taking part of what 
 was realty her own, she now argued. And so there 
 
230 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 was nothing to embitter or annoy her in her present 
 position. She soon loved Sylvia with an absorbing 
 affection, and took willingly from her hands the many 
 gifts bought for her, with what she knew to be her 
 own money. For this troubled her little. She had all, 
 and more than she required. She was not ambitious, 
 and was well content to see Sylvia reign supreme, as 
 mistress of her grandfather’s establishment. 
 
 So the days that were formerly spent in dreary 
 loneliness, hemming frills for Madame Garniture, or 
 mourning over her helpless condition, were now passed 
 in driving with Sylvia, visiting museums, picture 
 galleries, and theatres ; lunching at one house, and 
 drinking tea at another. For as soon as Dora was 
 seen with Miss Atherstone, and known to be her 
 friend, invitations of all kinds poured in upon her. 
 
 Her extreme delicacy prevented her from going out 
 at night, and so she could not go to either dinner or 
 dance. But this she did not regret. In the evenings 
 she had Madge, always eager to welcome her back, 
 and ever ready to listen to her accounts of all she had 
 seen and done during the day. For Madge rarely took 
 part in these rounds of pleasure. She lived in the 
 pretty rooms provided by Sir Eustace, and kept a 
 tender watch over her darling. But nothing would 
 induce her to sit down and eat the bread of idleness. 
 Their benefactor was generous ; he was wealthy, she 
 knew, and would never miss the sum of money he 
 allowed them in the year. But Madge was proud. 
 She had no legitimate claim upon him ; she would not 
 
MADGE IS PERSUADED TO BE SILENT 231 
 
 be dependent on his bounty. Through her connec- 
 tion with the Atherstones she soon obtained many 
 well-to-do pupils. And so, though not worked so 
 unceasingly as in the old times at Penelope Lodge, 
 her days were well filled up. 
 
 And as she went from place to place, her thoughts 
 were ever full of Dora aud her future. She felt that 
 things could not always go on as they were at present, 
 and she wondered when the end would come. Where 
 was Anne Dane ? What would happen when they 
 met ? These questions rose frequently to her lips, 
 and troubled her sadly. Everything was pleasant 
 now, but she was sure this tranquillity could not 
 last ; and she believed that the longer they all lived 
 as they were doing, the more bitter would be the 
 change when it came. 
 
 Yet, in spite of these misgivings, Madge was very 
 happy. She rejoiced to see Dora living in comfort, 
 prettily dressed, and temptingly served. She had 
 never in all her life been so free from care, and she 
 had money for all she required. 
 
 This sudden change in the Neils’ position, and the 
 strange manner in which Sir Eustace had taken them 
 to his heart, annoyed Lady Ashfield extremely ; and 
 she lived in constant terror lest Dora should forget 
 her resolution and tell someone the story of the wreck 
 — that is, Madge’s version of that unlucky night. Not 
 that she believed it, but that she dreaded the misery 
 and vexation that would come upon them all should 
 the suspicion of such a thing get noised abroad. 
 
A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 232 
 
 Unlike Madge, however, she felt sure that every day 
 passed by the Neils in their present position was a 
 decided gain, making disclosure more impossible, and 
 binding them more emphatically to silence. 
 
 “ Were Sylvia and Ashfield safely married, it would 
 matter but little,” she thought. “ The settlements 
 would be made, and such nonsense would not trouble 
 them. Sir Eustace would soon hush the matter up, 
 and Sylvia, away with her husband, would never hear 
 of it. Even the gossips would not believe it so easily, 
 once she was Lady Ashfield. But I confess I do not 
 understand these two. At the Atherstones’ ball they 
 seemed devoted. Now — well, he goes to the house 
 often, but things do not progress. He still declares 
 they are nothing to each other. He is most provoking.” 
 
 And as Dora saw more of Sylvia, and came to 
 know her more intimately, she, too, wondered over her 
 manner to Lord Ashfield. With him the girl was 
 frank and gay ; pleased to see him when he came, but 
 indifferent as to whether he went or stayed. When 
 he was absent, she rarely mentioned him, and when 
 she did so, it was in a casual way — friendly, but 
 nothing more. 
 
 Lord Ashfields behaviour soon became as incom- 
 prehensible as Sylvia’s. He visited constantly at the 
 house, drove with the girls in the Park, walked with 
 them in the Row, accompanied them to concerts and 
 teas. Yet, even to Dora’s inexperienced eyes, his 
 demeanour was that of a privileged friend, rather than 
 that of an accepted lover. All this bewildered and 
 
MADGE IS PERSUADED TO BE SILENT 233 
 
 saddened the simple girl, yet she tried hard to believe 
 in the love of these two. For they were engaged to 
 be married, she knew. Lady Ashfield had said so. 
 She was his mother. She must surely know. 
 
 So Dora held aloof when Lord Ashfield was near. 
 In the house, she buried herself in a book or worked 
 industriously at her embroidery. In the Park and 
 elsewhere, she gazed about her, or talked to Sir 
 Eustace, doing everything she could to give her friends 
 perfect freedom in their intercourse. But all seemed 
 of little avail. Lord Ashfield and Sylvia would not 
 allow her to withdraw from their society. In all 
 they did and said, she must take a part. And, much 
 against her will, Dora felt constrained to do so. 
 
 Then followed a time of anguish — a time when 
 Dora was one day miserably unhappy, the next full 
 of joy and nervous excitement. She ought to have 
 been happy, she felt. She wished, yet dreaded to be 
 so, for her mind was torn with doubt, and the fear of 
 causing grief to Sylvia. 
 
 When she first met Lord Ashfield at the Ather- 
 stones’, he showed great pleasure at renewing their 
 acquaintance. He was polite and attentive, treating 
 her with the same consideration as he might have 
 bestowed on the highest lady in the land. To her 
 past life he never alluded. And when Dora thanked 
 him tremulously for his goodness in discharging their 
 debt to their cruel landlord, he implored her earnestly 
 never to mention it again. It grieved him to remem- 
 ber it, for it proved how he and his mother had 
 
234 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 neglected their promise, of helping the orphans in 
 their hour of need. 
 
 Full of the idea that he was engaged to Sylvia, 
 Dora was distant and reserved. Since that day in 
 Cornwall he had been a hero in her eyes. The sound 
 of his voice, the touch of his hand, thrilled her. The 
 feeling that he was near filled her with happiness. 
 Yet Sylvia was to be his wife, and no word or look of 
 hers should disturb her peace. That these two might 
 be happy, she had renounced her birthright, and left 
 Sylvia in undisputed possession of her home and 
 fortune. For their sakes she would do more. She 
 would conquer her own heart, and kill the great love 
 that was growing up within her. 
 
 But in a short time, Lord Ashfield’s conduct began 
 to perplex the poor girl, then to fill her with alarm. 
 Instead of talking to Sylvia or Sir Eustace, he devoted 
 himself to her. His long visits were spent by her 
 chair, watching the progress of her embroidery, or 
 conversing with her in low, earnest tones. To Dora 
 the hours went past all too rapidly. She lived in a 
 dream from which she frequently awoke with a shock, 
 as she remembered how cruelly she was deceiving 
 herself, how bitter would be the end that would surely 
 come to these blissfully happy days. 
 
 One afternoon, the girl was asked to sing. She 
 consented, and went to the piano. Her song was a 
 simple setting of Mrs. Browning’s poem — 
 
 “ Love strikes one hour — Love ! Those never loved 
 Who dream that they loved once.” 
 
MADGE IS PERSUADED TO BE SILENT 235 
 
 Dora sang with pathos. She forgot the company. 
 She put her whole soul into her voice, and the words 
 rang out clearly, pathetically, through the room. 
 
 Lord Ashfield stood by the piano. He listened 
 with rapt attention, and when the last sweet note had 
 died away, he bent his head and thanked her in 
 a low whisper for the pleasure she had given him. 
 Dora looked up, her thoughts full of the sad idea of 
 the song. Their eyes met for an instant. A deep 
 blush overspread the girl’s delicate cheek, her eyelids 
 quivered slightly, and, rising slowly from the music- 
 stool, she walked blindly to a distant seat. 
 
 The next morning Dora complained of not feeling 
 well, and announced her intention of remaining at 
 home that day. Madge was frightened and uneasy. 
 
 But Dora declared she only required rest, and 
 implored her sister to leave her to herself for a little. 
 Madge was obliged to go out to give her lessons, and 
 went away with a sinking heart. She had hoped that 
 Dora was outgrowing her delicacy ; but now her extreme 
 pallor and weakness alarmed her beyond measure. 
 
 About three o’clock Sylvia drove round to De Vere 
 Gardens, and, climbing up to the flat inhabited by the 
 Neils, insisted on carrying Dora off for a drive. 
 
 “ You need not come home to tea with me, if you 
 do not feel able. But the fresh air will do you good,” 
 she said. “ So out you must come, my sweet Dora.” 
 
 Dora could never resist her dear friend Sylvia long ; 
 so, after a little judicious coaxing, she at last con- 
 sented to go. 
 
27,6 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 It was a bright day in February ; the air was sharp 
 and frosty, but, as the girls were well wrapped up in 
 furs, they did not feel the cold as they drove rapidly 
 round the Park. 
 
 Sylvia was in high spirits. Her beautiful face was 
 full of happiness ; her eyes shone with some secret 
 joy. Dora looked at her and wondered. She felt so 
 depressed and weary, that it almost angered her to see 
 her companion so bright and joyous. 
 
 “ What a contrast we are ! ” she thought despond- 
 ently. “ She was born to be happy — I to be sad. 
 But Madge must take me away. I cannot — will not 
 meet and talk to him again. Sylvia loves him. He 
 — my God, help me ! Such a state of things will kill 
 me. It must not go on.” 
 
 Meanwhile, Sylvia chattered away. If she noticed 
 Dora’s sadness, she did not appear to do so, and 
 talked incessantly of her own affairs. She had been 
 to a fancy ball the night before, which had apparently 
 amused her much. She laughed over her partners, 
 criticised their costumes, described the decorations of 
 the ballroom, and praised all the arrangements. 
 
 “ This ball seems to have excited you greatly, 
 Sylvia,” said Dora, somewhat pettishly. “ I never 
 saw you so unduly elated before.” 
 
 “ It is not the thought of the ball, or anything that 
 happened there, that makes me feel so gay, dearest,” 
 replied Sylvia, with shining eyes ; “ but a little piece 
 of good news that grandpapa told me this morning.” 
 
 Dora sighed, and looked out across the Serpentine. 
 
MADGE IS PERSUADED TO BE SILENT 237 
 
 “ I am glad you are happy, darling. I'd — I’d do 
 
 anything to make you so.” 
 
 Sylvia glanced at her inquiringly. 
 
 “ Of course, I know you would, dearest. And I 
 would do the same for you. But your happiness will 
 be quite secure without my help, now. There is little 
 doubt of that.” 
 
 “ No, Sylvia. There is no real happiness possible 
 for me. Sir Eustace and you have been good and 
 generous. You have surrounded me with comfort and 
 luxury. I have all I want in that way. But ” — - 
 “ My dear Dora, you require change of air. You 
 are suffering from depression. Grandpapa and I go 
 into Surrey soon, to our dear, delightful Summerlands. 
 You must come with us. Will you ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ; I should like to. I do want a change, dear.” 
 “ That will be charming. And now we shall go 
 into the streets ; the Park looks gloomy. Thomas,” to 
 the footman, “ drive down Piccadilly and up Eegent 
 Street.” 
 
 “ Yes, miss ” 
 
 The coachman turned his horses, and went out at 
 the Wellington Gate. 
 
 After this the girls relapsed into silence. Both 
 seemed lost in thought. The carriage went on as 
 swiftly as possible through the crowded streets, and 
 many heads were turned, many glances of admiration 
 were bestowed upon its two lovely occupants as it 
 drove along. 
 
 At Piccadilly Circus they were suddenly stopped, 
 
238 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 their horses kept back by the policeman, to allow a 
 number of pedestrians to cross the road. 
 
 A young man, well dressed and happy-looking, 
 stood amongst the crowd. As Sylvia’s carriage drew 
 up close to him, and he recognised the girls, he uttered 
 an exclamation of pleasure, and raised his hat. 
 
 “ Sylvia ! ” 
 
 The girl started and looked round. Her colour 
 deepened, and she smiled radiantly. 
 
 “ Paul!” 
 
 Her eyes met his in one long searching glance of 
 inquiry. They were not near enough to speak or 
 shake hands. But that look told her much, and set 
 her heart beating gladly, triumphantly. 
 
 The policeman stepped aside, the horses dashed 
 forward, and she was soon far away up Regent Street. 
 
 The meeting had been short, no words had passed 
 between the two, yet it filled Sylvia with joy. She 
 had not seen Paul since the day in the Neils’ lodging, 
 and the change in his appearance and bearing was 
 remarkable. She had heard he was doing well, work- 
 ing steadily at his profession ; she now saw that he 
 had recovered his self-respect, and was happy. To see 
 him thus, to know that he was leading a life of 
 industry, acting as she had wished and advised him 
 to do, was indeed a pleasure. And as he vanished 
 from her sight, she sank back in the carriage, trem- 
 bling with excitement and delight. 
 
 Dora looked at her in surprise. What did this 
 mean ? How did Sylvia know Paul Vyner, the artist ? 
 
MADGE IS PERSUADED TO BE SILENT 239 
 
 What could he have to do with her ? Why was she 
 so agitated on seeing him ? All these questions passed 
 in quick succession through her mind. But she did 
 not dare ask her companion why she was so much 
 disturbed. Sylvia seemed unconscious of her presence, 
 so Dora kept her thoughts to herself. 
 
 As the carriage turned into De Yere Gardens, Sylvia 
 started from her reverie. 
 
 “ Must you really go in, Dora ? ” she asked. 
 
 “ Yes. I could not go home with you to-day. I 
 must rest. I feel — not very well. ,, 
 
 “ Poor little Dora ! I am sorry. I wish you were 
 happy like me.” Sylvia blushed deeply. “ You have 
 seen Paul. He — you must have noticed my joy, my 
 
 delight at seeing him. He is going through his time 
 of probation, Dora, and is doing well — nobly. Hence 
 my happiness. Good-bye.” 
 
 Dora listened as one in a dream. She kissed Sylvia 
 tenderly, and, turning away swiftly, ran into the house 
 and up the stairs. Her head was in a whirl ; her 
 eyes sparkled brightly ; her lips were parted in a 
 happy smile. The clouds of misery had suddenly 
 rolled back, and her heart was beating joyfully. 
 
 Sylvia loved Paul Yyner. Of that she was now 
 quite certain. Therefore she did not love, nor could 
 she be engaged to marry, Lord Ashfield. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 DORA IS TRIED BEYOND HER STRENGTH 
 
 That evening, when Madge returned to dinner, she was 
 surprised to find Dora looking bright and well. She 
 was dressed in a dainty white muslin, with pale blue 
 ribbons and clouds of filmy lace. One lovely tea-rose 
 nestled amongst the folds on her breast, and her golden 
 hair was tastefully arranged on the top of her little 
 head. 
 
 Madge looked at her admiringly. She had never 
 seen her look so beautiful. 
 
 “ This is a wonderful resurrection, my pet,” she said, 
 kissing her. “ Do you feel quite well^this evening ? ” 
 
 “ Quite.” 
 
 Dora fingered her rose ; her colour deepened and 
 paled again. 
 
 “ What an exquisite flower ! Where did you get it?” 
 
 “ Lord Ashfield sent it, and some books. He heard 
 I was not well.” 
 
 “ He is very attentive. I suppose for Sylvia’s sake 
 he likes to be kind to her friend.” 
 
 “ Madge,” — Dora’s sweet face grew crimson, — “ it is 
 not for Sylva’s sake. It is — they are not engaged.” 
 
 240 
 
DORA TRIED BEYOND HER STRENGTH 241 
 
 Madge looked up in surprise. 
 
 “ Not engaged ? My dear, you are mistaken. Lady 
 Ash field said” — 
 
 “ Yes. But she was wrong. Sylvia cares nothing 
 for Lord Ashfield, and he ” — 
 
 Dora paused, and touched her rose with loving 
 fingers. 
 
 “ Well, dearest ? He is grieved, I suppose ? ” 
 
 “ No, I think not. I don’t fancy he cares. From 
 things I know, have seen, and felt, I think he cares 
 for someone else.” 
 
 “ So your sacrifice, your promise not to interfere 
 with Sylvia, was not necessary and will not affect him 
 whom you wished to save from annoyance.” 
 
 “No. It will not make any difference to him — at 
 least, as far as Sylvia is concerned. But, Madge ” — 
 
 Dora sank upon a chair ; her colour faded, a look 
 of anguish came into her eyes. 
 
 “ What is it, darling ? Are you ill ? ” 
 
 Madge sprang to her side and flung her arms 
 round her. 
 
 “ No. But an awful thought has come to me,” she 
 gasped. “ I have promised Lady Ashfield. I am fond 
 of Sylvia, pledged in a thousand ways to keep that 
 promise. And yet — oh, Madge,” — she hid her face 
 on her sister’s shoulder, — “ I love Lord Ashfield — and 
 — if — he — should care — ask me to marry him, what 
 shall I do?” 
 
 Madge grew deathly pale. She pressed Dora close to 
 her heart, and raised her eyes appealingly to heaven. 
 
 16 
 
242 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Oh, my God,” she murmured, “ help this poor 
 child. In Thy great mercy soften this trial that has 
 come upon her. Help her to bear it patiently, with 
 resignation/' 
 
 “ Speak, Madge/' whispered Dora; “ what shall I do ? " 
 
 “ Alas, my darling ! I am afraid to tell you what I 
 think, what I feel to be the only course open to you. 
 By your own promise, made in impulsive generosity to 
 secure the happiness of this girl who had acted kindly 
 towards you, you have placed yourself in a terrible 
 position. Having made this promise, you cannot 
 reveal the secret of your birth, and unless you make 
 it known to Lord Ashfield, you must not marry him. 
 The existence of such a secret, the wrong you would 
 feel you had done him, and, perhaps, others you loved, 
 would make you wretched — ruin your happiness 
 and his.” 
 
 Dora raised her head and looked at her sister wildly, 
 despairingly ; then, with a deep groan, fell back 
 unconscious in her arms. 
 
 Full of tender pity, Madge laid her on the sofa, and 
 bathed her face with eau-de-Cologne. At last she 
 opened her eyes and looked around. But she was 
 very weak, and trembled all over ; so the pretty dress 
 was removed, the golden hair unbound, and she was 
 helped to bed by Madge's loving hands. 
 
 The next day Dora was seriously ill, tossing about 
 from side to side in the wild delirium of fever. So 
 Madge gave up her tuitions, and took her place by her 
 darling's bedside. 
 
DORA TRIED BEYOND HER STRENGTH 243 
 
 The girl talked strangely at times, uttered words 
 that would surely have told anyone near the real state 
 of affairs. She revealed her love for Lord Ashfield, 
 her affection for Sylvia, and the false position she 
 occupied. All this Madge wished to keep secret ; so 
 she stayed with the patient night and day, allowing 
 no one to approach her hut herself. 
 
 This grieved Sylvia. She loved Dora, and longed 
 to help to nurse her. But Madge was stern ; she 
 would admit no one, and Sylvia was obliged to content 
 herself with making inquiries at the door, and sending 
 delicacies that might tempt the poor invalid to eat. 
 
 Lord Ashfield came constantly to De Yere Gardens. 
 Madge was touched by his evident anxiety about Dora, 
 and felt sorry when she saw the great love he bore 
 her. His extreme earnestness and nobility of character, 
 his kind and thoughtful ways, won her heart, and 
 impressed her with a thorough belief in his goodness. 
 
 “ What a noble fellow he is ! How gladly would I 
 give my darling to him ! ” she thought, after one of his 
 many visits. “ And if she gets well, perhaps ” — 
 
 But then, with a thrill of pain, she would remember 
 the barrier that Dora had placed between herself and 
 happiness. For, to Madge’s honest mind, a promise 
 was as binding as an oath. Without Dora’s co-opera- 
 tion her hands were tied. She was not bound to 
 silence by any promise, but she was powerless. She 
 could do nothing. Her speaking would be utterly 
 useless, unless Dora were free to stand beside her, and 
 vouch for the truth of her story. This she could not 
 
244 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 do now, and she could see nothing but sorrow and 
 disappointment for the poor girl in her future life. 
 
 For many days Dora was in imminent peril, and 
 Madge was wild with grief. She watched her every 
 movement with a heart full of pain, and offered fervent 
 prayers to God that He would be merciful and 
 spare her darling. Then, at last, the fever passed 
 away, and the patient came slowly back to life. The 
 doctors pronounced her out of danger, and gave great 
 hopes of her ultimate recovery. 
 
 But her convalescence was long and trying. She 
 seemed weary of living, and expressed neither wish 
 nor hope that she might grow stronger. This apathy 
 filled Madge with terror. What if her pet should 
 fade away and die in spite of the doctors ? And as 
 she gazed at the girl, as she lay listless and indifferent 
 upon the sofa, she longed for something to rouse and 
 interest her. 
 
 Dora was now but the shadow of her former self. 
 Her long golden hair had been cut close to her head • 
 her figure had shrunk, and was thin to attenuation ; 
 her chest, always narrow, had a look of contraction 
 painful to behold ; her face was white and wan, and 
 her lovely eyes were abnormally large, and surrounded 
 with wide black circles. 
 
 During all this dreary time, the girl's friends were 
 constant in their attentions. But Dora would see no 
 one. She begged to be left alone. Nothing daunted, 
 Sylvia continued to implore for admission, and after 
 some time the invalid yielded, and allowed her to pny 
 
DORA TRIED BEYOND HER STRENGTH 245 
 
 her a visit. The sight of the girl's beautiful face did 
 her good, and renewed the deep affection she had 
 always had for her. Sir Eustace speedily followed in 
 his grand- daughter's footsteps, and Dora received him 
 with something like an expression of pleasure in her 
 weary eyes. 
 
 “ You must have change of air to brace you and 
 set you up, my dear," he said. “ Sylvia and I go 
 down to Summerlands next week. You must come 
 with us." 
 
 Dora protested feebly. She did not wish to leave 
 home. Then Madge was appealed to. What did she 
 think ? 
 
 “ I must ask the doctor, Sir Eustace. If he says 
 it will agree with Dora, she shall go. I am sure it 
 would be very good for her." 
 
 Change of air was exactly what she required, 
 declared the doctor on his next visit, and Summerlands 
 the place of all others that he would recommend. It 
 was bracing and healthy. 
 
 So, notwithstanding Dora's disinclination to move, 
 all arrangements were made, and it was resolved that 
 within a few days she should travel down into Surrey, 
 in a close carriage, with Sir Eustace and Sylvia. 
 Madge, who had some affairs to settle in town, would 
 follow in as short a time as possible. Meanwhile, she 
 knew her darling would be in good hands and would 
 be carefully and lovingly tended. 
 
 On the afternoon before the day of her departure 
 for the country, Dora seemed restless and excited. 
 
246 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 She appeared anxious to say something to Madge, yet 
 apparently dreaded to speak. 
 
 Madge was busily occupied in packing, and did not 
 at first notice the girl’s nervous manner. But, after 
 a time, something unusual in her appearance caused 
 her to pause in her work, and then she remarked, 
 with wonder, the burning spot upon each wan cheek. 
 
 “ What is it, pet ? Are you not feeling well ? ” she 
 cried anxiously. “ Shall we postpone this visit to 
 Summerlands? You can go down with me. I’ll 
 write ” — 
 
 “ bio, no, Madge. We must make no change. I 
 am restless — that is all. I want to get away.” She 
 
 covered her face with her almost transparent hands. 
 “ I dread, yet long, to see Lord Ashfield.” 
 
 “ My darling ! ” 
 
 “ You may, perhaps, see him, Madge, and I want 
 you to tell him ” — 
 
 The servant suddenly opened the door. 
 
 “ If you please, Miss Neil, there is a gentleman 
 outside, who wishes very particularly to see Miss 
 Dora.” 
 
 “ A gentleman ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, miss. Lord Ashfield.” 
 
 Dora gave a little cry, and fell back upon her 
 pillow. 
 
 “You shall not see him, dearest,” cried Madge. 
 “ You must say that Miss Dora is not able to receive 
 > visitors, Mary. Or stay — I will speak to him myself.” 
 
 “ Madge ! ” Dora caught her dress and would not 
 
DORA TRIED BEYOND HER STRENGTH 247 
 
 let her go. “ I must see him. Mary, admit Lord 
 Ashfield.” 
 
 “ This is foolish. You are too ill — too weak, 
 Dora.” 
 
 “ No ; my joy will give me strength.” 
 
 And it seemed as though she was right. For when 
 Lord Ashfield took her hand, and asked her how she 
 felt, she answered quietly that she wa 3 better, and 
 begged him to sit down. 
 
 Madge could not but wonder at this sudden change. 
 All trace of nervousness had vanished. The feverish 
 colour had faded from her cheeks, and she was now 
 white as alabaster. And in her eyes was a look of 
 peace, an expression of content, that Madge had not 
 seen in them for months. 
 
 “ She loves him, ah, how dearly, my poor darling ! ” 
 she thought, with anguish. “ How will it all end ? ” 
 And, unable to check the rising tears, she hurried 
 from the room. 
 
 When Lord Ashfield found himself face to face 
 with this girl, whom he tenderly loved, he was deeply 
 agitated. He was shocked at her appearance. He 
 had not met her since that afternoon at the 
 Atherstones , ) when she had touched him greatly by 
 the beautiful pathos of her song. And now — But 
 he soon recovered his usual calm demeanour, and 
 Dora had not a notion of what he suffered. 
 
 “ My God ! what a change these weeks of illness 
 have made in this poor child ! ” he thought. “ Will 
 she ever be strong ? Could care, love, and affection 
 
248 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 bring roses to her cheeks, strength and health to her 
 limbs ? ” 
 
 But Dora’s sweet voice disturbed his reverie, 
 recalled him to himself. 
 
 “ It is very good of you to come to see me, Lord 
 Ashfield,” she said. “ But you were always kind 
 and”— 
 
 “ Good of me ? ” he cried passionately. “ Oh, Dora, 
 do you not know that I have been at your door 
 morning and night ? Do you not know that all my 
 hopes of happiness are centred in your recovery— 
 that, had you died, I — -my life would have been a 
 blank ? for I love you, darling, and have but one wish 
 on earth — to win you as my wife.” 
 
 Dora gazed at him with dilated eyes and heightened 
 colour. She tried to speak, but no sound came forth. 
 
 “ Have you nothing to say, Dora ? Have I startled 
 you — frightened you by my eager words ? You 
 are weak. I should not have spoken so soon. But 
 oh, my love, my love ! these days have seemed long 
 and weary, yearning as I have been to know my 
 fate. Do you love me ? Can you be my wife ? ” 
 
 Dora lowered her eyes. She could not bear to 
 meet that tender, pleading glance. Her heart was 
 his, but she dared not say so. Between them and 
 happiness lay the secret of her birth, and the promise 
 she had made never to reveal it. 
 
 “No,” she said, and her words were so low that 
 he had to bend forward to catch them ; “ I cannot 
 be your wife.” 
 
DORA TRIED BEYOND ITER STRENGTH 249 
 
 Lord Ashfield staggered to his feet. His face was 
 livid, his eyes full of sorrow and disappointment. 
 
 “ Do you mean this ? ” he asked in tremulous 
 accents. “ Have I been deceived — have all my efforts 
 been in vain ? Do you not — could you not love me 
 — even a little, my darling ? ” 
 
 The girl looked up, her face full of radiant light, 
 her lips parted in a happy smile. “ Oh yes, I love 
 .you dearly,” she whispered low. 
 
 “ Then,” he cried, flinging himself on his knees by 
 the couch, and taking her little hand in his, “ why 
 can you not marry me ? If you love me, why do 
 you hesitate ? ” 
 
 “ Because ” — Dora drew herself away from him — 
 “ I cannot, I dare not. There is a reason.” 
 
 “ A reason ? My darling, surely that is impos- 
 sible. If we love each other, what reason can 
 there be to prevent our marriage ? Tell me what 
 it is. I 
 
 “ I cannot,” murmured Dora faintly. “ It is a 
 secret. Madge ” — 
 
 “ Madge ! ” he cried indignantly, and he spoke in 
 such a loud tone that the girl believed he wanted 
 her, and came in at once from the adjoining room. 
 
 “ Did you call me, Lord Ashfield ? ” 
 
 “ Ho ; but as you are here, perhaps you can explain 
 matters a little.” And, leaving the sofa, he looked 
 at her anxiously. As he did so, he felt strangely 
 moved. Madge seemed in great sorrow. Her eyes 
 were red as with much weeping. 
 
250 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Explain what, Lord Ashfield ? ” she asked, glancing 
 quickly at Dora. 
 
 “ I have asked your sister to marry me,” he said, 
 with deep emotion. “ I love her with all my soul. 
 She — I thank God for it — confesses that she returns 
 my love, but declares she cannot marry me, and that 
 there is some secret reason why our marriage should 
 never take place. She mentioned you ; can you tell 
 me what it is ? ” 
 
 “ Your mother can give you all the information you 
 require, Lord Ashfield, if she chooses.” 
 
 “ Madge ! ” Dora stared at her in surprise. “ You 
 cannot wish Lady Ashfield to do that ? ” 
 
 “ I would wish her to do anything that will end 
 this mystery, and, perhaps, lead to your happiness, 
 dearest. Lord Ashfield is generous ; he would spare 
 his friends, I am sure.” 
 
 Lord Ashfield started violently. He felt perplexed 
 and annoyed. What was this mystery ? Why should 
 he be generous ? Was it possible there was any 
 disgrace attached to these girls, who had always 
 seemed so perfect in his eyes. No ; that could not 
 be. Such a thing was impossible ; and yet — 
 
 He looked earnestly at Dora ; but she had turned 
 away her head, and was weeping silently upon her 
 pillow. This sight filled him with compassion. He 
 remembered only his love. 
 
 “ My darling,” he cried, “ do not weep. Keep this 
 secret, whatever it may be ; I can trust both you and 
 Madge ; so look up, Dora, and say you will be my wife.” 
 
DORA TRIED BEYOND HER STRENGTH 251 
 
 Dora made no response. Her slight frame was 
 shaken with sobs, but she did not take any notice of 
 his fervent prayer. 
 
 “ My sister has already been tried beyond her 
 strength, Lord Ashfield” said Madge sadly. “ She 
 is too weak for a scene of this kind. She has given 
 you the only answer it is in her power to give. To 
 marry you with this secret in her heart would be 
 fatal to your happiness. She is not now at liberty 
 to reveal it.” 
 
 “ But my mother — she knows all ? Ah ! a light 
 breaks in upon me. It was because of this that you 
 — that my mother quarrelled with you the first time 
 she saw you.” 
 
 Madge blushed deeply, but she raised her head 
 proudly, and looked at Lord Ashtield. 
 
 “Yes, it was, partly. Lady Ashfield would not 
 believe my word.” 
 
 “ Then this secret is connected with you, not 
 Dora ? ” 
 
 “ Pray ask no more, Lord Ashfield ; it is Doras 
 wish and your mother’s that I should be silent. But 
 this secret must surely leak out sooner or later. 
 However, in the meanwhile, please believe that there 
 is nothing to be ashamed of in it ; nothing the least 
 disgraceful to either Dora or me ” — 
 
 “ I can well believe that,” he cried. “ And now 
 good-bye. I must see my mother, and implore her to 
 reveal this secret to me at once. When I know all 
 Dora may then consent to be my wife.” 
 
2 5 2 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ I hope so most sincerely; but Lady Ashfield lias 
 other views for you — she may not be willing to tell 
 you all she knows.” 
 
 “ She must. My mother and I do not always agree 
 in small matters, but I generally manage to make her 
 do what I wish.” 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 LADY ASH FI ELD CHANGES HER TACTICS 
 
 This scene with Lord Ashfield tried Dora severely, 
 and the next morning she was too ill to make the 
 journey to Summerlands. Sir Eustace and Sylvia 
 would not go without her, and postponed their going 
 until she should be able to accompany them. 
 
 But after two days of complete rest, she declared 
 herself eager to depart, and, to the great delight of her 
 friends, seemed brighter and more interested in every- 
 thing than she had been since the beginning of her illness. 
 
 The reason of this sudden change was known only 
 to herself and Madge. And it brought much happi- 
 ness to both, but particularly to Dora. For now she 
 felt she had something to live for — something to keep 
 in her own heart and rejoice over. This was the 
 knowledge that Lord Ashfield loved her, and was 
 anxious to take her just as she was, without fortune 
 or name — a mere waif cast up by the sea, and make 
 her his wife. She had refused him because of the 
 secret of her life. But he loved her — that was 
 sufficient. She could wait patiently for whatever 
 time might bring about or reveal. 
 
 253 
 
254 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 And so, though thin and wan, weak almost to 
 prostration, Dora wore an expression of peaceful 
 happiness as she was carried down to Sir Eustace’s 
 carriage. 
 
 “ God bless you, my pet ! ” whispered Madge, as she 
 covered her with rugs and arranged the cushions 
 under her back. “ I trust this journey may not tire 
 you too much.” 
 
 “ I think not, dear. I feel so happy, and quite 
 excited.” 
 
 “ Do not be uneasy, Madge,” said Sylvia. “ She 
 seems so much better that I am sure the drive will 
 not hurt her. Grandpapa and I will look after her 
 well.” 
 
 “ I am sure you will, dear. You are all that is 
 good and kind.” 
 
 And, acting on a sudden impulse, Madge stooped 
 and kissed Sylvia on the lips. This was the second 
 time she had embraced her since the night of the 
 wreck, when she had clasped her in her arms in 
 terror and alarm. On the first occasion, on the beach 
 at Seaport, she did not know that the child was her 
 sister. But now, she was well aware of that fact, 
 and her heart felt full of love for this girl, whom she 
 had once guarded with so much tender affection. 
 
 For an instant Sylvia was surprised at this unex- 
 pected show of friendship from Madge, who was 
 generally very reserved. Then, smiling, she put her 
 arms round her neck and returned her embrace with 
 warmth. 
 
LADY ASHFIELD CHANGES HER TACTICS 255 
 
 Madge burst into tears, shook Sir Eustace by the 
 hand, and hurried back into the house. 
 
 “ Poor Madge ! she cannot bear to lose you even 
 for a day, Dora,” said Sylvia, as the carriage bore 
 them swiftly on their way. “ She is truly a loving 
 sister.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Dora tenderly ; “ Madge has a heart of 
 gold.” 
 
 Meanwhile Madge returned to her room, and, 
 having recovered her usual calm, began to arrange 
 wardrobes and drawers that had been upset in her 
 preparations for Dora’s departure. She worked long 
 and steadily, and by lunch-time everything was in 
 order, and she was free to take that meal in peace 
 before going out to pay some visits. 
 
 But as she sat at her solitary luncheon, she had 
 little appetite. The room seemed lonely and deserted. 
 She missed Dora from her sofa, and wondered sadly 
 when she should see her flitting about again in her 
 pretty dresses and dainty ribbons. She and her sister 
 had been very happy in this comfortable home that 
 Sir Eustace had provided for them, and she could 
 not bear to think that this time of peace was at an 
 end, perhaps for ever. And yet, as she sat alone, 
 she could not rid herself of a strange, unaccountable 
 presentiment that such was the case. A crisis had 
 come in their lives. Dora and she would never be 
 to each other what they had been in the days gone 
 by. Lord Ashfield loved her darling, and she returned 
 his affection. Therefore she must soon lose her. 
 
256 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Dora was resolved not to marry him till this secret 
 was made known to him. But would she have 
 strength to hold out against his powerful will ? He 
 was determined she should be his, and sooner or later 
 he would surely conquer. 
 
 “ There would be one happy way of settling this 
 matter,” she thought. “ But, alas ! I fear it is too 
 much to expect. That is, if Lady Ashfield would 
 
 tell her son the story of the wreck, and that he 
 should insist on saying nothing about it — on leaving 
 Sylvia as she is, and marrying Dora under the 
 name she has borne so long. My wish to depose 
 the present Sylvia has passed away. Her goodness 
 and beauty have won my heart. And it seems cruel 
 to disturb her — to endanger her happiness. Heigh 
 ho ! if we had only never known her, never loved 
 her, we might have worked against her without pain. 
 But now ” — 
 
 “ A note for you, Miss Neil. The messenger is 
 waiting for an answer,” said the servant, entering the 
 room at this moment. 
 
 Madge took the letter and glanced at its contents. 
 It was short, and ran thus — 
 
 “ My dear Miss Neil, — Can you come to me 
 about half-past three ? I want to speak to you very 
 particularly. Kindly tell the servant yes or no. 
 Yours sincerely, Hermione AsIIEIELD. ,, 
 
 The girl’s dark brows met together in a frown. 
 She had not seen Lady Ashfield since she had visited 
 
LAD Y ASHFIELD CHANGES HER TACTICS 257 
 
 her in her lodgings, and had extracted the fatal 
 promise from poor little Dora. She had not forgotten 
 that scene, and found it hard to forgive this great 
 lady for her insulting language on that occasion. 
 Her first impulse, therefore, on reading this note was 
 to refuse to see her ladyship, or listen to what she 
 had to say. But when she reflected that by doing 
 so she might perhaps interfere with Dora’s future 
 happiness, she resolved to face Lady Ashfield, no 
 matter what the interview might cost her. 
 
 “ Tell the messenger yes,” she said to the servant. 
 “ I will be with Lady Ashfield at the hour she names.” 
 At half-past three precisely, Madge rang the bell 
 at 16 Belgrave Street. The door was quickly 
 opened, and the footman led her at once to Lady 
 Aslifield’s boudoir. 
 
 “ My dear Miss Neil, how extremely good of you 
 to come to me so punctually,” cried Lady Ashfield, 
 rising from her chair, and coming forward with out- 
 stretched hands. “ I am very glad to see you.” 
 
 “ Thank you,” said Madge coldly. “ But may I 
 ask why you sent for me ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly. But pray be seated. I have just 
 been writing to Summerlands — to Dora.” 
 
 “ To Dora ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ; to Dora. But I do not see that that need 
 astonish you.” Lady Ashfield smoothed the folds of 
 her dress, and kept her eyes well away from the 
 girl’s face. “ My son tells me he wishes to marry 
 her, therefore I ” — 
 
 17 
 
258 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Madge started forward with smiling countenance. 
 
 “ You have told him the story of the wreck, and, 
 resolving to keep it a secret known only to ourselves, 
 have given your consent to his marriage with Dora ? 
 Oh, Lady Ashfield, this is really kind ! It is what I 
 hoped — but ” — 
 
 “Not so fast, my dear Miss Neil; you misunder- 
 stand me quite. I wish my son to marry Sir Eustace 
 Atherstone’s heiress, and it matters little to me 
 whether she is tall and dark, or small and fair. 
 Money and birth are what I require; so I have 
 written to Dora to release her from her promise of 
 keeping this matter a secret. As soon as she 
 proves without doubt that she is George Atherstone’s 
 daughter, I give my consent to her marriage with Lord 
 Ashfield — not before.” 
 
 “And what if she refuses to put forward her 
 claim ? ” 
 
 “ Then she may remain Dorothy Neil for the rest 
 of her life. But I am not afraid. The love she 
 professes for Sylvia will not carry her quite so far. 
 She is not likely to sacrifice a brilliant future as Lord 
 Ashfield’s wife to an absurd idea of sparing this 
 usurper pain.” 
 
 Madge gazed at her in sad surprise. 
 
 “ You spoke quite differently, Lady Ashfield, on our 
 first meeting in this room. You then treated me 
 with scorn, refused to believe my story, and talked 
 a great deal about your love for Sir Eustace and 
 Sylvia.” 
 
LADY ASHFIELD CHANGES HER TACTICS 259 
 
 Lady Ashfield coloured slightly. 
 
 “ It was only natural I should doubt the truth of 
 such a strange announcement,” she said quickly, “ and 
 my friendship for Sir Eustace made me think of it 
 with terror. I did not wish to believe it. You and 
 your sister were nothing to me ; Sylvia and her 
 grandfather were much. But now everything is 
 changed. My son wishes to marry Dora. It is 
 necessary she should prove herself his equal in birth 
 and fortune.” 
 
 “ Then what do you wish me to do ? ” 
 
 “ I wish you to go to Sir Eustace, tell him your 
 story, and bring forth all the proofs you possess.” 
 
 “ They are few — utterly valueless, you told me 
 yourself.” 
 
 “ I was wrong. I have thought it all out, and 
 come to that conclusion. George Atherstone’s wife 
 was fair ; that portrait, and Dora’s likeness to it, may 
 prove strong evidence.” 
 
 “ And if Sir Eustace does not believe me ? If he 
 refuses to cast forth the girl he has loved and 
 cherished as his own for the sake of a comparative 
 stranger — what then ? ” 
 
 “We must go to law, hunt up Anne Dane and 
 have her examined and cross-examined — leave no 
 stone unturned till we restore Dora to her rights.” 
 
 “And for this purpose am I to use the money 
 bestowed upon me by our generous benefactor ? Are 
 we to turn upon him, and, with his own gold, work 
 his misery and unhappiness ? ” 
 
260 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Your manner is theatrical, as usual, Miss Neil,” 
 said Lady Ashfield, with a harsh little laugh. “ But I 
 do not wish you to use Sir Eustace’s money. I am 
 quite willing to bear all the expenses.” 
 
 “ You are very generous. But tell me — does Lord 
 Ashfield wish this to be done ? Is he ready to enter 
 upon this law-suit ? ” 
 
 Lady Ashfield shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 “ I shall not consult him about the matter. He is 
 quixotic to the last degree. This morning, when he 
 told me of his wish to marry Dora, I thought it right 
 to let him know that she claimed to be Sir Eustace 
 Atherstone’s grand-daughter. He seemed overjoyed at 
 the news. He now knew the terrible secret, he cried, 
 that had made the girl refuse to become his wife. 
 He was delighted when I acknowledged that that was 
 the reason, and declared that it was of no importance, 
 and should not stand in the way of their union. ‘ But/ 
 I said, ‘ you will surely take steps to restore her to her 
 proper position. You cannot marry her till the world 
 knows she is not a mere dressmaker’s apprentice 
 supported by Sir Eustace, but his son’s only child, 
 and heir to a large fortune.’ ” 
 
 “ And he replied ? ” asked Madge eagerly. 
 
 “ That he would take no such steps. That he 
 loved Dora, etc., and that he cared nothing for money 
 or birth. Just what I expected from his radical ideas. 
 However, I shall not ask his opinion now, but set to 
 work at once. With your help ” — 
 
 “ That I must decline to give, Lady Ashfield.” 
 
LADY ASHFIELD CHANGES HER TACTICS 261 
 
 “ What ? ” She glared angrily at Madge. “ You 
 do not, you cannot mean what you say ? ” 
 
 “I do mean it most decidedly. I am thankful, 
 God only knows how thankful, that Lord Ashfield has 
 shown himself so generous in this matter. Had he 
 acted otherwise, he would have been unworthy of my 
 sweet Dora.” 
 
 “ Are you a fool, Miss Neil, or mad,” cried Lady 
 Ashfield, “ that you talk in this absurd fashion ? ” * 
 
 “ Pardon me,” said Madge gravely. “ I am neither 
 mad nor a fool. But I am glad that this world is 
 not all selfish and grasping ; glad, above all, that the 
 man who is about to wed her whom I have loved as a 
 sister all these long years, is full of kind impulses, 
 untainted by worldly feelings and a sordid love of 
 money.” 
 
 “ You speak with wonderful indifference about these 
 matters, now that my son has proposed for your sister,” 
 said Lady Ashfield, with a contemptuous sneer. “ If 
 you will not/ and do not, prove the truth of your 
 story, I will look upon you as a most arrant impostor. 
 For, unless you are, why should you have changed so 
 suddenly ? A year ago you were all eagerness to 
 depose Sylvia and put Dora in her place, and now, 
 forsooth, you would not pain her or her grandfather.” 
 
 “ A year ago I did not love Sylvia — I did not know 
 her — she was a mere name to me ; and my sweet 
 Dora was ill and in want. I had not accepted 
 favours innumerable from the hands of Sir Eustace 
 Atherstone ; he was an utter stranger to me. I was 
 
262 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 not held back by any feeling of pity for people I did 
 not know. I thought only of Dora. I felt bound to 
 do all I could to have her acknowledged as George 
 Atherstone’s daughter. Now all is changed. My 
 hands are tied — the two people who are most con- 
 cerned in the matter, Dora and Lord Ashfield, wish 
 it kept a secret. Until they ask me to reveal what I 
 know, not a word shall escape me ; so I think, Lady 
 Ashfield, you have little chance of proving your case.” 
 
 “ Little,” she said grimly, “ and I am not quite fool 
 enough to try. But I tell you solemnly that until 
 Dora is proclaimed to be Sylvia Atherstone, I shall 
 never consent to her marriage with my son.” 
 
 “ Lord Ashfield is of age. He can do as he 
 pleases.” 
 
 “ True. But I hold money he cannot touch. 
 Should he displease me, I can will it away, leaving 
 him an impoverished peer, with little hut his title to 
 recommend him.” 
 
 “ That is a question that does not concern me,” said 
 Madge coldly, “ but must be settled between you and 
 Lord Ashfield. And now, as you thoroughly under- 
 stand my feelings and intentions, I shall wish you 
 good-day.” 
 
 “ Good-day.” Lady Ashfield bowed stiffly, and rang 
 the bell. 
 
 Madge returned her salutation with dignity, and 
 walked quietly from the room. 
 
CHAPTER XXI Y 
 
 AT BAY 
 
 The journey to Summerlands was accomplished with- 
 out incident. It was a beautiful April day, warm, 
 bright, and clear. And as Dora drove along, she felt 
 herself grow stronger every moment, as the fresh air 
 came in at the carriage window and fanned her pallid 
 cheek. Sylvia and Sir Eustace were well pleased to 
 see her look so brisk, and teased her playfully about 
 her returning health and spirits. 
 
 For some time their way lay through streets and 
 squares, across Clapham Common, and down miles of 
 roads lined with suburban villas. But at last the region 
 of brick and mortar was left behind, and they found 
 themselves in the country. On all sides were green 
 fields, hedges budding into leaf, and wide stretches of 
 downs covered with sheep and merry, frisking lambs. 
 
 Dora was in ecstasy, and gazed at everything with 
 evident delight. 
 
 “ It is pleasant to be in the country,” she cried. 
 “ It was so good of you to bring me, Sir Eustace. 
 But then, you have been so kind to Madge and me, 
 that we shall never, never be able to thank you.” 
 
 263 
 
264 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “My dear child, do not talk of kindness,” he 
 answered, smiling. “ It is a pleasure to me to be able 
 to do anything for you. Sylvia and I love you 
 dearly, and rejoice to have you with us. Eh, Sylvia?” 
 “ Yes, grandpapa. Indeed we do. Dora is to be 
 my sister now. I am determined to keep her with 
 me as much as I can.” 
 
 “ Madge will object to giving her up so very often. 
 She loves her too well, not to want her at home.” 
 
 “ And she shall have her sometimes,” said Sylvia, 
 laughing, “if she is good. But Madge shall come 
 and stay a long time also, I hope. Summerlands is 
 a large house, remember. We have plenty of room 
 there.” 
 
 “ So we have — or rather you have,” said Sir 
 Eustace, bowing ; “ for I must not forget that I am 
 your guest down here, my darling. Dora, Summer- 
 lands belongs to Sylvia. She is our hostess. So we 
 must be very respectful to such a great personage.” 
 
 “ Grandpapa, you are a tease.” 
 
 “ Tease ? My dear, is it not true ? Did I not buy 
 this place for you, and you alone ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, but I refuse to have anything to do with it 
 till ” — She paused and blushed. 
 
 „ “ Till you are married ? ” 
 
 “ No, not even then. Not till you require it no more. 
 And I hope — oh, so sincerely ! — that that may not be 
 for years and years to come.” 
 
 “ Good little girl ! You would miss your old grand- 
 papa ? His love is of great value in your eyes ? ” 
 
AT BAY 
 
 265 
 
 “ Grandpapa, I’d rather have your love — the know- 
 ledge that I was your own best beloved grand-daughter, 
 than all the riches and all the Summerlands ever heard 
 of in the whole world.” 
 
 “ You hear, Dora ? ” he said in a voice full of 
 proud delight. “ What a loving little girl this is ! ” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Dora, smiling, “ she is a devoted 
 grand-daughter, Sir Eustace.” 
 
 “ Devoted indeed, and her devotion is fully returned. 
 There is nothing I would not do for my Sylvia. Her 
 love has been a precious boon to me, and every day I 
 thank God on my knees that Anne Dane was able to 
 rescue her from a watery grave, and place her safe and 
 well within my arms.” 
 
 “ Oh,” thought Dora, with beating heart, “ who 
 would, who could bring trouble to these two ? Who 
 would disturb their happy love, and show them in 
 Avhat a cruel manner they have been deceived ? I 
 certainly could not. I’d rather die.” 
 
 “ You look sad, little Dora,” said Sylvia, laying her 
 hand caressingly on that of the invalid. “ Are you 
 getting tired ? ” 
 
 “Xo, not at all; but I was thinking, Sylvia, of that 
 strange, sad night on board The Cimbria .” 
 
 “ But you cannot remember it ? I cannot.” 
 
 “ I seem to remember it dimly,” answered Dora 
 thoughtfully. “ At least, I think I do. But then, 
 Madge and I have talked it over so often, that 
 perhaps I only fancy I do. But, Sylvia, what 
 became of Anne Dane ? Is she dead ? ” 
 
266 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Dead ? ” Sylvia laughed merrily. “ Not at all. 
 She is as well as possible, although she sometimes 
 fancies herself somewhat weak, poor old dear. She 
 hates London fogs, and leads a life of comfort, and, I 
 am afraid, idleness at grandpapa’s place in Lancashire. 
 However, you shall have the happiness of seeing her 
 soon. I have invited her to Summerlands expressly 
 to meet you.” 
 
 “ Sylvia ! ” Dora turned pale ; a look of terror 
 came into her eyes. 
 
 “ W ell, dear, I thought you’d like to see her for the 
 sake of old times.” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, of course,” said Dora quickly. “ I would 
 not know her again. But Madge ” — 
 
 “ Madge would remember her, of course ; and I 
 know she wants to see her. Lord Ashfield told me 
 so long ago. I tried to get her to come up to town, 
 I even told her it was to meet her old friend, Madge 
 Neil. But she would not move. She is very careful 
 of her health, I assure you.” 
 
 “ And did she promise to come to Summerlands to 
 meet Madge ? ” 
 
 “ No ; that is the fun. I have prepared a pleasant 
 surprise for her. She has not the slightest idea that 
 either you or Madge will be there. I am longing to 
 see her face when she sees you first.” 
 
 “ Sylvia, you have not done right,” cried Dora, with 
 emotion. “ You have not indeed.” 
 
 Sir Eustace and Sylvia looked at her in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
AT BAY 267 
 
 “ Not done right ? My dear Dora, what can you 
 mean ? ” they cried together. 
 
 “ Nothing, nothing,” said the girl in confusion. 
 “ But Anne is old. It will be a shock to see us 
 without warning.” 
 
 “ As for that,” replied Sylvia gaily, “ you need not 
 be alarmed. Anne is not easily startled. And then, 
 you know, she has heard long ago that you were saved 
 from the wreck. So she will not take you for ghosts, 
 dear. However, lest you should be uneasy, I shall 
 send for Anne, and tell her of your arrival. Will that 
 satisfy you ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Dora dreamily ; “ that may avert 
 some of the danger I dread. But I must write to 
 Madge and warn her.” 
 
 “ Well, dear, do as you like,” said Sylvia. “ But, 
 imagining others as weak as yourself, I think you 
 exaggerate the importance of the meeting. Madge 
 will take it very quietly, I am sure.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so ; I hope so, dearest. And, of course, 
 I am very weak, and easily alarmed.” 
 
 “ You have talked too much, dear child,” said Sir 
 Eustace kindly. “ Your voice sounds tired, so close 
 your eyes and go to sleep.” 
 
 “ Yes, I think I have,” she answered, with a faint 
 smile. “ I feel very weary.” 
 
 “ Poor darling ! it was a shame to let you wear 
 yourself out,” cried Sylvia. “ I am very angry with 
 myself for allowing you to do so, and now you must 
 not speak again. Lie back there, and close your eyes.” 
 
268 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Dora did as she was told, and with a sinking heart 
 thought sadly of this fresh complication in their 
 affairs. She felt bewildered and alarmed. A meeting 
 between Anne Dane and Madge was to be avoided 
 above all things. And now, Sylvia, in her innocence 
 and ignorance, in hopes of giving a pleasant surprise 
 to her friends, had planned to bring it about in the 
 most dangerous manner possible. 
 
 “ I am thankful Madge did not come with us,” she 
 thought, “ for I shall have time to warn her, and, 
 perhaps, induce Anne Dane to go. She will be 
 anxious to guard the secret for her own sake. That 
 was, of course, the reason she did not come to town. 
 Oh, Sylvia, Sylvia, how imprudently you have acted ! ” 
 
 “ I hope you are rested, dear, and able to look 
 about,” said Sylvia’s sweet voice, about half an hour 
 later. “ Here we are at Summerlands. Is it not 
 beautiful ? ” 
 
 Dora raised herself a little, and opened her eyes. 
 The carriage had passed through a fine old gateway of 
 richly-wrought iron, and entered an immense park, 
 full of elms and oaks of ancient lineage. The grass 
 was green and mossy, carpeted now, on this lovely 
 spring day, with primroses and violets. Herds of deer 
 browsed upon the slopes and looked up indolently as 
 the noise of wheels disturbed their solitude. Ear down, 
 below the undulating lands, lay a large lake, its waters 
 sparkling brightly in the sunshine ; and above its banks, 
 their outline clearly marked against the sky, rose the 
 beautifully wooded range of the Surrey hills. 
 
AT BAY 
 
 269 
 
 ft It is lovely — a paradise on earth ! " cried Dora. 
 “ Oh, Sylvia, what happiness to know that this is all 
 your own ! dow you would suffer, were it ever taken 
 from you ! ” 
 
 “ I daresay. Yes, I am sure it would be real pain, 
 for I love the place/' said Sylvia. Then, smiling at 
 Sir Eustace, “ I am not uneasy ; grandpapas word is 
 as good as any deed of settlement. And even my 
 father will have no right to touch it, I believe." 
 
 “ Certainly not," said Sir Eustace. “ This house 
 and estate are mentioned in my will as belonging to 
 my grand-daughter, Sylvia Atherstone, and her heirs 
 for ever. Neither George nor any other living creature 
 can ever lay a finger on them. It will belong only 
 to Sylvia, her husband, and her children." 
 
 “ I don't think anybody is likely to wish to take it 
 from me, grandpapa," said Sylvia, laughing. “ So you 
 and Dora need not alarm yourselves." 
 
 “I feel no alarm, dearest," he replied, smiling. “It is 
 yours as securely as the law of England can make it.” 
 
 Dora sighed and looked out over the rich pasture 
 lands. 
 
 How secure they were, these two ! How unsus- 
 picious of evil ! And yet what a terrible sword hung 
 suspended over their heads, threatening every moment 
 to fall and crush them with sorrow. 
 
 “ Never, with my sanction, shall this secret be 
 revealed," resolved Dora bravely. “ But, alas ! too 
 many know it now. And how can I tell what course 
 Lady Ashfield may pursue ? " 
 
270 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 The carriage stopped. They had reached their 
 destination. Sir Eustace opened the door and sprang 
 out. 
 
 “ Welcome to Summerlands, my pretty Dora ! ” he 
 cried. “ May you grow strong and rosy in our 
 beautiful country air.” 
 
 “ Thank you,” she answered in a low voice. “ I 
 will do my best to show my gratitude for your love 
 and Sylvia’s.” 
 
 “ That is right,” he cried gaily. “ The best way 
 you can do so is by growing as healthy as possible.” 
 
 “ And in order to accomplish that,” said Sylvia, 
 “ she must rest. She must not tire herself now, so 
 she shall be carried to her room at once.” 
 
 “ I think I can walk, dear, if you will help me,” 
 said Dora. “ I feel quite able to do so.” 
 
 “ Very well ; take my arm,” said Sir Eustace. “ You 
 go to the other side, Sylvia, and we’ll help her slowly 
 up between us.” 
 
 The staircase at Summerlands was broad and low, 
 and with the assistance of her friends Dora reached 
 her room without much fatigue. Nevertheless, she 
 was glad to lie down on the sofa and rest, until it was 
 time for lunch. 
 
 “ See,” said Sylvia, when Sir Eustace had withdrawn, 
 and the two girls were alone, “ this is your sitting- 
 room — in there your bedroom ; and here,” raising a 
 heavy curtain, “ is my boudoir. I thought it would 
 be nice to be near each other.” 
 
 “ Delightful ! ” cried Dora ; “ and you must not leave 
 
AT BAY 
 
 271 
 
 me much alone, Sylvia. I do not want to be too 
 great a nuisance, but I hope you will come to me 
 often, dear.” 
 
 “Of course, constantly. And as we are only 
 separated by a curtain, I can slip in at all kinds of 
 odd moments. I shall make no noise ; and if you are 
 asleep, I shall creep out again, without disturbing you.” 
 
 “ Thoughtful little Sylvia ! You are too good to 
 me, for ” — 
 
 “ My darling, as if that were possible ! But good- 
 bye for the present. I must go and look after grand- 
 papa. Desiree shall bring you your lunch directly. 
 I hope you don’t feel too warm, but I thought it 
 best to have a fire in your room, as the evenings are 
 chilly.” 
 
 “ It is very pleasant, dear. I felt cold after my 
 drive.” 
 
 “ I thought you would. Be sure and eat all you 
 can, Dora, and remember you must drink your Caiio- 
 witz. I ordered it specially for you.” 
 
 “ I shall not fail to do so. You play the part of 
 head nurse admirably, my fair Sylvia. And I am 
 resolved to please you by strict obedience to your 
 orders.” 
 
 “ That is right. An obedient patient is sure soon 
 to be a complete cure. We shall have you running 
 gaily all over the house directly.” 
 
 True to her promise, Dora did her best to eat the 
 dainty lunch that Ddsiree placed before her ; but her 
 appetite was small, and when the tray was carried 
 
272 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 away, the amount of chicken consumed was scarcely 
 noticeable. 
 
 At three o’clock Sylvia looked in, dressed in her 
 outdoor things. 
 
 “ I am going for a walk with grandpapa, Dora. He 
 wants me to see some improvements at the farm. I 
 hope you will not feel lonely whilst I am away ? ” 
 
 “ Not at all. I will take my afternoon sleep. Do 
 not hurry on my account. I shall be quite happy.” 
 
 “ Very well, dear. Sleep will do you good.” 
 
 Then Sylvia kissed her tenderly, and, drawing on 
 her gloves, went to join Sir Eustace. 
 
 After a time Desiree came in, and put some fresh 
 coal on the fire, and, hoping that mademoiselle would 
 soon fall asleep, left her alone. 
 
 But Dora could not sleep ; she felt restless and 
 unsettled. Her mind was full of the thought of Anne 
 Dane and her meeting with Madge. The advent of 
 this woman filled her with terror, a sense of danger 
 that she could not shake off. 
 
 “ But, really, I am foolish to think so much about 
 her,” she said to herself. “ If Madge is warned, all 
 will be well. She will not come, I am sure, when she 
 hears that Anne Dane is here ; she could not meet 
 her in a friendly spirit, and she now wishes to spare 
 Sylvia and Sir Eustace. I will greet her quietly, be 
 cold and distant in my manner, and say nothing about 
 the wreck. But Madge could never do that ; the 
 sight of the woman would make her forget everything 
 but my wrongs. Oh, mother, mother ! ” £he cried, 
 
AT BAY 
 
 27 3 
 
 drawing forth her beloved miniature, and pressing it 
 to her lips ; “ what sad straits I am in ! Kept out of 
 my birthright, my lawful inheritance, longing to be 
 restored to the position that should be mine, for the 
 sake of the man I love, yet prevented from proclaim- 
 ing my right to it by the affection and gratitude I 
 feel towards those who have been so good and kind 
 to me.” 
 
 Then, as the daylight wanes, a feeling of weariness 
 takes possession of Dora, and she falls into an uneasy 
 slumber. Evening comes on, the fire blazes up, and 
 the flames play fitfully upon her worn cheeks, and 
 touch her golden hair with their brilliant light. 
 
 Presently, the door opens slowly, and a stealthy 
 footstep approaches the sofa. Dora does not hear — 
 is unconscious to all around, till a hand is laid upon 
 her bosom, and she dreams that someone is trying to 
 wrest her mother's portrait from her neck. 
 
 Then she awakes with a start ; and, opening her 
 eyes, sees an elderly woman bending over her, and 
 feels her hot breath upon her face. 
 
 “ Who are you ? ” she asks indignantly. “ How 
 dare you touch me.” 
 
 The woman does not reply, but gazes fixedly at the 
 girl. 
 
 All at once, a light breaks in upon Dora. This is 
 the nurse who betrayed her master's trust. This is 
 the creature who had thrust them all into their present 
 false position. As this flashes quickly through her 
 mind, she raises herself on her pillow, and, grasping the 
 18 
 
274 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 miniature firmly with one hand, she pushes the un- 
 welcome visitor away with the other. 
 
 “ I know who you are now,” she cried breathlessly. 
 “ You are Anne Dane.” 
 
 “ And what if I am,” replied the woman, with a 
 sneer. “ Who are you ? ” 
 
 “ I ? ” Dora looked at her with reproachful eyes. 
 “ I am the poor little infant you left to perish on 
 board the Cimbria .” 
 
 “ You rave ! ” cried Anne, her voice growing hoarse 
 and loud in her anger. “ My master’s child was my 
 only care. I saved her. That was all I could be 
 expected to do.” 
 
 “ And that you did not do. You know, and Madge 
 Neil knows, that I am Sylvia Atherstone, whilst the 
 child you saved from the wreck was Dorothy Neil.” 
 
 Anne became livid with passion, and she raised 
 her hand as though to strike the girl before her. But 
 Dora shrank away with a cry, and the woman let her 
 arm fall once more to her side. 
 
 “ If you say that again,” she hissed, “ I might — I am 
 sure I would kill you.” 
 
 “ No, no,” said Dora, recovering quickly from her 
 fright; “you are not wicked enough for that, bad as 
 you are. But you cannot deny my statement. You 
 know it is true. Now confess — is it not exactly as 
 I say ? Am I not Sir Eustace Atherstone’s grand- 
 daughter, and is this not the portrait of my mother ? ” 
 
 Anne glared at her fiercely, and tried to snatch the 
 miniature from her hand. 
 
AT BAY 
 
 “ You lie,” she cried. “ You and your sister have 
 trumped up this story. But no one will ever believe 
 it ; and if you even hint at such a thing, Sir Eustace 
 will drive you from his door.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so. But now confess, Anne Dane, 
 am I not the real Sylvia Atherstone ? And do 
 you not feel bound to acknowledge here, between 
 ourselves, that the little girl you placed in Sir 
 Eustace Atherstone's arms was not his grand- 
 daughter, but the child of a stranger, and Madge 
 Neil's sister ? ” 
 
 “ I will confess nothing.” 
 
 The woman's words were frozen on her lips ; she 
 trembled in every limb. For there in the doorway, 
 her face white as marble, her eyes full of wild terror, 
 stood her young mistress. 
 
 Sylvia clung to the curtain that separated her room 
 from Dora's, as though afraid to fall. She did not 
 speak, but looked from one to the other, with an 
 expression of intense agony. 
 
 Dora covered her face with her hands, and uttered 
 an exclamation of dismay. Anne turned away, and 
 seemed about to leave the room. 
 
 But Sylvia waved her back. Trembling violently, 
 the woman obeyed, and stood in silent anger before 
 the suffering girl. 
 
 “ Anne Dane, is this statement true ? " 
 
 Sylvia's voice was low and hoarse, her words 
 scarcely audible ; but they seemed to burn into the 
 brains of those who heard them. Anne did not reply ; 
 
276 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 her eyes were fixed upon the ground ; she knew not 
 what to answer. 
 
 “ Speak ! Is this story an invention ? ” insisted 
 her mistress ; “ or is it true ? Is she Sylvia 
 Atherstone, or am I ? ” 
 
 Anne laughed wildly. 
 
 “ My dear Miss Sylvia,” she cried, recovering her 
 self-possession, “ can you believe such nonsense for an 
 instant ? This girl and her sister have made up this 
 story between them. Look how ashamed she is. 
 
 Try her, ask her to swear to the truth of it, and you 
 will see that she dare not.” 
 
 Dora shivered ; she could not speak. She would 
 not destroy her dear friend’s happiness ; and yet she 
 could not tell a lie : so she gazed steadily at the fire 
 and uttered not a single word. 
 
 Sylvia gazed at her longingly. Oh, if she would 
 only look up and say that it was all untrue ! If she, 
 herself, could awake and find that it was only a 
 dream ! But, alas, she was not asleep. And there 
 she stood, with this hateful story torturing her mind 
 and filling her heart with sorrow. 
 
 “ I do not believe that either Madge or Dora 
 would willingly wrong me,” she said sadly. “ They 
 would be incapable of inventing such a lie as this 
 would be, were it not true.” 
 
 “ Of course,” cried Anne, “ they would not do such 
 a thing, for I have heard they are both as good 
 as gold. But probably poor Madge’s head was 
 turned the night of the wreck (it was an awful 
 
AT BAY 
 
 277 
 
 experience), and she fancied her sister went in the 
 boat along with me. That’s just what it is, Miss 
 Sylvia ; and this girl, who was an infant at the time, 
 naturally knows nothing about it, but believes what 
 she has been told.” 
 
 Sylvia watched Anne closely. But the woman’s 
 countenance w 7 as inscrutable. She looked perfectly 
 honest ; all her nervousness had disappeared, and she 
 talked with the greatest coolness and decision. 
 
 “ I wish I could believe you,” said Sylvia, sighing. 
 “ But I can’t, and yet ” — 
 
 “ But you must,” she cried eagerly. “ What I tell 
 you is true. You must forget all that you have heard 
 this girl say. It was nonsense. So please forget it.” 
 
 “ Yes,” — Dora clasped her hands and looked 
 imploringly at Sylvia, — “ forget it — forget it. Oh, my 
 darling, I was so determined not to speak ! And had 
 I known you were there, I would not have spoken. I 
 would not pain you for the world.” 
 
 And, bowing her head, she burst into an agony of 
 weeping. Sylvia knelt by her sofa and put her arms 
 round her. 
 
 “ Dearest, I know that. And for that reason I 
 cannot imagine that you would have said what I heard 
 you say to Anne, unless you believed it to be true.” 
 
 “ Yes — I — that is ” — stammered Dora. “ But pray 
 do not think about it. I never, never would have 
 spoken, only that woman made me forget my resolu- 
 tions, and filled me with rage and indignation by 
 trying 
 
278 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Anne made an angry sign, and Dora paused 
 abruptly. 
 
 “Well, dear,” questioned Sylvia, “what did she try 
 to do ? ” 
 
 “Never mind, dearest,” replied Dora, laying her 
 cheek caressingly against Sylvia’s. “ I only spoke 
 because I thought we were alone. And, believe me, 
 you are now Sylvia Atherstone. All the world knows 
 you as such, and I am content to remain your friend, 
 Dorothy Neil. Put everything else out of your head. 
 But — oh ! — I feel — strange. Sylvia — where are 
 you ? ” 
 
 And with a little sigh, Dora fainted away. 
 
 Sylvia laid her back tenderly on her pillow, and, 
 opening the window, let in some fresh air. 
 
 “ Poor darling, this scene has tried her sorely,” she 
 murmured, as she fanned her gently. “ Poor dear 
 little Dora ! ” 
 
 And as she bent lovingly over the unconscious girl, 
 Anne Dane darted an angry glance at her, and slipped 
 unnoticed from the room. 
 
 At last Dora opened her eyes, and looked wildly 
 round. 
 
 “ Oh,” she cried, grasping Sylvia’s hand, “ are you 
 there ? I thought, I believed you had gone, and that 
 you hated me now.” 
 
 “ My darling, why should I hate you ? If your 
 story is true, ’tis you who should hate me.” 
 
 “ No, no. You have done no harm. But I, like a 
 traitor, have crept into your home, and into your love, 
 
AT BAY 
 
 279 
 
 and then have destroyed your happiness and peace. 
 Forgive me, Sylvia, forgive me ! ” 
 
 And, sobbing convulsively, Dora hid her face in her 
 pillow. 
 
 “ Dora, you must not make yourself ill again. Pray 
 be calm, dearest/' said Sylvia soothingly. “ You have 
 not destroyed my happiness, although you have 
 disturbed my peace. But it is right that this story 
 should be made known and thoroughly sifted. You 
 and Madge should have told us sooner. Grandpapa ” 
 — her voice broke a little, her lips trembled — “ must 
 hear it at once, and make all necessary inquiries.” 
 
 “ Sylvia — oh, do not tell him! If you only knew 
 how anxious I — we have been to keep it from him — 
 from you.” 
 
 “And in that you were wrong. But now, let us 
 say no more about this matter at present. You are 
 tired. You must try to get some rest.” 
 
 Sylvia rang the bell, and Desiree appeared. 
 
 “ Miss Neil wishes to go to bed,” she said. “ Please 
 see that her room is ready.” 
 
 “ Sylvia,” whispered Dora, as the maid went into 
 the adjoining chamber, “ tell me that you forgive me 
 — that I — that you love me still.” 
 
 “ My darling ! ” 
 
 Sylvia clasped her in her arms, and kissed her 
 tenderly on lips and brow. 
 
 “ There is nothing to forgive, Dora. It is not your 
 fault. And I love you as dearly as ever.” 
 
CHAPTEK XXV 
 
 DO THEY SPEAK THE TRUTH ? 
 
 Some two hours later Sylvia sat in the library, at her 
 grandfather’s feet. Her face was pale and sad, her 
 eyes red with weeping. In Doras presence, lest her 
 sorrows should cause the girl pain, she had made a 
 violent effort to appear calm and unconcerned. 
 
 But once away from this restraining influence, the 
 full horror of the situation seized her, and her soul 
 was torn with grief and alarm. 
 
 Sylvia had never been vain of her personal attractions. 
 But she was proud, though almost unconsciously so — 
 proud of her noble family, her aristocratic name, her 
 ancient lineage. It pleased her to remember that she 
 was Sir Eustace Atherstone’s grand-daughter ; and she 
 felt a just pride in the courtly old gentleman, whom 
 she loved with an absorbing affection. And so, as she 
 left Doras room, this cruel story of the wreck stand- 
 ing out in all its hideous reality before her mind, the 
 thought that she must fall from her high estate, that 
 henceforth she would have no right to the name she 
 bore, filled her with anguish. 
 
 In the solitude of her pretty boudoir she wrestled 
 
DO THEY SPEAK THE TRUTH ? 
 
 28 t 
 
 long and fiercely with her grief. She felt no anger 
 against Dora or Madge. But the recollection of Anne 
 Dane’s deceitful conduct enraged and embittered her. 
 
 “ But she denied the story. It may be false after 
 all,” she cried. “ And yet — oh, my God ! I fear, I fear 
 it must be true ; and if it is, I must leave my home, 
 my name, my father, grandfather, Summerlands, and 
 become poor, dependent Dorothy Neil. Oh, it is cruel 
 — cruel ! ” 
 
 And, overcome with misery, Sylvia flung herself 
 weeping upon her bed. 
 
 “ But it must be proved.” She started up. 
 “ Grandpapa shall know all ; and then it must be 
 proved.” 
 
 And without a thought as to her tear-stained face 
 and tumbled hair, Sylvia rushed from her room, and, 
 entering the library, flung her arms round her grand- 
 father’s neck, and there, pressed close to his heart, she 
 sobbed out the whole sad story. 
 
 “ I do not believe one word of this ! ” he cried 
 indignantly, when she had finished, — “ not for an 
 instant. It is nonsense — a gross lie invented.” 
 
 “ But, grandpapa, you forget who tells the story — 
 Dora,” 
 
 He paled slightly. 
 
 “ True, dearest. Dora is too good, too sweet, too — 
 But, my love, I cannot, I will not believe it.” 
 
 “ Alas ! ” she said mournfully ; “ it is not enough to 
 say that we do not believe it. Either it is true or 
 false. But to prove one or the other, we must make 
 
282 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 inquiries, find out everything we can, and have it 
 settled finally at once.” 
 
 “ You are right, darling. It must not he said that 
 we were afraid to face the truth. A story like this 
 is sure to get noised abroad, sooner or later. So at 
 the very first we must stamp it as false.” 
 
 “ Yes, hut how, grandpapa ? ” 
 
 “ You shall see, pet.” He rang the bell. “ And 
 now, do not weep any more, sweet Sylvia. We shall 
 soon learn without doubt that this story is an absurd 
 fabrication.” 
 
 The footman appeared at the door. 
 
 “ Send Anne Dane here at once,” said Sir Eustace. 
 
 “ Ah ! you are going to question her,” cried Sylvia. 
 “ But Anne is unsatisfactory, grandpapa. She ” — 
 
 “ If you please, Sir Eustace,” said the servant, coming 
 into the room again, “Anne Dane is not in the house.” 
 “ Not in the house ? ” 
 
 “ No, Sir Eustace.” 
 
 “ Have you looked in her room, John ? ” asked 
 Sylvia. “ She must be there.” 
 
 “ No, miss, she is not.” 
 
 “ She cannot be far off,” cried his young mistress 
 impatiently. “ I saw her in Miss Neil’s room about 
 an hour and a half ago.” 
 
 “ Yes, miss. But she went away since then.” 
 
 Sylvia sprang to her feet. 
 
 “Went away? Do you mean to say that she has 
 left Summerlands ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, Miss Atherstone. About an hour ago one 
 
DO THEY STEAK THE TRUTH ? 
 
 283 
 
 of the housemaids met her going down the back stairs 
 with a carpet-bag in her hand. She was surprised, as 
 she knew Anne had only just arrived. So she asked 
 her where she was going. She seemed angry, and 
 would not answer at first, but passed on. Then she 
 suddenly turned back and said, ‘ I am going for a long 
 holiday. Miss Sylvia does not want me at present, 
 so I am going for a holiday/ And she went on in a 
 great hurry.” 
 
 “That will do, John; you may go.” 
 
 Sir Eustace spoke calmly. There was not a tremor 
 in his voice. But he was very pale. And as the 
 servant withdrew, he sank back in his chair with a 
 deep groan. 
 
 A great terror had entered his mind. This woman’s 
 flight looked like guilt, and the horrible thought that 
 this might after all be true forced itself upon him, 
 notwithstanding his ardent longing to believe the 
 contrary. 
 
 “ Grandpapa ! ” cried Sylvia in a tone of anguish. 
 “ Oh, my darling, I see you think as I do. Anne 
 has run away, because — because she dared not face 
 the truth. Dora’s story is true, and I am not your 
 grand-daughter, not Sylvia Atherstone after all.” 
 
 Sir Eustace took her in his arms, and, pressing her 
 to his heart, kissed her long and passionately. 
 
 “ You are my child, my daughter, my darling,” he 
 cried. “ Nothing can change our love, Sylvia, after 
 these long years. And even should they prove that 
 you are not my son’s daughter, what matter ? You 
 
284 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 will only be mine all the more — the child of my old 
 age, my own sweet Sylvia.” ' 
 
 “Nothing could change our love. Oh no,” she 
 answered, clinging to him. “ But I should then have 
 no right to that name, no right to call you grandpapa. 
 In your house, where I have reigned as mistress, I 
 should have no right to remain. If Dora is your 
 grand-daughter, she must take my place.” 
 
 “ My darling, such a change must never be allowed,” 
 he cried fiercely. “You are my grand-daughter, I will 
 have no other. I absolutely refuse to believe this 
 story. Let these girls prove it if they can.” 
 
 “ J ustice must be done, grandpapa. I could not be 
 happy or enjoy my life of luxury as mistress of your 
 house, unless I felt perfectly certain that I had a right 
 to do so.” 
 
 “ You have that right. I give it to you. No one 
 shall take it from you whilst I live. It is not likely 
 that I am going to depose you, my beautiful darling, 
 for the sake of a pale-faced, fair-haired girl, who 
 chooses to spring up without any proof, and say that 
 she is my son's daughter. Oh no, Sylvia, the thing is 
 impossible ! ” 
 
 “ I wish it were, dear. But when one comes to 
 think of it, there is strong evidence in favour of this 
 story. Do you remember, grandpapa, how my father 
 always spoke of his wife as fair ; how he mentioned 
 frequently the miniature that his child wore round 
 her neck ; and how he mourned that it had been lost, 
 the night the Cimbria was wrecked ? ” 
 
DO THEY SPEAK THE TRUTH 1 285 
 
 “ Yes ; but what has that got to do with this story ? ” 
 “ Much. Dora is fair, and round her neck she 
 wears the miniature of a beautiful fair woman, her 
 mother. The resemblance between Dora and the 
 portrait is striking.” 
 
 “ But Mrs. Neil may have been fair. Because my 
 son’s wife was fair, it does not follow that the portrait 
 of any golden-haired woman should be thought to be 
 her likeness. That Dora should wear a miniature of 
 her mother, given to her by her father, is a coincidence, 
 and one that has given Madge apparently a strong, a 
 rather startling proof. But, of course, you had told 
 them about the one lost from your neck on that 
 miserable night, and so, perhaps, suggested the 
 whole story.” 
 
 “ Yes. I have often talked about it to Dora, and 
 examined hers. It is lovely, and was done in England 
 before her mother’s marriage, I think. But indeed, 
 grandpapa, that did not make the girls invent this 
 story, I am sure.” 
 
 “ It is hard to say — very hard.” 
 
 “ I cannot believe them capable of doing anything 
 so cruel, merely to torment and annoy us. We have 
 always been kind to them. You have been extraor- 
 dinarily generous, and they both love you dearly. 
 Dora has been my dearest friend, and I cannot think 
 that she would turn round maliciously and destroy 
 my peace. She believes this story to be true, I am 
 positive, whether it is or not. And you must 
 remember, that she did not tell it to me or to you, but, 
 
286 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 believing herself alone with Anne Dane, she charged 
 her with deceiving you, and betraying her trust.” 
 
 “You argue well, dearest. One would think you 
 wished to prove them right.” 
 
 “ God knows I don’t ! ” she cried, with streaming 
 eyes. “ It would be, indeed, a terrible discovery to 
 find that I was only poor Dorothy Neil. I, who was 
 so proud of my position, my name, to become a nobody, 
 a dependant. Oh, grandpapa, grandpapa, I could not 
 bear it ! ” 
 
 “ Nor I, my love. Such a discovery would kill me.” 
 
 After this they both relapsed into silence. Their 
 hearts were too full for words. Sylvia sat on the floor, 
 her head upon her grandfather’s knee, weeping 
 bitterly. His hand was laid caressingly on the bright 
 chestnut hair, and his eyes were fixed upon the sorrow- 
 ing girl with a look of intense sympathy and affection. 
 
 The door opened, and a footman entered. 
 
 “ A telegram, Sir Eustace.” 
 
 The old man took the envelope from the salver, 
 and laid it beside him on the table. 
 
 “ Is there no answer, Sir Eustace '? ” 
 
 “ No ; you may go.” 
 
 John bowed. And as he left the room, he wondered 
 greatly. His master seemed strange, did not even 
 open his telegram. And Miss Atherstone was weeping 
 — he was sure of that. What could it all mean ? He 
 must consult his friends. So off he hurried to discuss 
 the matter in the servants’ hall. 
 
 Meanwhile, Sir Eustace did not look at the telegram. 
 
DO THEY SPEAK THE TRUTH ? 
 
 287 
 
 and seemed to have forgotten its existence. He and 
 Sylvia sat on as before, their heads bent forward in 
 sorrow, their minds full of the one terrible thought. 
 
 But presently the girl raised her eyes, heavy with 
 weeping, and, seeing the grief in her grandfather's 
 whole look and bearing, her conscience smote her. 
 
 “ Were I more cheerful, did I take this trial in a 
 proper spirit, he would not feel it so bitterly," she 
 reflected. “ I am selfish in my sorrow, and by my 
 conduct increase his agony. But I must rouse myself, 
 and do what I can to distract his thoughts." 
 
 Then she rose to her feet, and, looking at the 
 clock on the mantelpiece, uttered an exclamation of 
 surprise. 
 
 “ Why, grandpapa, it is time to dress for dinner. 
 I had no idea it was so late. Come, dearest, try and 
 forget this unpleasant business for the present. Treat 
 it as a nightmare. I am determined to do so." 
 
 Sir Eustace groaned and shook his head. 
 
 “ Oh yes, you can. You must. And I declare," 
 she cried, catching sight of the yellow-backed envelope, 
 “ here is an unopened telegram. My dear grandpapa, 
 this may be an important message from Anne Dane." 
 
 “What, my child, if it were ? Let me see." And 
 with trembling fingers he seized the envelope and 
 tore it open. 
 
 “No," he said regretfully, “it is not from Anne. 
 But," as his eyes fell upon the signature, “ it is from 
 your father, Sylvia — my son George. My poor 
 George, to return at such a moment ! To find after 
 
288 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 all these years that we have been deceived — that 
 our darling is not — Good heavens ! it is too terrible 
 to think of” And, bowing his head upon his hands, 
 he sobbed aloud. 
 
 Sylvia did not speak. Her colour went and came. 
 The expressions of her face were varied. She seemed 
 doubtful, saddened by her great trouble, yet pleased 
 to hear of her father’s return, anxious to comfort the 
 old man, but fearful lest her words should increase 
 his sorrow. 
 
 “Well,” he said, looking up, “have you nothing 
 to say, child ? Are you not appalled at the thought 
 of your father’s disappointment ? ” 
 
 “ Grandpapa,” she answered gravely, “ if your son 
 is my father, there will be no disappointment. And 
 if he is proved to be Dora’s, it can make little differ- 
 ence to him.” 
 
 “ Sylvia ! ” His voice was full of reproach. 
 
 “ Well, dear, what I say is true. To you, to me, 
 the truth of this story is important. But to George 
 Atherstone it will make no difference, one way or the 
 other. Seventeen years ago he parted from his child, 
 an infant, scarcely able to lisp the word father. That 
 baby has grown up away from him, cared for by 
 others, loved by others. Then what is she to him 
 but a name ? What can it matter whether she be 
 dark or fair, whether Dora or I bear that name ? 
 Whichever is presented to him, he will take to his 
 heart, and love as his daughter.” 
 
 “ You speak bitterly, Sylvia. Surely my son must 
 
DO THEY SPEAK THE TRUTH ? 289 
 
 feel more affection than you seem to think for his 
 own child ? ” 
 
 “ I did not wish to speak bitterly, grandpapa, but 
 only to make you see things in their proper light,” 
 she said gently. “ When does he come home ? ” 
 
 “ The day after to-morrow. He arrived in London 
 this morning, just in time to find us gone. He will 
 travel down here on Wednesday.” 
 
 “ Very well. We shall be ready to receive him 
 and welcome him. And now, grandpapa, I have made 
 up my mind as to what is to happen. My father, 
 your son, shall decide my fate. He shall declare 
 which is his child, Dora or I.” 
 
 “ But, my darling, think. He has not seen you for 
 seventeen years, not even your photograph. All were 
 lost — strangely lost. So how can he decide ? ” 
 
 “ Easily. If the miniature that Dora wears is the 
 portrait of his wife, he will recognise it. If it is not, 
 our doubts shall be set at rest for ever. For Dora 
 has always told me it was the likeness of her 
 mother.” 
 
 “ Your plan seems to me a little wild, a little vague, 
 dearest. However, I suppose I must submit to your 
 will. But, remember, whatever turns up, you are 
 always Sylvia, my best beloved child. Nothing but 
 death shall separate us two — not even marriage, my 
 pretty pet.” 
 
 “ No, grandpapa,” she said, smiling and blushing, 
 “ not even marriage. Paul will be the best and most 
 devoted of sons.” 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ God bless you, darling ! And now leave me alone. 
 I have some work to do, that may keep me far into 
 the night. ,, 
 
 “But your dinner, grandpapa? Won’t you come 
 to dinner ? ” 
 
 “ No, dearest ; I have no appetite. Nor have you, 
 I fancy; dinner would be a farce. Take something 
 light and go to bed.” 
 
 “ Very well, grandpapa. Good-night.” He drew 
 her head upon his breast, and held it there for some 
 minutes. 
 
 “ Good-night, my darling, and do not fret. What- 
 ever happens, our love is strong. So long as we have 
 one another, the rest of the world is of but small 
 value in my eyes.” 
 
 And then, with a loving kiss, he let her go. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 SIR EUSTACE IS FORCED TO BELIEVE 
 
 When Madge arrived at Summerlands the next evening, 
 she was surprised to learn that, notwithstanding all 
 the precautions that had been taken by her and Dora, 
 the true story of the shipwreck had leaked out. The 
 news filled her with joy. The dream of her life was 
 now certain to be realised. Eor years she had hoped 
 and planned for the restoration of her adopted sister 
 to her proper position in the world. But lately this 
 seemed impossible. There were so many strong 
 reasons for keeping the true state of affairs a secret. 
 The girl’s own actions and wishes had made it 
 necessary to do so. When lo ! without intending it, 
 she herself had revealed all ; and the burden of 
 proving her right to the name of Atlierstone was 
 taken off Madge’s shoulders. 
 
 To Dora the thought of becoming the rich Miss 
 Atherstone gave little pleasure. She could not free 
 herself from a sense of guilt, in having stolen into 
 Summerlands as a friend, and meanly disturbed the 
 peace and happiness of her kind benefactor. 
 
 Sir Eustace she had not seen since the terrible 
 
 291 
 
292 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 revelation had been made known to him, and she 
 could not but feel that through it she had lost his 
 affection for ever. This pained her deeply, for she 
 loved the old man, and had hoped to become his 
 grand-daughter in reality as well as in name. 
 
 Sylvia proved herself a marvel of goodness. She 
 came to see Dora frequently, tempted her to eat by 
 sending every dainty she could think of, talked 
 brightly of the marked improvement in the girl’s 
 health, and the good the air of Summerlands was 
 likely to do her. But to the unhappy scene of the 
 evening before she never alluded. She was kind as 
 ever, taking an affectionate interest in her guest, and 
 providing in every way for her comfort. But, never- 
 theless, there was a difference, an indescribable some- 
 thing in her manner, that grieved poor sensitive Dora 
 and caused her great sorrow. 
 
 Madge did her best to console her, telling her that 
 it was but natural. Sylvia was only human, and 
 could not help feeling such a threatened change in 
 her life intensely. 
 
 But Dora refused to be comforted, and Madge soon 
 found it impossible to rouse her drooping spirits. 
 
 Late that evening Sir Eustace sent for Madge, and 
 they remained closeted together for some time. 
 
 During this interview Dora was restless and excited. 
 She could not lie still upon her sofa, but paced 
 hurriedly up and down her room. 
 
 “ Well,” she cried breathlessly, as Madge returned, 
 “ does he hate us ? Does he detest my name ? ” 
 
SIR EUSTACE IS FORCED TO BELIEVE 293 
 
 “No, dear,” said Madge soothingly, and drawing 
 the girl down upon the couch beside her. “ He is 
 sad — pained. But he is too noble to hate you for 
 
 what you cannot help.” 
 
 “ Does he believe us, then ? ” 
 
 “ Ho. He refuses to believe my story — says I 
 was driven mad by the terror of the shipwreck, and 
 imagined that you were Sylvia and Sylvia you.” 
 
 “ Such nonsense ! But what does he think of Anne 
 Dane’s flight ? ” 
 
 “ That has shaken his faith a little, I can see. 
 But he will not acknowledge it. He says she was 
 offended by Sylvia’s manner, and so on.” 
 
 “Then what is to be done? We cannot stay here 
 now,” said Dora sadly. “ And we can no longer live 
 upon Sir Eustace Atherstone’s bounty. We must 
 return to our poverty, Madge.” 
 
 “ I think not, darling.” 
 
 Dora looked at her in amazement. Madge spoke 
 so brightly, her face wore such an expression of happy 
 content, that the girl was filled with wonder. 
 
 “ I do not understand you,” she said, with some 
 irritation. “ You used to have spirit, a feeling of 
 pride. But now ” — 
 
 Madge laughed softly, and kissed the pouting lips. 
 “My darling, you must not be cross with your 
 poor Madge. And do not blame her till you know 
 all. We — at least you — shall not go back to poverty, 
 but to a life of comfort and luxury with your father.” 
 
 “ My father ? Oh, Madge ! ” 
 
294 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Yes, darling, with your father. Sir Eustace does 
 not believe our story, does not wish to believe it, poor 
 old man. But he has consented, at Sylvia’s suggestion, 
 that your father is to decide the matter. So no wonder 
 I look happy. No wonder I say you shall not return 
 to poverty. He is to reach this to-morrow, and then 
 very soon my great ambition will be achieved, and 
 you, my pet, will be restored to your proper place in 
 the world.” 
 
 “ Yes. But he may not know me.” 
 
 “ Not know you ? Of course he will know you. 
 You are little changed, Dora, and the living image of 
 his dead wife.” 
 
 “ Poor Sylvia ! ” murmured Dora. “ I wish my 
 happiness had not to be bought at the terrible price of 
 her suffering.” 
 
 “ Do not fret about her, dearest. She will feel the 
 change at first, of course. But she has a fine, a noble 
 character, and will soon recover from the blow. Sir 
 Eustace loves her tenderly. He is rich, and will treat 
 her in every respect as his adopted daughter.” 
 
 “ If I thought that, I could really feel happy,” said 
 Dora, smiling, “ and forgive myself for having in an 
 unguarded moment betrayed this secret.” 
 
 “ Dearest, sooner or later this secret must have been 
 told. Lady Ashfield was most anxious to have it 
 announced to the world. No one on earth could have 
 persuaded her to keep it quiet, had her son persisted 
 in wishing to marry you.” 
 
 “ And he would surely have done that,” said Dora, 
 
SIR EUSTACE IS FORCED TO BELIEVE 295 
 
 blushing deeply. “ He is too true, and loves me too 
 dearly, not to persist.” 
 
 “Yes, darling, I know. Therefore you need not 
 blame yourself. Ho matter what you had done or 
 said, this secret was certain to have slipped out. And 
 I am thankful that it has done so now, just as your 
 father comes home.” 
 
 “ But if he should not know me ? If he should 
 think Sylvia is his daughter ? ” 
 
 “ Then, dearest,” said Madge decidedly, “ I would 
 believe Sir Eustace’s version of the story, and say that 
 the terror of the wreck had turned my brain.” 
 
 The next morning Madge dressed Dora in a pretty 
 pale blue gown, arranged her golden hair in simple 
 coils round her little head, and wrapped a soft white 
 shawl about her shoulders. 
 
 The two girls sat together in Dora’s sitting-room, 
 working and reading, and no one but Desiree came to 
 them through the day. 
 
 At four o’clock Madge rose up and laid aside her 
 embroidery. 
 
 “ It is time, darling,” she said ; and, raising Dora 
 from the sofa, she drew her arm within her own and 
 led her slowly down the broad oak staircase to the 
 library. 
 
 Dora trembled in every limb, and looked nervously 
 around as she entered the room. But there was no 
 one there, and she breathed more freely. 
 
 “ I am glad they have not come yet. Oh, Madge, 
 I feel so frightened, so ” — 
 
296 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ My pet, you must be courageous,” said Madge, a 
 she made her sit down in a large arm-chair. ‘ There 
 is nothing to alarm you. It will all go off very quietly.” 
 
 “ I hope so. I hope so.” And Dora lay back with 
 a sigh. 
 
 Presently the door opened, and Sir Eustace came 
 in with Sylvia leaning on his arm. She was dressed 
 in pure white, a bunch of violets at her breast. She 
 looked very beautiful, tall, erect, and stately, and as 
 Dora looked at her, she felt her heart sink low 
 within her. 
 
 “ Who,” she thought, “ could look at us two and 
 not choose her ? So, perhaps, after all, this meeting 
 may be a failure for me, and Sylvia will be left 
 as she is. I could almost hope so — only — Sir 
 
 Eustace ! ” 
 
 He turned as she called him, and looked at her 
 inquiringly. Dora started ; she was shocked at the 
 change in him. He was pale and worn, his eyes 
 were sunk in his head, and his mouth was set in stern, 
 harsh lines. 
 
 “ Forgive me,” faltered Dora ; “ oh, say you forgive 
 me!” 
 
 Sylvia stooped and kissed her ; then looked up 
 appealingly at Sir Eustace. 
 
 “ Forgive her, grandpapa,” she whispered. “ Speak 
 to her kindly. It is not her fault.” 
 
 “ My dear, of course. I understand perfectly,” he 
 replied. “ I have nothing to forgive.” And he 
 turned away abruptly. 
 
SIR EUSTACE IS FORCED TO BELIEVE 297 
 
 Dora sighed heavily, and grasped Madge's hand 
 tightly within her own. Here was a friend who 
 would never desert her, no matter what her fate 
 might be. Madge pressed her lips upon the little 
 thin fingers, and said in a low voice, “ Courage." 
 
 Sylvia looked at them sadly, and followed Sir 
 Eustace to the other side of the room. 
 
 An unpleasant silence fell upon them all, broken 
 only by the ticking of the clock upon the mantel- 
 piece. Sir Eustace had expected his son to arrive at 
 half-past four, but it was now five, and he had not 
 yet appeared. The old man grew impatient. This 
 waiting was terrible. Would he never come ? 
 
 But suddenly the sound of carriage wheels was 
 heard in the avenue. Sylvia grew pale as marble, and 
 leaned heavily against the bookcase. Dora looked at 
 her longingly, and fell back trembling in her chair. 
 
 “ This ordeal will soon be at an end, my sweet 
 Sylvia," whispered Sir Eustace, with quivering lips. 
 “ In a few moments you will be in your fathers 
 arms." 
 
 And he tried to walk steadily forward as he heard 
 the hall-door opening to admit his son. But his 
 anxiety was too great, his feeling too intense ; and, 
 covering his face with his hands, he sank helpless on 
 the sofa. 
 
 Madge alone was cool and self - possessed. She 
 stood by Dora’s side, a look of triumphant happiness 
 in her eyes, her cheeks glowing with the flush of 
 certain victory. 
 
298 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 The sound of hurrying feet ; the opening and 
 shutting of doors ; a cheerful voice, loud, clear, and 
 ringing, falls on their ears, and George Atherstone, 
 looking much aged since we last saw him, and some- 
 what bronzed from his long sea-journey, enters the 
 library and grasps his father by the hand. 
 
 “ Thank God, I am home safe at last ! ” he cries 
 heartily. “ It is a lifetime since we parted, father. 
 I am glad to see you once more. And my daughter ? 
 Shall I know her, I wonder, the little one that I 
 have deserted so long ? ” 
 
 He looks anxiously round the room. He passes, 
 without recognition, beautiful Sylvia, with her rich 
 chestnut hair and dark, lustrous eyes, glances at 
 Madge, and gives a slight start. She puzzles him — 
 reminds him of someone. But it is not her he seeks. 
 At last he sees Dora, white and fragile, looking up at 
 him with a yearning, pleading expression, and in an 
 instant he is by her side. 
 
 “ My sweet child ! My poor deserted bairn ! ” he 
 sobs, taking her in his arms and kissing her over and 
 over again. “ Oh, my Sylvia, how like your mother 
 you are ! how like my dear, dear wife ! ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said the girl softly ; “ so Madge always told 
 me. And see, I have never parted from this; I have 
 always kept it, father.” 
 
 And, drawing out the miniature of her dead mother, 
 she held it towards him. 
 
 “ My darling ! ” He kissed her again, and gazed at 
 her fondly. “ I am glad you have it still, for it is 
 
SIR EUSTACE IS FORCED TO BELIEVE 299 
 
 like her — and you. But I thought it was lost — lost 
 in that terrible wreck ? ” 
 
 “ No, no, it was always round my neck/' 
 
 “ Then I must have misunderstood my fathers 
 letters,” he said, looking puzzled, “ for I thought he 
 told me — However, that does not matter now. And 
 you,” giving his hand to Madge, “ are my dear old 
 friend’s eldest daughter, Madge ? And this,” glancing 
 with admiration at Sylvia, “ is, I am sure, the beautiful 
 baby, Dora? Well, my dear, I am more glad than I 
 can say to find that you were not drowned, as was at 
 first supposed. Thank God you too escaped that 
 fearful death ! ” Then he turned again to his child 
 and examined her closely, critically. He touched the 
 golden hair, lingered admiringly on the deep, pathetic 
 blue eyes, the sweet, tender mouth, and alabaster cheek. 
 But as his gaze wandered over her figure, and he 
 began to realise that she was weak and an invalid, he 
 uttered a faint cry, and looked reproachfully at his 
 father. 
 
 “ You told me she was tall and strong,” he cried in 
 a loud tone of keen disappointment. “ You described 
 her as — well, as you might have described Dorothy 
 Neil there. You never hinted that she was small and 
 fragile, a poor delicate little creature. Why did you 
 not prepare me for such a trouble ? Why did you 
 deceive me so terribly ? My darling is beautiful, 
 but, alas ! quite different from the splendid girl you 
 led me to suppose. What was your motive, father ? 
 Why have you so cruelly deceived me ? ” 
 
3 °° 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Sir Eustace stared at his son blankly. Then, 
 opening his lips and waving his hand, he murmured 
 “ Sylvia.” 
 
 And his voice was inaudible, and George knew not 
 what he meant. 
 
 “ George,” he whispered hoarsely, “ I ” — 
 
 Then he staggered forward, uttered a deep groan, 
 aud fell heavily to the ground. 
 
 “ Grandpapa, grandpapa ! ” cried Sylvia, flinging her- 
 self on her knees by his side. “ Oh, my poor tender- 
 hearted darling, this cruel shock has killed you ! ” 
 
 But George Atherstone thrust her away, and with 
 the help of the servants carried his father up the 
 stairs, and laid him on the bed in his own room. 
 
 “ Had I known my return, after all these years 
 would have caused you such a shock, I would have 
 stayed away for ever,” he murmured, as he bent 
 tenderly over the unconscious man. “ But I never 
 thought such a thing possible — never.” 
 
 Then, pressing a loving kiss upon the marble brow, 
 he stole away, leaving Sir Eustace to the doctors. 
 
CHAPTER XXYII 
 
 SYLVIA GIVES WAY TO DESPAIR 
 
 Sir Eustace Atherstone never spoke again. 
 
 His heart had been seriously affected for some time, 
 said the great physician who had been his medical 
 attendant for years, The joy at seeing his son again 
 had doubtless been too much for him, and so he had 
 died. 
 
 The whole household was plunged in deep grief by 
 this sudden death. For Sir Eustace was beloved by 
 all. He had always been a kind master, not only 
 just, but unusually generous, to all those who served 
 him. 
 
 To George Atherstone his death was bitter disap- 
 pointment, and changed his home-coming from the 
 happy time he had always looked forward to into one 
 of misery and pain. So he wandered disconsolately 
 through the big house, or sat alone in the library 
 trying to read. He had net a single friend from 
 outside to comfort and condole with him, and every- 
 one within the place was absorbed in grief. 
 
 His little daughter lay upon a bed of pain, mind 
 
 and body torn with anguish at the horrible recollec- 
 
 801 
 
3°2 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 tion of that last terrible scene. Madge watched by 
 her bedside night and day ; and the other girl was 
 rarely to be seen. 
 
 “ The other girl/' — thus he called Sylvia, the 
 beautiful idol, so fondly loved and carefully guarded 
 by his dead father. But of this he knew nothing. 
 Not a whisper of such a thing had reached his ears. 
 And he had not the faintest idea that anything but 
 the emotion caused by seeing him had helped to 
 hasten the old man’s death. He took his place as 
 master of the house. All orders were given by him ; 
 and no one thought of troubling the afflicted girl 
 who had so long acted as mistress of the establish- 
 ment. The servants did not apply to her, as they 
 feared to disturb her in her grief. He did not 
 consult her, for the simple reason that he looked 
 upon her as a mere visitor, without right or power to 
 direct him. 
 
 And yet, as he stole into his father’s room from 
 time to time to gaze on that noble countenance, so 
 calm and placid in death, it did strike him as strange 
 that this girl was almost always to be found by the 
 old man’s bed. It annoyed him extremely to find her 
 thus taking the place of a loving daughter or an 
 affectionate wife. 
 
 The afternoon before the funeral he went upstairs, 
 carrying a cross of pure white flowers to lay upon the 
 dead man’s breast. As he entered the room, the 
 sound of someone sobbing fell upon his ear, and then 
 once more he beheld this girl kneeling by the bed. 
 
SYLVIA GIVES WAY TO DESPAIR 303 
 
 Her whole attitude was one of despair. Her head was 
 bent, her arms flung forward, and her slight frame 
 was shaken with convulsive weeping. 
 
 George Atherstone laid his cross reverently upon 
 his father's breast, then looked wonderingly at the 
 sorrowing girl. 
 
 “ Miss Neil,” he said gently. 
 
 She started as though she had been stung ; and 
 a cry escaped her lips. 
 
 “ I am sorry I frightened you,” he said. “ I thought 
 you heard me enter. But I must request you to come 
 away. The funeral is to-morrow. There are last 
 offices to perform. The men are coming ; you must 
 not stay.” 
 
 She looked at him in a dazed, uncertain manner, 
 then suddenly sprang to her feet, pressed her lips 
 passionately on those of the dead man, and staggered 
 blindly from the room. 
 
 Poor Sylvia ! — for so we shall still call her, although 
 he now knows she has no right to the name, — turned 
 away from the side of him who had been father, 
 grandfather, and friend ; shut out from the sight of 
 him she loved so well. Her heart was like to burst 
 with anguish. On that dreadful evening when he 
 had fallen dead at her feet, she had felt wild with 
 grief at the thought that he was gone ; that never 
 more should she hear his voice, or receive his caresses. 
 From that hour her mind had been absorbed in the 
 one unhappy truth — that he was dead, passed away 
 for ever. 
 
3 o4 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 But now, as George Atherstone coldly bade her 
 leave her place by her beloved dead, calling her by 
 that name that was henceforth to be her own, she 
 remembered suddenly all the misfortunes that had 
 come upon her. 
 
 “ He is gone/’ she wailed, pacing up and down her 
 room in frantic despair. “ Gone without a word, 
 leaving me a pauper, dependent upon George Ather- 
 stone or Madge. Oh, I cannot bear the thought — I 
 cannot bear the thought ! This house that was to 
 have been my own, those grounds, that park, all 
 gone, and I, the once courted and admired heiress, am 
 now poor, helpless Dorothy Neil. But nothing will 
 induce me to be a burden on anyone. I must look 
 for work, go out as a governess, do anything, rather 
 than live in a state of dependence. Oh, my poor 
 Paul, had you been in a better position, had you 
 worked during all those years wasted in folly and 
 idleness, you might have helped me now T . But, alas ! 
 that is impossible. A penniless wife would be but a 
 clog upon you, prevent you getting on. As the rich 
 Miss Atherstone, I was not allowed to marry you ; as 
 Dorothy Neil, without a penny of her own, I must 
 refuse to do so. Oh, grandpapa, grandpapa, why did 
 you leave me ? From your hands I’d have taken 
 anything. I’d have been your child, your companion. 
 But now this place, these walls, stifle me. I must go 
 out, and in the fresh air, away from the sight of this 
 dear, dear home, I may think more calmly, make up 
 my mind to something.” 
 
SYLVIA GIVES WAY TO DESPAIR 305 
 
 It was a pleasant day for a walk. There was the 
 softness of spring in the fresh, sweet air, and as Sylvia 
 passed down the avenue, she saw snowdrops and 
 crocuses lifting their delicate blossoms above the rich 
 brown moss that grew so luxuriantly under the fine 
 old beech trees. Primroses and violets were bloom- 
 ing in all the hedgerows. The woods had a slender 
 tinge of green from their dainty sprouting leaves, and 
 the far-off fields, full of the fast-growing crops, looked 
 fresh and brilliant under the deep blue sky. 
 
 “ All so peaceful, so beautiful,” murmured the girl 
 sadly ; “ and yet he, the master of all, is gone — never 
 to return. The beauty, the unchanging peace, seems 
 cruel, and fills me with pain.” 
 
 And she hurried along, anxious to shut out from 
 her sight, if possible, all the varied charms of the 
 lovely landscape. 
 
 At last she came on a wide, wild common, and 
 here the view suited her present mood to perfection. 
 The heather, which she had seen in the autumn rich 
 in deep purple hues, was now brown, without leaf or 
 flower. The bracken, then so green and soft, lay 
 withered and dry upon the ground, looking as though 
 it could never rise its head again in life and happiness 
 to heaven. 
 
 “ It is like my heart,” she thought, “ crushed and 
 dead, only it may revive with the summer sun, the 
 soft spring rains. My heart, alas ! never, never can ; ’* 
 and she shivered as a cold blast of wind came sweep- 
 ing across the moorland. 
 
 20 
 
3°6 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 She drew her cloak more closely round her, and 
 wandered in amongst the withered heather and dry 
 bracken. She felt utterly dreary and forsaken, and 
 went on aimlessly, heedless of time or distance. The 
 brightness of the day passed off ; the sky became a 
 leaden grey, the wind sharp and easterly. 
 
 As Sylvia crossed the heath, and came out again 
 upon the road, she stood for a moment in doubt. 
 She had come a long way from Summerlands, and 
 was not sure which turn to take. She glanced 
 anxiously about to see if there was anyone near who 
 could direct her, but not a creature was visible. A 
 grey mist had come down and hid the distance, and 
 she knew not what to do. 
 
 Suddenly footsteps were heard approaching, and 
 a young man came towards her along the road. He 
 was walking briskly, his head thrown well back, 
 stepping out triumphantly to Mendelssohn’s Wedding 
 March, which he hummed to himself in a rich, clear 
 baritone. 
 
 Sylvia’s heart gave a great plunge, and she felt 
 herself trembling from head to foot. 
 
 “Is it possible — can it be ? Paul ! ” 
 
 He looked round ; he was bewildered, astonished. 
 It was Sylvia’s voice ; and yet, he was many miles 
 from Summerlands. How could she be there ? The 
 song died upon his lips ; he turned wonderingly 
 towards the common. 
 
 “ How come you to be here, Paul ? Why are you 
 not in London ? ” she asked. 
 
SYLVIA GIVES WAY TO DESPAIR 307 
 
 And, as the slim figure came forward through the 
 mist, he knew that his ears had not deceived him, and 
 that it was really Sylvia who had spoken. 
 
 “ Because — oh, my dearest ! — my time of probation 
 is over. I have earned the right to tell you how 
 dearly I love you.” 
 
 And, catching her hand, he held it tightly clasped 
 within his own. 
 
 “ Thank God,” murmured Sylvia, “ I am not with- 
 out a friend ! There is still some one to love me in 
 this sad, sad world.” 
 
 He gazed at her in surprise and alarm. 
 
 “ Sylvia,” he said reproachfully, “ you should not 
 speak thus ; you, the adored, the idolised. Oh, my 
 love, if it were not for my strong belief in your 
 affection and truth, I would not dare to offer you my 
 poor heart, my home, so unworthy of you. But you 
 look ill, dearest — what is wrong ? Why are you so 
 far from Summerlands ? Does Sir Eustace know ” — 
 
 “ He is gone, Paul. My dear, kind grandfather is 
 gone.” 
 
 “ Gone — dead ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, dead. He fell suddenly at my feet, and 
 never spoke again.” 
 
 “ Good God ! how terrible ! ” 
 
 Paul raised his hat reverently, and drew Sylvia’s 
 hand within his arm. 
 
 “ Terrible indeed ! ” The girl shivered. “ So no 
 wonder I am ill and weary.” 
 
 “Ho wonder, dearest. But come home now.” 
 
3 o8 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ I have no home.” 
 
 “ Sylvia ! Has this death turned your brain ? Till 
 we marry, which, thank God, need not be long now, 
 the house which was your grandfather’s must be your 
 home. Since your father has not yet returned ” — 
 
 “ I have no father, no grandfather, no home,” she 
 cried passionately. “I am a pauper, a nobody. All 
 these years I have been an impostor, deceiving you, 
 the world, everyone. Oh, Paul, why was I born ? ” 
 
 “ My own love,” he said soothingly, “ you were 
 born for much good — to perfect my life, and make me 
 happy, and — and perhaps great. Your love has 
 encouraged me, Sylvia, fired my ambition, filled me 
 with good and noble thoughts. That alone is some- 
 thing to live for. But I do not understand you. 
 Something strange must have happened to make you 
 seem so wild — so distracted.” 
 
 “ Something ? Oh, Paul, would that I could wake 
 and find it all a dream — a horrible nightmare ! But 
 listen.” 
 
 And, sinking down upon the heather, she poured 
 forth the whole sad story from beginning to end. 
 
 “ Well, my darling,” he said when she had finished, 
 “ I am sorry for your sake, deeply grieved that you 
 should have such a disappointment as this must be ; 
 but, after all, what does it matter ? You loved Sir 
 Eustace, and spent many happy years in his company ; 
 he loved you dearly, devotedly, and you have a right 
 to mourn for him now that he is dead. But this dis- 
 covery, this secret of your birth, is not worth a sigh. 
 
SYLVIA GIVES WAY TO DESPAIR 309 
 
 Mr. Neil was a man of good family ; he was upright 
 and honest, though unfortunate in his affairs. His 
 wife was a lady. All this I know for a fact, and you 
 need never be ashamed of being their daughter/’ 
 
 “ But, Paul,” she cried impatiently, “ can you not 
 see the terrible difference this makes in my life ? I 
 am now a pauper, without money, without friends.” 
 
 “ My dearest,” he answered joyfully, “ you are now 
 what I often — selfishly, I admit — wished you to be, that 
 I might win you fearlessly without regret. I am not 
 rich, Sylvia, but I am going on. My picture was 
 accepted at the Academy, and sold before it left my 
 studio. I am full of strength and hope. And if the 
 home I offer you is inferior in many ways to Summer- 
 lands, it will be full of love and tender care. Speak, 
 darling — will you be my w 7 ife ? ” 
 
 Sylvia raised her head. The look of wild despair 
 had vanished. Her face shone with renewed happi- 
 ness as her eyes met his, full of trusting love and 
 gratitude. 
 
 “ Yes, Paul, when you please to marry me.” 
 
 “ My own,” he murmured, drawing her to his side, 
 “ that shall be as soon as you think fit. I obtained 
 Sir Eustace’s consent at our last interview. His 
 portrait was most successful, and he said that if my 
 principal picture were accepted at the Academy, I 
 might come down to Summerlands and ask you to 
 marry me. This makes me very happy now.” 
 
 “ Yes. But oh that he were here to bless our 
 marriage ! ” 
 
3io 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ I wish he were, dearest. But we must not indulge 
 in vain regrets. Come now, we must go on to 
 Summerlands. It is late, and you are very cold.” 
 
 “ He is to be buried to-morrow, Paul,” she cried, 
 with a sob. “ Let us go together and take a last look 
 at his dear face.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Paul. “ Come.” 
 
 And, drawing her arm within his own, he led her 
 away. They walked on over the dreary moorland 
 side by side. But neither spoke. Both kept silent 
 by the strength of a deep, overpowering emotion. 
 
 As they went up the avenue at Summerlands, they 
 met George Atherstone. He stopped, and, looking 
 sadly at Sylvia, said — 
 
 “ I have heard your story from Madge. I am 
 greatly pained, but trust that you will let me take 
 my father’s place, and make your home with my 
 daughter, who loves you very dearly.” 
 
 Sylvia’s eyes were full of tears, and sobs choked 
 her utterance. But she looked at him gratefully, and 
 put her hand in his. 
 
 “ I was rough — cold, perhaps,” he said. “ But my 
 ignorance is my excuse. Pray, do as you please. 
 Make my house your home till ” — 
 
 “ Till she becomes my wife,” said Paul, stepping 
 forward. “ Your father, Sir Eustace, gave his consent 
 to our union some time before his death. He brought 
 me up, educated me, and I loved him very sincerely.” 
 
 “ Are you Paul Yyner ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. Your father’s adopted son.” 
 
SYLVIA GIVES WAY TO DESPAIR 311 
 
 “ I am glad to see you. He mentioned you fre- 
 quently in his letters. I hope you will stay here 
 to-night. It is only right that you should assist at 
 my father's funeral to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Only right, certainly. The last act of love I can 
 pay my benefactor. And now, may I see him once 
 more upon earth ? ” 
 
 “Yes. She who loved him so well, and mourns 
 him so truly, will lead you to his side." 
 
 Sylvia bowed, and, passing on into the house, led 
 Paul up the broad staircase to the dead man's room. 
 
CHAPTEE XXVIII 
 
 WEDDING BELLS 
 
 But Sylvia had not been left the pauper she supposed. 
 Sir Eustace had loved his darling far too well to leave 
 her dependent upon any human being. Summerlands 
 and a large sum of money in the Funds had been left 
 to his grand-daughter in a will made many years 
 before. But on hearing Madge’s story of the wreck, 
 and finding that Anne Dane had taken flight, an awful 
 doubt entered his mind ; and he remembered that if 
 he died suddenly, as his doctor had frequently warned 
 him he might do, and this girl were proved not to be 
 his son’s child, she would be thrown penniless upon 
 the world. He did not and would not believe that 
 such a thing were possible. But he resolved to ensure 
 the property to her, no matter what should happen. 
 So on that sad evening, after dismissing the girl to 
 rest, he appended a codicil to his will, stating that it 
 was to be hers whether she was Sylvia Atherstone or 
 Dorothy Neil. This was duly witnessed and signed, 
 and Sylvia remained mistress of Summerlands. 
 
 This great proof of his watchful love renewed the 
 girl’s grief, and for months she was inconsolable. 
 
 S12 
 
WEDDING BELLS 
 
 3i3 
 
 But as time and the summer sun restored the 
 withered heather and raised the drooping bracken on 
 the moor, so it was with Sylvia’s sorrowing heart. 
 
 For a year she wore heavy mourning for her beloved 
 dead, and then, as the roses bloomed and the birds 
 sang joyous roulades through the shady woods at 
 Summerlands, she at last listened to Paul’s earnest 
 entreaties, and consented to become his wife. 
 
 For a long time after Sir Eustace Atherstone’s 
 death Dora was very ill. But Madge’s tender care 
 and watchful nursing saved her once more, and she 
 came slowly back to life. 
 
 As soon as she was well enough to travel, her 
 father wished to hurry her away with him to London. 
 But she implored him to leave her at Summerlands. 
 
 “ I am so happy here, father. Pray let me stay 
 where I am ; London would stifle me.” 
 
 “ But this is not your home. You have no right 
 to live with a stranger.” 
 
 “ A stranger ! Sylvia a stranger ! Oh, father, how 
 can you say such a thing ? ” 
 
 “ Sylvia ! — it is absurd to call her so. You are Sylvia, 
 she is Dora.” 
 
 “ I know,” she answered, laughing. “ But it is im- 
 possible to change our names now. I could never call 
 her anything but Sylvia, no matter how much I tried.” 
 
 “ But I really think you and Madge should come 
 to London,” he urged. “ Whether she is Sylvia or 
 Dora, you have no right to trespass too long on her 
 hospitality.” 
 
A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 3H 
 
 “ Madge will not come. Sylvia is her sister. We, 
 alas ! are nothing to her.” 
 
 “ Madge not come,” he cried in consternation. 
 “ Why, you would be lost without her.” 
 
 “ Yes ; and for that reason I must stay where I am. 
 Madge, Sylvia, and I want each other badly. You 
 like to see the world, father — so go, and leave us in 
 our seclusion.” 
 
 “ But you must see the world too, dear, and Madge.” 
 The girl blushed brightly, and smiled as she 
 answered — 
 
 “ I shall see the world soon, father, when I am a 
 little stronger, with Aslifield.” 
 
 “ Ah, of course ; but that is one reason why you 
 should come to London. When you are buried here, 
 that poor fellow never sees you.” 
 
 “ Pardon me,” she said, laughing ; “ that poor fellow, 
 as you call him, has seen me frequently, and he is 
 coming down next week with his mother to stay for 
 a fortnight.” 
 
 “ Indeed ? And Paul Vyner ? ” 
 
 “ Paul is coming too. He has not been here since 
 Christmas.” 
 
 “ And this is March. Well, it seems to me you 
 will all be very happy and comfortable. No one ” 
 — sighing — “ wants me, I’m afraid.” 
 
 “ Oh, father ! we all want you. Sylvia likes you 
 to be here; and Madge” — 
 
 “ Does she care ? ” he asked quickly. “Do you think 
 Madge cares ? ” 
 
WEDDING BELLS 
 
 3i5 
 
 “ I am sure she does. You were always a hero in 
 her eyes, ever since that day when you left me on 
 board the Cimbria.” 
 
 “ Dear, faithful Madge. What a heart that girl has ! 
 How she worked and suffered for you ! ” 
 
 “ Yes. I love Madge very dearly.” 
 
 Sir George Atherstone walked to the window and 
 looked out. Then, turning round he said abruptly — 
 
 “ Good-bye, my child. I will run up to London 
 to-night, and come back here in a week with Ashfield 
 and Paul Vyner.” 
 
 Dora clapped her hands. 
 
 “ That will be charming. Well all be happy then. 
 That's just what Sylvia would like you to do. And, 
 do you know, we all hope that we may coax her to 
 say when she will marry Paul. Ashfield is growing 
 impatient, and our marriage depends on Sylvia. We 
 must be married on the same day.” 
 
 “ But you are not strong enough.” 
 
 “ By J une I might be,” she said, smiling and 
 blushing, “ if Sylvia would only say yes.” 
 
 And Sylvia did say “ Yes.” 
 
 So, one glorious day in June, the two girls were 
 married in the beautiful old church at Summerlands. 
 Sir George Atherstone gave them both away ; and it 
 would be difficult to say which of the brides he 
 admired most. 
 
 “ They are both charming in their own way,” he 
 said to the Dowager Lady Ashfield, “ and they certainly 
 make a pretty contrast.” 
 
3 l6 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ Yes ; but I have little doubt upon the subject,” 
 answered that astute lady. “ I always admired golden 
 hair, and there is something altogether winning in 
 your daughter’s sweet blue eyes.” 
 
 “ Mrs. Vyner would have made a more striking 
 peeress, however,” he said, smiling. “ My child is, as 
 you say, winning, but not commanding.” 
 
 “ No ; but she is Sir Eustace Atherstone’s grand- 
 daughter ; that is recommendation enough for me. I 
 had resolved our families should be united years ago, 
 so you may fancy how pleased I am to-day.” 
 
 Six months later, Lord Ashfield and his bride passed 
 through London, on their way to his place in Cornwall. 
 
 Dora — for she was always Dora to her husband — 
 was in radiant health and spirits. Happiness, change 
 of air and scene, had worked wonders, and she now 
 looked the perfection of youth and beauty. 
 
 “ My dear,” she said to Lord Ashfield, the morning 
 after their arrival, “ I hope you will not object to 
 leaving me alone for an hour or so ; you can go to 
 your club or remain in your smoking-room. But — 
 but Madge is coming, and I want to have her all to 
 myself.” 
 
 “ I am jealous of Madge. I really am, little wife.” 
 “ No, you are not. And off you go ! ” she cried, 
 laughing. “ I hear the bell — that is sure to be Madge.” 
 “ I am a henpecked husband ; there is no doubt 
 about that. But since your will is my law, my fair 
 tyrant, I hasten away.” 
 
WEDDING BELLS 
 
 3 J 7 
 
 As Lord Ashfield disappeared out of one door, the 
 other opened, and Madge, smiling and happy, entered 
 the room, and clasped Dora in her arms. 
 
 “ My darling,” she said, holding her away and 
 gazing at her fondly, “ how beautiful you have grown, 
 and how strong and straight ! ” 
 
 “ Yes,” cried Dora ; “ is it not wonderful ? My 
 poor back is now as firm as a rock. I do not require 
 to lie about on sofas, as I used to do.” 
 
 “ Thank God for that ! And are you happy, my 
 pet ? ” 
 
 “As happy as the day is long. My husband is 
 the kindest — best. But,” blushing and dimpling, “ I 
 need not indulge in raptures. You know what he is.” 
 “ Yes. I know well.” 
 
 “ And you, my sweet Madge ? Are you lonely ? 
 Do you not miss your little sister ? ” 
 
 Madge blushed deeply and turned aside her head. 
 
 “ I miss you, dearest. But I am not lonely.” 
 
 “ I am glad to hear that. Come and sit down, and 
 tell me what you do all day.” 
 
 Dora seated herself on the sofa, and Madge stood 
 for a moment looking at her with trembling lips and 
 changing colour. Then suddenly she knelt beside her, 
 and, throwing her arms round her waist, said in a low 
 voice — 
 
 “ In the old days, darling, you used sometimes to call 
 me your little mother. Would you — would you mind 
 very much if you heard I was your mother — at least 
 that ” — 
 
3 1 S A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 Dora looked at her wonderingly. Then, all at once, 
 a light seemed to break in upon her, and before Madge 
 could complete her sentence, she realised what she 
 meant. 
 
 “What!” she cried joyfully; “have you — has father?” 
 
 “ He has,” said Sir George, who had slipped in 
 behind his daughter unperceived. “ He has won the 
 best, the truest little woman in the world for his wife ; ” 
 and, raising Madge from the ground, he drew her gently 
 towards him. 
 
 “ Madge ! Papa ! I am so glad ! ” cried Dora, 
 kissing them rapturously. “ But why did you get 
 married whilst we were away ? ” 
 
 “ My dear,” he answered, laughing, “ if you choose 
 to stop away for six months, you cannot expect us to 
 await your pleasure. We had intended writing to tell 
 you, but Sylvia advised ” — 
 
 “ Does Sylvia know ? ” 
 
 “ Oh yes. We were married from her house.” 
 
 “From Summcrlands ? ” 
 
 “ Ho ; from her pretty house in town. Yyner did 
 the father, and gave Madge away.” 
 
 “Well, I am so glad to see you married. I have 
 hoped you would do so ever since — well, since I knew 
 you, papa. Bias any other strange thing happened 
 during my absence ? ” 
 
 “ Anne Dane is dead. And before her death she 
 wrote a full confession of the deception she had 
 practised on my poor father. She deeply regretted it, 
 and begged forgiveness.” 
 
WEDDING BELLS 
 
 3 1 9 
 
 “ Poor creature ! ” said Dora. “ I forgave her long 
 ago.” 
 
 “ Dora, may I come in ? ” asked Lord Ashfield at 
 the door. “ You and Madge have been an age 
 together.” 
 
 “Yes. You may come in,” she answered gaily. 
 “ And now, not a word,” she whispered to her father. 
 “ Let me tell him about your marriage.” 
 
 But, to her surprise, her husband walked straight 
 up to Madge, and, calling her Lady Atherstone, 
 congratulated her most heartily. 
 
 “ Now, Ashfield, who told you ? ” asked Dora 
 indignantly. 
 
 “ Here are the culprits,” he replied. “ Scold them, 
 not me.” 
 
 And, throwing open the door, he laughingly called 
 out, “ Come in, Mr. and Mrs. Vyner, and receive 
 a severe punishment for revealing this wonderful 
 secret.” 
 
 And in another instant, Sylvia, looking radiantly 
 beautiful, entered the room, leaning on her husband’s 
 arm. 
 
 “ This is the happiest moment of my life,” she said, 
 with shining eyes, as she glanced from Madge and 
 Dora to the three stalwart husbands. “ We have all 
 done exactly what I hoped we should do, and I am 
 most blissfully content.” 
 
 “ Yes, dear, and so am I,” cried Madge ; “ though I 
 confess I never dared hope for the happy fate that is 
 now mine. God has been very good to me.” 
 
3 20 
 
 A STRIKING CONTRAST 
 
 “ And to me,” said Dora softly. “ But do you know, 
 Sylvia,” she added roguishly, “ although you are taller, 
 and, perhaps, just a little handsomer, you are not one 
 atom straighter or stronger looking than I am. We 
 are not the striking contrast we used to be.” 
 
 “ No, dearest, except in the colour of our hair and 
 eyes. We are both well and happy. So, thank God, 
 there is no longer the terrible contrast in our lives 
 that there used to be in the days now happily gone 
 by for ever.” 
 
 THE END 
 
 M. IT. GILL AND SON, DUBLIN. 
 
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