WYNDHAM'S DAUGHTER
 
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 " Miss Wyndham ! " she exclaimed, in great astonishment, "What can you 
 possibly want here at this hour ? " [Page 171- 
 
 Frontispiect]
 
 Wyndham's Daughter 
 
 of o; 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNIE S. SWAN 
 
 LONDON 
 HUTCHINSON & CO. 
 
 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.G. 
 1898
 
 BeMcatefc 
 
 TO 
 
 Those among my young sisters who are discontented 
 
 with their lot, in the hope that the true record 
 
 of Joyce Wyndham's experience may help 
 
 them to take up with cheerfulness 
 
 the duty which lies nearest.
 
 WYNDHAM'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 HANNAH THRALE'S INVITATION. 
 
 THEY had an aristocratic name, but they were not 
 aristocratic, nor did they number any members of 
 the aristocracy among their acquaintance. They 
 were, indeed, suburban and commonplace in every 
 condition and relation of their lives. They rejoiced 
 in that fact, and were entirely contented with their 
 lot. Alfred Wyndham & Co., Linen Drapers, 
 Newington Causeway, was their business title and 
 designation. The Co. was in reality Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham, who had brought some considerable capital 
 to the firm. She was herself a tradesman's daughter, 
 and had married Alfred Wyndham somewhat late 
 in life. She had promised her mother on her 
 death-bed never to marry while her father lived, 
 but it was no particular hardship for the young
 
 8 'CClgnDbam's 2>au0bter. 
 
 couple to wait, because they were both prudent 
 and cautious by nature, and had no desire to marry 
 until they could have a thoroughly comfortable and 
 substantial home. At her father's death Mrs. 
 Wyndham found herself in the possession of a 
 modest fortune, and when at the end of twelve 
 months she became the wife of the man to whom 
 she had been so long engaged, she unquestioningly 
 placed her money in his hands for business pur- 
 poses. Nor had she ever had the slightest cause 
 to regret it. During his period of waiting, Alfred 
 Wyndham bought as an investment one of the 
 roomy and pleasant family houses in the older 
 part of Denmark Hill, and furnished it gradually, 
 so that when he brought his wife to it, it was a 
 most comfortable and substantial home. It stood 
 within its own grounds, which, however, were not 
 very extensive, though it rejoiced in the somewhat 
 pretentious name of Overton Hall. In this house 
 two children were born to them, a son and a 
 daughter. Tom was the elder of the two, a 
 healthy, rollicking, commonplace boy, neither con- 
 spicuously clever nor deplorably dull. His chief in- 
 terest, perhaps, was centred in every form of out- 
 door sports, and when the day came for him to 
 enter his father's business, he did so without demur, 
 although he regarded it as rather a bore, chiefly
 
 Dannab ftbrale's invitation. 9 
 
 because it somewhat curtailed his opportunities for 
 playing cricket and football and kindred games. 
 He and his father, however, were on very good 
 terms, and thoroughly understood each other. 
 Very often Alfred Wyndham would say com- 
 placently to his wife, " Oh, we'll manage to make 
 a very good business man out of Tom yet." 
 
 Strange that through their younger child should 
 arise the great, indeed the only sorrow of that 
 quiet couple's uneventful life. She had always been 
 an odd child, and a source of some considerable 
 anxiety to her mother; in her earlier years she 
 had not been strong, for which reason she had 
 been a good deal indulged, and had also been 
 kept at home from school more than is common 
 or desirable. Her education, however, did not much 
 suffer; she was a dreamy and thoughtful child, 
 never happier than when sitting under one of the 
 spreading trees in the old-fashioned garden reading 
 a favourite book, or dreaming the idle hours away. 
 Her idleness was, indeed, a great source of worry 
 to her busy, bustling, energetic mother ; she wanted 
 Joyce to be an accomplished and well-educated 
 girl, of course, but her chief desire was to rear 
 her to be a useful, capable woman, with a com- 
 prehensive knowledge of every branch of woman's 
 special work, and this was the trouble. Joyce
 
 10 IKflBn&bam's 2>augbter. 
 
 would not take the slightest interest in household 
 things of any kind, abhorred sewing and knitting 
 and fancy work of every description, and there 
 was a certain quiet setting aside of her mother's 
 expressed desires on these particular points which 
 sometimes made Mrs. Wyndham feel rather small, 
 and occasioned her a good deal of private anxiety 
 about the future, for if at sixteen Joyce could 
 quietly ignore and defy her, what was likely to be 
 the state of affairs at one-and-twenty ? In Joyce, 
 however, her father saw no fault ; he was passion- 
 ately fond of her, and she of him. He never 
 worried or teased her to do dull or uninteresting 
 things, and she was correspondingly grateful to 
 him with a kind of selfish gratitude, although she 
 would indignantly have resented the idea of being 
 called selfish. 
 
 Mothers are sometimes at a disadvantage with 
 their growing daughters, and they are apt to get 
 out of sympathy with one another at certain 
 stages of their mutual life. Mrs. Wyndham often 
 felt herself out of sympathy with Joyce, and had 
 many a little heartache, of which, however, she could 
 not speak even to her husband. 
 
 One sunny June afternoon, Joyce Wyndham was 
 sitting under her favourite tree in her father's 
 garden. It had been a very hot day, but into
 
 Dannab Cbrale's Invitation, n 
 
 that pleasant shade the sun's rays scarcely pene- 
 trated. Joyce looked cool enough in her dainty 
 zephyr dress and a white sailor hat, broad enough 
 in the brim to shade her eyes. There was nothing 
 very conspicuous or striking in the girl's appear- 
 ance ; she was slim and tall for her years, which 
 were nineteen. Her face, however, was marked by 
 a certain strength of outline and gravity of ex- 
 pression which might well have belonged to a 
 woman twice her age. It was a strong, clever 
 face, and one which might be handsome in later 
 years. It could not be called so now ; she had 
 no colour, and the blackness of her hair and eyes 
 seemed to show up the sallowness of her skin. 
 She seemed intensely interested in her book ; never 
 once for an hour and more had she raised her 
 eyes, nor moved, except to turn each page, eager 
 to see the next. So absorbed was she that she 
 did not hear the side gate open and close, nor the 
 light footfall of the intruder upon the turf. A long 
 shadow caused by the approaching figure fell across 
 the page, and she looked up with a start. 
 
 " Oh, Hannah, is it you ? " she exclaimed. " I 
 didn't expect you this afternoon. What has brought 
 you ? " 
 
 " I wanted to see you rather particularly. How 
 cool and nice it is in here. Oh, it is hot on that
 
 's Daugbter. 
 
 Camberwell Road. I was nearly baked as I came 
 up." 
 
 " I suppose it is hot I haven't been much out 
 to-day," answered Joyce. " Sit down, or would 
 you like to come into the house and have some 
 tea first? I believe it will be ready now. It is 
 after four, isn't it ? " 
 
 "Yes. I don't want any tea just now, thank 
 you. I want to ask you whether you think you 
 could come to a meeting in our house to-night ? " 
 
 Joyce laid down her book, and her face flushed 
 slightly with her eager interest. 
 
 "Oh, I should love to come, but I don't know 
 whether mother will let me. Perhaps she might if 
 you asked her." 
 
 Hannah Thrale shook her head. 
 
 " Mrs. Wyndham doesn't like me, Joyce, and you 
 know it quite well. She would be much more 
 likely to refuse if I were to ask her, but I do wish 
 you would come. You will know how interesting 
 it is going to be when I tell you who is coming." 
 
 She ran over a few names then, some of which 
 were familiar to Joyce, others strange. 
 
 " It would be just the chance that you have been 
 wanting so long, to hear all the aims and objects 
 of our society fully explained, by such leaders, 
 too," she said in conclusion. "Can't you just
 
 Ibannab Sbrale's invitation. 13 
 
 come? It seems ridiculous to look at a great tall 
 woman like you, and to think that you can hardly 
 go outside your father's gate without asking per- 
 mission." 
 
 The distinct note of scorn in her friend's voice 
 caused the colour to deepen in Joyce's face. It was 
 the great grievance of her life that she was not 
 allowed a tithe of the freedom of action Hannah 
 Thrale enjoyed, and it hurt her pride to hear the 
 case stated in such plain language. Hannah Thrale, 
 however, was three years older than her friend, and 
 looked even more. She was rather a striking-look- 
 ing young woman, tall and generously built, with 
 that clear, milk-white complexion which often ac- 
 companies auburn hair. She wore her hair, which 
 was really beautiful, in the Greek style, and it be- 
 came her well. Her dress was also out of the 
 common or conventional order ; it consisted that 
 day of a sage-coloured cashmere made in the Empire 
 fashion, and a big hat with nodding plumes which 
 gave her a sort of picturesqueness, which was, in- 
 deed, the effect she most sought after. She was 
 very fond of Joyce Wyndham. They had met at 
 the school in the neighbourhood which Joyce had 
 attended from her childhood, and where Hannah 
 Thrale had been first a pupil, then a teacher, but 
 for a reason which will become apparent afterwards,
 
 i 4 TOnfcbam's Daugbter. 
 
 she had been lately dismissed from her employ- 
 ment 
 
 "The meeting is at eight," she said presently. 
 "Couldn't you just say that you are coming down 
 to spend an hour at our house ? You can tell your 
 mother afterwards about the meeting if you think 
 fit, but you won't hear anything there to poison or 
 contaminate you. I could assure her on that 
 point" 
 
 "I wish you would come in, then, and tell her 
 about it, Hannah; it is the only way. I don't 
 think that she'll let me go only for my asking." 
 
 " Well, I will ask her by-and-by," said Hannah 
 good-naturedly. "What are you reading? Oh, 
 ' Joshua Davidson.' Fine book, isn't it ? " 
 
 "Grand," said Joyce enthusiastically; "but do 
 you know mother picked it up last night, and read 
 a chapter out of it You know how people do, 
 picking a bit sometimes out of a book, and allow- 
 ing it to bias their whole judgment. She said it 
 was not fit for me to read, and that she would tell 
 you so the first time she saw you. I only got 
 leave to finish it by begging father to let me read 
 it" 
 
 " And what did he say about it ? " 
 
 "Father is different from mother about most 
 things," said Joyce; "he says that I am to read
 
 fcannab Ebrale's Invitation. 15 
 
 what I like, and that when I get older I shall be 
 able to discriminate." 
 
 " Which shows Mr. Wyndham to be a very wise 
 man," observed Miss Thrale, with a patronising 
 little inflection in her voice which would have 
 highly amused Mr. Wyndham could he have over- 
 heard it. 
 
 " Do you know what I have been thinking once 
 or twice, Joyce?" she added presently. "Perhaps 
 you would be happier if you were left alone here, 
 and could content yourself with your environment. 
 You see you are such an indulged and idolised 
 daughter, that there is no chance of your doing 
 anything with which your parents will not concern 
 themselves. You know, of course, in what estima- 
 tion I hold them ; they are delightful and estim- 
 able people, but you see they do not understand. 
 They have not awakened to the needs of humanity; 
 they do not hear the bitter cry which rises from 
 the great mass of struggling and oppressed human- 
 ity ; they are like thousands, hundreds of thousands, 
 of other good and worthy people in this city, 
 hedged in by the impenetrable wall of their own 
 respectability." 
 
 Joyce listened to these words as she listened to 
 most words which fell from Hannah Thrale's lips, 
 as if they were Gospel truth, as indeed they were
 
 2>au0bter, 
 
 to her. She was very young and full of enthu- 
 siasms, and at the most impressionable age she 
 had come in contact with this strong, original, and 
 unconventional nature, which was presently imbued 
 with wild ideals and impossible schemes for the 
 regeneration of the world.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MRS. WYNDHAM INTERFERES. 
 
 MRS. WYNDHAM was nodding in a chintz-covered 
 easy-chair at the French window of the drawing- 
 room, which opened out upon the lawn. She was 
 disturbed by the entrance of the housemaid, who 
 came to inquire whether she should bring the tea- 
 tray to the drawing-room, or take it into the 
 garden. 
 
 " Miss Thrale is beside Miss Joyce, ma'am," she 
 said, glancing through the open window. "There 
 is a good deal of wind out. Perhaps you would 
 like it better here." 
 
 " Yes, I think we had better stay indoors," answered 
 Mrs. Wyndham, and while the girl brought out the 
 little tea-table, she got up from her chair and glanced 
 across to the garden seat where the two girls were 
 sitting in earnest conversation. Mrs. Wyndham was 
 a tall and rather handsome person, inclined to stout- 
 ness. She had a fresh-coloured, youthful-looking 
 
 face for her years, and her general appearance may 
 
 17 B
 
 is "Cmgn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 be described in the one word, motherly. She was 
 always very well dressed ; black silk of fine soft make 
 was her favourite material, and her caps and any 
 other lace adornment she happened to wear were 
 always costly and in good taste. She was a woman 
 absolutely without pretensions of any kind, entirely 
 contented with her lot, and aiming at nothing but 
 making her home comfortable and happy for those 
 she loved. This she succeeded in doing ; her hus- 
 band and her son adored her. It was only Joyce 
 who felt her gentle rule in the slightest degree irk- 
 some. Her kind eyes were troubled as they rested 
 on the two girls ; she did not much approve the 
 intimacy between them. Perhaps one little weak- 
 ness of Mrs. Wyndham's was a strict regard for 
 conventionality, and there was something so decidedly 
 Bohemian and queer about the Thrales, that she 
 would much have preferred no acquaintance with 
 them. She did not altogether dislike Hannah ; there 
 was indeed something oddly winning and lovable 
 about the girl, and her beauty was such as must 
 attract attention everywhere. One of her greatest 
 charms was that she was entirely unconscious of it, 
 and though she had a great many admirers, remained 
 quite unspoilt. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham opened the sunshade which had 
 been left conveniently near the open window, and
 
 Good afternoon, Mrs. Wyndham. 
 
 [I'age 19.
 
 . TKJlBn&bam interferes. 19 
 
 sauntered across the lawn, observing Joyce give a 
 slight start as she caught sight of her. Hannah 
 Thrale had a genuine liking for Mrs. Wyndham, 
 although she often deplored her lack of interest in the 
 great social questions upon which she brooded and 
 pondered night and da)', and she came forward with 
 an eager, frank smile to greet her. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mrs. Wyndham. How fresh and 
 cool and delightful you all look in here. I have just 
 been telling Joyce that to walk up Camberwell Road 
 this afternoon is not a particularly delightful ex- 
 perience." 
 
 " The sun is very hot. Why don't you sit down, 
 my dear ? " said Mrs. Wyndham kindly. 
 
 It was impossible for her to be distant or abrupt in 
 her manner to anyone ; she was the soul of kindliness, 
 and there was something about Hannah Thrale's 
 unattached condition that appealed to her, and she 
 often felt that she would like to stretch a helping, 
 motherly hand to her since she had no mother of her 
 own. 
 
 " I have come to beg a favour, Mrs. Wyndham, and 
 I hope you will grant it. There is a meeting at our 
 house to-night, and I want you to let Joyce come to 
 it. She wants awfully to come herself; you can see 
 that ; do let her." 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham's kind face perceptibly hardened.
 
 SJaugbter. 
 
 "What sort of a meeting is it, Hannah? " she asked, 
 a little coldly. 
 
 "Well, it is a meeting to consider abuses and 
 things," answered Hannah, a little vaguely. " I can- 
 not very well tell you exactly what business will be 
 done. It is a preliminary meeting of a social brother- 
 hood ; it will be quite interesting. Do let her come." 
 
 " I should like to know what kind of people are to 
 be there, my dear," said Mrs. Wyndham doubtfully ; 
 " and I must say I do not particularly see what a 
 young girl like Joyce can find interesting in such a 
 meeting." 
 
 " Now, isn't that rather selfish, dear Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham ? " said Hannah, with her most winning smile. 
 " You are so comfortable and so well off in this lovely 
 old place that you sometimes forget that there are a 
 great many people outside your gates who are not 
 comfortable or well off at all. You would not like 
 Joyce to grow up into a selfish woman, would you, 
 without any interest or sympathy for the sorrows of 
 others ? " 
 
 " No, I should not like that, certainly," Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham admitted; "but I do not think there is any 
 danger of it. We have many opportunities and 
 channels for doing charitable and kind acts, Hannah. 
 In our own church and parish, for instance, we have a 
 great many poor, far more than we could ever reach."
 
 . "CDlBnDbam Sntetferes. 21 
 
 " Believe me, dear Mrs. Wyndham, the real sufferers 
 do not go to churches ; they are beyond the reach of 
 church aid," said Hannah earnestly. " I wish you 
 would come to the meeting. Won't you come ? " 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham turned to Joyce, who was listening 
 with a very eager look in her eyes. 
 
 " Joyce, dear, just go in, will you, and tell Ada that 
 I have changed my mind, and that we shall have tea 
 out here, if she does not mind the trouble ? " 
 
 Now, though Joyce had been trained to obedience, 
 she felt inclined to rebel at that moment, for she 
 knew very well that she had been sent out of sight 
 and hearing, and she particularly wanted to listen to 
 the discussion between her mother and Hannah. 
 However, there was no excuse for declining, and she 
 rose rather reluctantly and walked towards the house. 
 
 " Now, my dear," said Mrs. Wyndham, turning at 
 once to the girl who sat opposite to her, " I am going 
 to be very frank with you. I do not at all approve 
 of Joyce going to such gatherings as you speak of, 
 and I don't want her to be mixed up with the kind 
 of people who go to them. I hope you will excuse 
 me for speaking so very frankly, but her father does 
 not like it either, and it would be a real kindness to 
 us if you would leave her alone." 
 
 Hannah Thrale did not resent this plain speech, 
 only her face became a little sad.
 
 's Daugbter. 
 
 "I am sorry to hear you speak like that, Mrs. 
 Wyndham, and, I do assure you, you speak with- 
 out knowledge. If only you would come to the 
 meeting." 
 
 "Well, then, I will come," said Mrs. Wyndham 
 suddenly. " Perhaps I am too much prejudiced. 
 I shall be very happy indeed if I find that I am ; 
 but I cannot think that it is good for a young girl 
 like Joyce to be perpetually dwelling upon the 
 subjects which are treated of in that extraordinary 
 book you lent her, and which I see she has been 
 reading this afternoon. I am obliged to speak very 
 plainly. You see Joyce is my only daughter, and 
 she is a girl who requires to be very carefully dealt 
 with. She gets completely carried away, and I don't 
 want her to make shipwreck of her life." 
 
 " She is the stuff that leaders and reformers are 
 made of, Mrs. Wyndham," said Hannah enthusi- 
 astically. " That is the sort of woman we want to 
 help on the new crusade. I have the greatest 
 possible hopes of Joyce ; she is so very clever and 
 so enthusiastic. It is enthusiasm above everything 
 else we want in these prosaic days ; apathy is the 
 curse of the times." 
 
 " Hush, child ; you use words, and I do not think 
 you know exactly what they mean," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Wyndham, a trifle sharply. She did not like to hear
 
 Snterferes, 23 
 
 such words fall from the girl's lips, and yet she was 
 greatly impressed by some hidden power she pos- 
 sessed. Conscious of the girl's strong personal in- 
 fluence, she feared her power over Joyce. " I do 
 wish that Joyce were more like other girls," she said, 
 with a quick sigh. "She has everything in this 
 world to make her happy; her father and her 
 brother simply dote upon her, and would give her 
 anything in reason, and yet she is not content. She 
 is always sighing after something which she has not 
 got. I cannot understand this restless discontent 
 which seems to be unsettling so many young girls 
 at present. When I was Joyce's age, I thought of 
 nothing but pretty frocks and the next dance I 
 should be invited to." 
 
 " Quite so," said Hannah Thrale, with a little 
 daring inflection in her voice ; " that is just the 
 difference, you see, between Joyce and the ordinary 
 girl. Pretty frocks and dances have no interest for 
 her, as they have none for me, and I am so glad. 
 Dear Mrs. Wyndham, you ought to rejoice that 
 Joyce is so far above such trivialities. She will do 
 a great work in the world yet." 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham shook her 'head. 
 
 " I should prefer to leave the great work to others. 
 Joyce is not strong, nor has she sufficient strength of 
 mind to keep within bounds. As I said before, she
 
 24 Tragn&bam'fl Daugbter. 
 
 is apt to be completely carried away. Here she 
 comes again. Well, I will come to the meeting to- 
 night ; then perhaps I shall be able to decide whether 
 I must forbid the friendship between you." 
 
 Hannah Thrale's fine eyes suddenly filled with 
 tears, and the sight was very disturbing to Mrs. 
 Wyndham. But she was now very seriously con- 
 cerned about her child, and felt that some prompt 
 measures were necessary. 
 
 The housemaid followed Joyce with the tea-table, 
 and the talk drifted for a moment to more common- 
 place things. Presently the garden gate was opened 
 with a hasty hand, and Tom Wyndham made his 
 appearance. Then his mother remembered that he 
 had come home to dress for a cricket match at 
 Streatham Common. She did not observe, for- 
 tunately, perhaps, for her peace of mind, how the 
 light leapt in his honest grey eyes as he recognised 
 his mother's guest. But though he had very few 
 minutes to spare, he came striding across the lawn 
 with a very bright smile on his pleasant face. He 
 was a tall, well-built, handsome fellow, immaculately 
 attired in the orthodox frock coat and silk hat. 
 Tom was indeed a bit of a dandy in his way, affect- 
 ing always the newest things in summer vests and 
 neckties. Sometimes his father would make a good- 
 humoured protest against the many changes of attire
 
 . TMlBn&bam interferes. 25 
 
 which Tom seemed to think necessary ; but Tom 
 would only laugh and say, " Be thankful, dad, that I 
 take my dissipation in neckties, and nothing stronger. 
 Besides, look what an advertisement I am." 
 
 There was the best of good understandings be- 
 tween father and son, and Alfred Wyndham often 
 thanked God in his soul for the honest, good-natured, 
 healthy-minded lad who had never caused him, since 
 his birth, a moment's anxiety. 
 
 "Jolly hot this afternoon, isn't it, Miss Thrale?" 
 he said, as he shook hands. " No, mother, I must 
 not stop for tea, though I should like to awfully. 
 Do you know if my things are laid out ? " 
 
 " Yes, I laid them out myself, my dear," said his 
 mother, looking up with a fond smile. " I cannot 
 think how you can play cricket in this frightful 
 weather, and there is no shade on the Common." 
 
 "There never is any shade on a cricket field, is 
 there, mother ? " inquired Tom, with a teasing smile. 
 "Joyce, you look as if you had been reading the 
 latest thing in ghosts. Why can't you make my 
 little sister perk up a bit, Miss Thrale? She is 
 always so gloomy ; it is like a perpetual rainy day to 
 be beside her. I have to provide the sunshine, al- 
 though we always read in books that it is the pro- 
 vince of the daughters to provide that element." 
 
 " Don't be silly, Tom," said Joyce, rather sharply.
 
 26 TIDtBttobam's Daugbter. 
 
 He was always teasing her, and she had very little 
 patience with his chaff, perhaps because she often 
 felt that it contained a good deal of truth. 
 
 " Well, I am off. Why don't you and Miss Thrale 
 come up and see the match ? I'll drive you, if you 
 like." 
 
 " Hannah does not care for cricket matches, Tom," 
 said Joyce, with a note of scorn in her voice. 
 
 " Oh yes, I do," put in Hannah promptly ; " and I 
 should like it very much. May we really come? 
 Are you in earnest, Mr. Tom ? " 
 
 "Yes, of course he is," said Mrs. Wyndham. 
 " Run in, Joyce, and get your hat on. If she would 
 take a little more interest in such things, I should 
 be better pleased." 
 
 " Oh, I like a good cricket match," said Hannah 
 brightly, " and am only deterred from joining the 
 lady cricketers myself by considerations of economy." 
 
 She flashed a little mischievous glance at Tom's 
 pleasant face, and, listening to their pleasant banter, 
 the shadow died out of Mrs. Wyndham's eyes. It 
 never occurred to her that her boy might be specially 
 interested in Hannah Thrale. Joyce was her chief 
 and great concern, and though she believed and ex- 
 pected that her son would, in the ordinary course of 
 things, fall in love and marry one day, she had not 
 the slightest fear or doubt that his choice would not
 
 flbrs. 1 5dBn&bam Interferes. 27 
 
 be one of which she would entirely approve, for, as I 
 said, Tom Wyndham had never caused his father or 
 mother the slightest anxiety since the day of his 
 birth.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SOCIALIST MEETING. 
 
 THE Thrales lived at the lower end of Camberwell 
 Road, in a small house above a newspaper shop. 
 The family was very small ; it consisted, indeed, only 
 of Hannah and her father. One small maid-servant 
 did the work of the household, and it was well done, 
 too, for Hannah, in spite of her peculiarities, had a 
 woman's love for a clean and tidy house, and liked 
 things dainty about her. The place, though poorly 
 furnished, had something superior about it, and even 
 an air of distinction which one would not have ex- 
 pected to find in a little flat above a newspaper shop. 
 It was not the poverty nor the lack of social dis- 
 tinction about the Thrales which troubled Mrs. 
 Wyndham ; she was indeed singularly free from that 
 ordinary and very prevalent form of pride which 
 despises people of small means who live in small 
 houses. 
 The Thrales were of good family, although they 
 
 belonged to an obscure branch of it, and had very 
 
 28
 
 a Socialist Meeting. 29 
 
 small acquaintance with its more flourishing scions. 
 Osborne Thrale's relatives had, indeed, washed their 
 hands of him for some considerable time. Rich 
 relations will sometimes forgive you for being poor ; 
 but to be at once poor and eccentric is an unpardon- 
 able sin. Osborne Thrale was both ; strictly speak- 
 ing, he was a person of no occupation. He was 
 literary in his tastes, and did occasional bits of 
 journalistic work for such editors as he had not tired 
 out with his vagaries and general unreliability. He 
 was very clever in his way, but a dabbler in too many 
 questions ; and of late years he had allowed himself to 
 be carried away by a mistaken devotion to certain 
 ideas and impossible plans for the revolution and 
 reformation of the world. Those who knew him well 
 loved him, for indeed there was something singularly 
 lovable about the man ; but to the majority he was 
 nothing more nor less than a crank. His daughter 
 was very like him in appearance, and shared his ideas 
 up to a certain point. They were an interesting pair 
 to those who cared to study them, and their influence 
 in the very Bohemian circles in which they moved 
 was great. Osborne Thrale's long fight with fate, 
 and general lack of success in" life, had naturally dis- 
 posed him towards the society of those who were 
 generally dissatisfied with the existing condition of 
 things ; but while he associated with the more extreme
 
 30 TOlBn&bam's 2>au0bter. 
 
 Socialists because he believed their main principle to 
 be right, he was far from being drawn to them 
 personally, and had been disappointed many times 
 by the spirit of sordid self-seeking which some- 
 times revealed itself, even in those whom he had 
 imagined most devoted to the cause. He was himself 
 singularly unselfish, and possessed in a very high 
 degree that rare quality devotion to a cause, en- 
 tirely free from every personal consideration. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham had never seen Hannah Thrale's 
 father, although she had often heard of him, and 
 sometimes felt that perhaps, if she could see him, she 
 would better understand the girl. After dinner that 
 night she dressed herself quietly, and quite disregard- 
 ing Joyce's somewhat wistful look, set out alone on 
 her walk to the place of meeting. It was not an 
 errand in which she took particular pleasure ; she set 
 out upon it, indeed, from a sense of duty. She was a 
 very just person, and she felt that before condemning 
 or forbidding the friendship between the two girls she 
 ought to satisfy herself that it could do no possible 
 harm. Joyce had often pointed out the house to her, 
 and when she climbed the stairs and knocked at the 
 door she was at once admitted. Just as she stepped 
 into the little hall, Hannah appeared at another door, 
 and bade her a pleasant good evening. 
 
 " I am so glad you have come ; the meeting is just
 
 a Socialist /Reeling. 31 
 
 assembling. Perhaps you had better come into my 
 room and take off your cloak ; it will get very hot by 
 and by, especially if we are crowded, as we some- 
 times are." 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham nodded, and followed the girl 
 into Hannah's own little bedroom, where everything 
 was dainty and neat enough to satisfy even Mrs. 
 Wyndham's critical and fastidious eye. 
 
 " I won't take off my bonnet, thank you. I just 
 want to slip in at the back, where I shall not 
 be seen," she said, as she unfastened her mantle. 
 "Do you have many ladies at your meet- 
 ings ? " 
 
 "A few, not many," said Hannah with a curious 
 little twist of her lips. 
 
 She was looking lovely. Mrs. Wyndham could 
 scarcely refrain, indeed, from remarking upon it. 
 She still wore the gown in which she had appeared 
 earlier in the day, but when her hat was removed her 
 beautiful face was seen to advantage. She had an 
 exquisitely shaped head, and her features were purely 
 classical. Mrs. Wyndham felt a rush of anxious pity 
 in her motherly heart as she looked upon this girl 
 dowered so richly, and who was -placed, as she con- 
 sidered, in such a very trying and even dangerous 
 position. 
 
 " Joyce was exceedingly anxious to come with me
 
 32 TWlBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 to the meeting to-night, my dear, but I did not allow 
 her. You understand, don't you ? " 
 
 A little smile curved Hannah's perfect lips. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I understand quite well, dear Mrs. 
 Wyndham ; but I assure you it is not a den of lions, 
 and I quite expect that if you are not converted, you 
 will at least modify your opinion of us. I am in 
 great hopes that after to-night you will remove every 
 objection from Joyce's path." 
 
 " I shall be very glad if that is the result of the 
 meeting, my dear," said Mrs. Wyndham quite 
 heartily, because there was something more winning 
 than usual in the girl's look and manner. " Now I 
 wish you would tell me what I might expect to hear. 
 What do you have meetings for ? I have often heard 
 about them, chiefly from our vicar, Mr. Meynell, but 
 I do not think I am at all clear about it." 
 
 Hannah made a little grimace. 
 
 " I am quite sure there is no hope of your being 
 clear on the matter if it has been explained to you by 
 Mr. Meynell. To begin with, he does not know any- 
 thing about it, and if he did he would misrepresent it 
 as like as not. A society such as ours never gets 
 justice from the clergy. That is one of my indict- 
 ments against the Church, that it will never identify 
 itself with any new movement which really represents 
 the voice and wish of the people, but is always for
 
 B Socialist Meeting 33 
 
 sticking in the old grooves. That is why it is losing 
 its power so rapidly ; it won't march with the times, 
 so the times leave it behind." 
 
 " But, my dear Hannah," said Mrs. Wyndham, 
 much shocked, for she was an ardent Churchwoman, 
 and had an unassailable belief in the Church's work 
 and power, " you make a very sweeping assertion. I 
 am sure you cannot bring such a charge against our 
 church or our vicar. I am sure there is no parish in 
 London where there is so much good and fruitful 
 work done as in our own parish." 
 
 " Oh, well, it depends on what you call fruitful 
 work," said Hannah, with a little shrug. " But I am 
 afraid I must go. Father likes me to receive the 
 people as they come n. Would you like to remain 
 here until we are just about to begin ? then I will 
 come and fetch you, and you can slip in just at the 
 door, and if there should be anything objectionable 
 said," she added, with a little twinkling in her eye, 
 " you can slip out, you know, and nobody will be any 
 the wiser." So saying, she slipped away, closing the 
 door behind her. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham was left alone for about ten 
 minutes, during which time she could hear the con- 
 stant hum and bustle of arrival at the door. It was 
 about half-past eight before Hannah came to the 
 door again and beckoned her.
 
 34 TragnObam's H>augbter. 
 
 " Now we are just about to begin. We shall have 
 one lady to speak to-night, and I think I am rather 
 sorry she is here. Her name is Mrs. Olivia Hem- 
 ming, a very good, true woman, and devoted to the 
 cause, but just a little what shall I call it ? per- 
 haps a little too emancipated would be the word. But 
 one thing I can promise you, and that is that she will 
 interest you." 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham was conscious of a distinct feeling 
 of excitement almost amounting to nervousness as 
 she followed Hannah across the little hall and into 
 the room where the meeting was to be held. It was 
 a double room with folding doors between, which of 
 course were thrown open, and all the furniture 
 having been taken out and seats set across the floor, 
 it presented quite the appearance of a little hall. 
 A small platform was erected before the fireplace, 
 with a table and an armchair, in which sat Osborne 
 Thrale. He always took the chair at the meetings 
 in his own house. He was reading some report 
 carried over from the last meeting, and Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham had thus time to study him, which she did most 
 attentively. He was a fine, even a noble-looking 
 man, with a face which might have belonged to one 
 of the prophets of old ; he had a singularly persuasive 
 and eloquent voice, although he never raised it be- 
 yond the speaking tone. He wore his very shabby
 
 a Socialist flfceetfng. 35 
 
 brown velveteen coat with a dignity and grace which 
 Mrs. Wyndham had never seen surpassed. To say 
 that she was surprised but feebly describes her state 
 of mind, for she saw that Osborne Thrale was not 
 only a gentleman, but a personality far above the 
 common. 
 
 Before the reading of the report was finished, she 
 had ample time to observe the other occupants of 
 the room. About thirty persons were present, and 
 Mrs. Wyndham was most unfavourably impressed by 
 the majority. They were, of course, mainly men, 
 most of them young, and while there were one or 
 two striking faces among them, it was neither a distin- 
 guished nor a particularly attractive gathering. Mrs. 
 Olivia Hemming, who sat on Hannah Thrale's right 
 hand, was a large, heavy woman, who wore a 
 strange costume suggestive of man's attire. Her 
 grey hair was cut short, and her whole appearance 
 was extraordinary and unattractive to a degree ; but 
 there was plenty of strength of mind and will in her 
 face, and Mrs. Wyndham was quite prepared for an 
 eloquent and powerful speech. No one paid the 
 slightest attention to her ; Hannah had provided a 
 comfortable chair for her behind the door, from 
 which she had a good view of the whole proceedings, 
 being herself quite unobserved, except, perhaps, by 
 the speakers who faced her.
 
 36 TJClEn&bam's Baugbter. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham was never able afterwards to give 
 a very clear account of what took place that night ; 
 she listened very attentively, but it was some con- 
 siderable time before she could follow the drift of 
 Osborne Thrale's remarks. The general tone of 
 them seemed to indicate a very large dissatisfaction 
 with everything. A great many questions were 
 touched upon, both economic and social, and there 
 were frequent allusions to capital and labour and to 
 the legislative system, which Mrs. Wyndham had 
 some difficulty in following, for she read the news- 
 papers after the desultory fashion of her class, and 
 had a very scanty knowledge or comprehension of 
 the great questions of the day. Her husband was a 
 Radical in politics ; she herself was Conservative to 
 the last degree in every action and relation of her 
 life, though she would have fiercely resented such an 
 imputation. 
 
 After Osborne Thrale sat down, a young man 
 stepped up from the front seat, and, turning his face 
 to the company, began to talk in a very eloquent and 
 impassioned style. Mrs. Wyndham was much in- 
 terested in his appearance. He was quite young, 
 not more than three or four and twenty ; he had an 
 anxious, earnest face, which belonged to a sufferer 
 and a thinker. He wore his hair somewhat long, 
 and his turned-down collar and loosely-knotted
 
 a Socialist Meeting. 37 
 
 necktie had a character of their own. He seemed to 
 be dealing chiefly with the question upon which 
 Osborne Thrale had merely touched the wrongs 
 which the capitalist has heaped upon the labourer ; 
 and though his remarks were received with evident 
 satisfaction by the majority of his hearers, Mrs. 
 Wyndham was conscious of a slow feeling of indig- 
 nation and anger rising in her mind as she listened. 
 She felt herself a representative of the maligned 
 capitalists. Her husband was a rich man, and 
 employed large numbers of people, and she would 
 have dared anybody to say that he treated them 
 unjustly or hardly, or that he had no right to the 
 money which he had honestly earned. When this 
 young man finished his indictment against the 
 capitalists with an impassioned appeal to those 
 present to help on the cause which sought the more 
 equal adjustment of things, Mrs. Olivia Hemming 
 was briefly introduced by Mr. Osborne Thrale. 
 
 There was a very amused little smile on Hannah's 
 lips when this lady stood up, and the very spirit of 
 mischief seemed to dance in her eyes, for she knew 
 that even at her mildest Mrs. Olivia Hemming was 
 bound to shock Mrs. Wyndham. The presence of 
 Joyce's mother, indeed, gave to that meeting a 
 peculiar zest which was often lacking at the others. 
 In spite of her impassioned pleading with Mrs.
 
 38 'WlBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 Wyndham, Hannah was not so loyal as some would 
 have wished her to be, and had no hesitation in 
 calmly stating her opinion that the meetings did 
 little good, and were seldom lifted above the 
 commonplace.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MRS. WYNDHAM'S IMPRESSIONS OF THE MEETING. 
 
 TOM WYNDHAM took his sister to a cricket concert 
 that night, and his father was left to smoke his pipe 
 alone, which was rather a rare occurrence. The 
 Wyndhams were by no means a stay-at-home couple ; 
 they took a good deal of quiet amusement, but always 
 together, and it was very seldom indeed that Mrs. 
 Wyndham went out alone. After dinner he thought 
 a good deal about it, as he dawdled over the evening 
 paper, and the idea of his wife attending a socialistic 
 meeting amused him a good deal in a quiet way. 
 She had a very hazy idea of what socialism meant, 
 and he wondered once or twice whether it was likely 
 that she would come back enlightened. When a 
 younger man he had attended one or two such meet- 
 ings himself, and his recollection of them rather 
 inclined him to believe that she would probably come 
 back more at sea than ever. About ten o'clock Ada 
 entered the dining-room as usual, and set out the 
 
 biscuit jar, a decanter, and a couple of glasses. 
 
 39
 
 4 o OHBn&bam's SJaugbter. 
 
 Alfred Wyndham was a very abstemious man, but he 
 occasionally permitted himself a modest glass of 
 whisky before going to bed, if he had had a tiring 
 day. 
 
 " Did your mistress say anything about when she 
 would be likely to come back, Ada? " he asked, look- 
 ing over the paper. 
 
 " No, sir ; she did not say anything," was the reply. 
 
 " Oh well, I think I had better go down and meet 
 her. I should not think it likely she would take a 
 cab from Camberwell Road, should you ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't think so, sir ; it is such a little way," 
 she answered. "But if you would like me to go down 
 and fetch her I can do it" 
 
 " Oh no, if she does not come in in a few minutes 
 I'll take a turn down the road myself, thank you," and 
 almost before the words were out of his mouth the 
 bell rang at the outer door, and presently his wife 
 entered, not in her usual leisurely fashion, however ; 
 she seemed a good deal agitated and upset, and he 
 observed that her face was flushed beyond its usual, 
 and her eyes ominously bright. 
 
 " Well, my dear, how did you fare ? " he asked, look- 
 ing round with interest. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham sank into the nearest chair, and, 
 untying her bonnet strings, began to fan herself 
 vigorously with the gloves she held in her hand.
 
 /fors. THagn&bam's impressions of tbe Meeting. 41 
 
 " Oh, Alfred, such a meeting ! I am so glad I went, 
 because now I know what sort of people these are, 
 and I shall absolutely forbid all intimacy between 
 Joyce and Hannah Thrale after this." 
 
 " What, is it so bad as that ? " inquired Wyndham, 
 and his wife detected in his voice a slight accent of 
 amusement which she resented very much. He was 
 always foolishly indulgent, she thought, towards 
 Joyce, and she knew that he had a very warm liking 
 for Hannah Thrale ; but all the same her mind was 
 firmly made up as to the course she would pursue. 
 " Don't excite yourself, mamma," he said, in his quiet, 
 kindly way. " Won't you take something before you 
 tell me all about it ? " 
 
 " No, I don't want anything, thank you ; I am 
 dreadfully upset. I came away in the middle of a 
 speech, a woman speaking, Alfred, about goodness 
 knows what. It makes me quite ashamed even to 
 talk of it to you." 
 
 " Dear me, it must have been rather bad. Tell me 
 about the meeting from the beginning. Were there 
 many people there ? " 
 
 " About forty, I should think ; the room was quite 
 full. Hannah's father was in the chair," she began 
 breathlessly. " Really, he is a fine old gentleman, 
 Alfred, and looks like a duke, or a king, or something. 
 If it were only Hannah and her father, I don't think
 
 42 "CdEn&bam's Baugbtcr. 
 
 I should mind ; but the rest and the sort of things 
 they try to teach ! Why, if they had their way every- 
 thing would be turned upside down, and we should 
 have no homes, or husbands, or children, or anything." 
 
 " Dear me, that is very extraordinary," said Alfred, 
 more amused still, but trying to hide it, for he observed 
 that his wife was very much in earnest, and also con- 
 siderably excited. 
 
 "Well, I will tell you all about it from the very 
 beginning, Alfred," she said, trying to calm herself. 
 " When I went, Hannah received me very nicely, and 
 took me into her own room to wait until all the com- 
 pany should have arrived, and really their house is 
 very clean, and everything quite nice. Even I could 
 not find a fault with it, and there is more in Hannah 
 than one would think. Well, then, after all the people 
 had assembled, she took me into the room. They 
 had the folding doors between the two small sitting- 
 rooms thrown open, and seats arranged, and really it 
 was made quite a nice little hall. I was rather inter- 
 ested in her father's speech ; he is a splendid old man, 
 Alfred, and he would be quite interesting to know if 
 he could be got away from all those dreadful people." 
 
 " I know him very well by sight, my dear," said 
 Wyndhatn ; " he is a handsome old gentleman. 
 His daughter is very much like him." 
 
 " Yes, she is. Well, after he had made his speech
 
 /tors. TJdBn&bam's Impressions of tbe /Bbeeting. 43 
 
 a young man got up Philip Dane, Hannah told 
 me his name was a long-haired fellow, not so bad- 
 looking, something like an artist or a poet, or a 
 person of that sort, you know, and he spoke a good 
 deal of sound common sense, I thought, mingled 
 with a lot of silly nonsense. To tell the truth, 
 daddy, I could not make much out of it ; but so 
 far as I understood him he was chiefly against 
 people accumulating money, and he says that every- 
 body should be equal, that we should all be brothers, 
 and so on ; you know the style of thing. You 
 would not approve of that, would you ? " 
 
 " Oh, well, the theory is all right," said Wynd- 
 ham, as he lazily refilled his pipe. " I have heard 
 it all before ; they were pounding away at the 
 same old doctrines when I was a lad and used 
 to attend their meetings about Soho and Blooms- 
 bury. I do not believe they have made much 
 headway. You see, the unfortunate thing is, it is 
 a theory that won't stand the test of practice, for 
 suppose we were to divide up all our gear with 
 what they are pleased to call our poor brothers 
 and sisters, in a week there would be another call 
 to divide again." 
 
 "That is just what I think," cried Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham triumphantly ; " and really, Alfred, I almost 
 felt as if I could have stood up and said something
 
 44 WBnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 to him I really did. But he was very much ap- 
 plauded, and several spoke in support of him, though 
 none so eloquently. That was bad enough, but I 
 do not think I should have minded it so much, but 
 really, when this woman, Mrs. Olivia Hemming, 
 began to speak, it was too terrible. Just think 
 what the subject was, Alfred I am sure you could 
 never guess if you guessed a hundred years." 
 
 " The total abolition of man, perhaps ? " said 
 Wyndham, with an amused smile. He had not en- 
 joyed anything so much for a long time. His wife 
 was quite lifted out of her ordinary placid state, 
 and seemed to be greatly upset by what she had heard. 
 
 " No, it was not that, something a great deal 
 worse, and I wish you would not laugh, Alfred, 
 because it is a very serious matter. Just think of 
 the risks Joyce has run already through being so 
 intimate with Hannah Thrale, whose nature is bound 
 to be poisoned by the pernicious things which she 
 is always hearing." 
 
 " Oh, I do not think that Joyce has taken much 
 harm as yet," said Wyndham carelessly. "Well, 
 come, let us have the head and front of the lady's 
 speech. What was the subject ? " 
 
 " Well, I could not make out just at first, because 
 she had such a flow of language. Really, she spoke 
 very well, much better than most of the men
 
 dfcrs. Tagnobam's Impressions of tbe Meeting. 45 
 
 present, and that is saying a good deal, because that 
 Philip Dane is a born orator, I should say ; but after 
 a while it began to dawn upon me that it was 
 the institution of marriage she was attacking, and 
 she said such dreadful things, Alfred, you cannot 
 think. I feel almost ashamed to tell them to you, 
 and how that old Thrale can let his daughter, a 
 mere girl, sit and listen to such terrible speaking, 
 I cannot think. But there ! she has no mother ; if 
 she had, such meetings would never be allowed in 
 the house." 
 
 "Keep to the point, my love," said Wyndham 
 persuasively. "What did she say about the 
 marriage institution, and if she abolished it, what 
 did she propose to give us in its place?" 
 
 "Oh, that I don't know," cried Mrs. Wyndham, 
 with a huge sigh. " I did not wait to hear very 
 much, because I was horrified. I could not sit 
 still, but so far as I could gather it seemed to me 
 that she was advocating a kind of free choice 
 affair, you know if one does not suit you, then 
 try another. Just think of it, Alfred, and Joyce 
 might have been there to hear." 
 
 " It is rather strong, certainly," said Wyndham, 
 "but after all, there is a lot of stuff both talked 
 and written in this world to which nobody pays 
 the slightest heed. How was it received ? "
 
 46 'OdgnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 " Oh, they seemed to think it was all right ; they 
 applauded her now and again, anyhow; but I felt 
 if I had stopped another minute I should have gone 
 up to her, and said, ' How dare you ? You are a 
 wicked woman.'" 
 
 " Well, I am glad you left before you took such 
 an extreme step, Letitia," said Wyndham ; " and I 
 quite agree with you that it is very bad training 
 for a girl like Hannah Thrale, and perhaps you 
 are right in wishing that she and Joyce were not 
 so intimate." 
 
 " I should think I am right," said Mrs. Wyndham 
 fervently. " I shall talk very seriously to Joyce to- 
 night, and also to Hannah the first time I see her. 
 In fact I shall make a point of seeing her to-morrow, 
 because I left rather abruptly to-night, without a 
 word of apology to anyone ; not that I feel that 
 any apology was due, for really I was too much 
 disgusted to say anything. On one point, however, 
 my mind is quite made up, and that is that the 
 friendship between Joyce and Hannah must come 
 to an end." 
 
 " It will be a little rough on Joyce," said Wynd- 
 ham reflectively. "She is very fond of Hannah, 
 and I must say I do not wonder at it." 
 
 "Nor do I," Mrs. Wyndham agreed, readily 
 enough. "I like Hannah myself, but you see as
 
 dfcrs. IClBn&bam's impressions of tbe /Ibeetfng. 47 
 
 well as I do, Alfred, that it is positively dangerous 
 for Joyce, with her excitable and headstrong tem- 
 perament, to be allowed to mix too much with 
 these people. She has not sufficient balance of mind 
 to discriminate between the false and the true, and 
 there is no saying to what length she might go 
 if she was to fall under the influence, for instance, 
 of that frightful Mrs. Hemming." 
 
 " Well, it would not do her much good, certainly ; 
 still, I think you are needlessly worrying yourself, 
 mother," said Wyndham soothingly. "Joyce is 
 very young ; in a year or two she will get a little 
 sense, and will cease to be interested in such things^ 
 Wait till she gets a lover or two in her train, and 
 everything will be right. Girls always do have 
 fads of some sort about her age." 
 
 " I don't know I never had," said Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham gloomily. " I had always too much to do to 
 take up with such silliness." 
 
 "Well, can't you give Joyce more to do? It 
 seems to me, Letitia, that she is really very lazy. 
 She does nothing but read, and does not even take 
 such exercise as she ought." 
 
 " Oh, I know that ; but it is very easy for you to 
 talk, Alfred," said Mrs. Wyndham, quite fretfully 
 for her. "Joyce is extremely difficult to manage, 
 although you think she is so sweet-tempered and
 
 48 TOlBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 amiable. You do not see her always. Nobody 
 knows what mothers have to put up with with girls 
 of Joyce's age. No man would ever put up with it 
 for a moment." 
 
 "Well, you can't be firm enough with her, my 
 dear," observed Wyndham, disposing of the matter 
 in the calm, judicious manner common to his kind. 
 " Just be very firm with her, and gentle as well, and 
 you will mould her as you like." 
 
 " Shall I ? " asked Mrs. Wyndham. " That is all 
 you know about it, Alfred. I just wish you would 
 take a week at home here with Joyce, and all her 
 little tempers, then we might hear a different story. 
 But there! it is no use grumbling about Joyce; 
 what I want to know is, will you support me in 
 my decision to stop the intimacy between her and 
 Hannah Thrale ? " 
 
 "Why, yes, of course I will," answered Wyndham; 
 but there was a doubtful tone in his voice, and for 
 the moment his usual peace of mind was troubled, 
 for he foresaw that this might be the beginning of 
 very serious and worrying things in his little 
 domestic world.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PHILIP DANE. 
 
 HANNAH THRALE was considerably disturbed when 
 Mrs. Wyndham suddenly rose and fled from the 
 meeting, but she was not at all surprised. She was 
 herself accustomed to the extreme utterances of Mrs. 
 Hemming, and paid but little heed to them. She 
 knew that if she could have the opportunity of a 
 little private talk with Mrs. Wyndham she would 
 be able to explain away the most pronounced part of 
 Mrs. Hemming's speech. She felt sorry that Mrs. 
 Hemming should have had the opportunity of 
 speaking in Mrs. Wyndham's hearing; it was one 
 of the unfortunate things which we deplore, but 
 cannot avert. Hannah knew by instinct that the 
 few remarks which had fallen from Mrs. Hemming's 
 lips had seriously damaged her cause with Mrs. 
 Wyndham, though they were never taken seriously 
 by those who knew the woman. A very bitter ex- 
 perience had soured a kindly nature, and because 
 
 49 D
 
 so "CClBn&bam's Baugbter. 
 
 her o\vn matrimonial venture had been a miserable 
 failure, she looked upon all questions pertaining to 
 marriage through a distorted vision. 
 
 After Mrs. Wyndham's hasty exit, Hannah re- 
 signed herself to enjoy the meeting, which she 
 generally managed to do, although she disapproved 
 of a great many of the utterances, and very decidedly 
 of most of the speakers. Those who frequented 
 Osborne Thrale's house were seceders from the 
 Fabian and other societies, and were mostly the 
 malcontents who were not likely to adhere long to 
 any particular organisations governed by rules of 
 law and order. 
 
 After the more formal part of the meeting was 
 over, there was a good deal of informal talk, and 
 they dispersed slowly, until there were only left in 
 the room the two speakers, Mrs. Hemming and 
 Philip Dane. Then it was that Philip Dane came 
 over and shook hands with Hannah. He was a 
 very intimate friend of the family. Hannah, indeed, 
 regarded him more in the light of a brother than 
 anything else, and they were comrades in every 
 sense of the word. He was of a taciturn and 
 gloomy nature, and there was something about the 
 bright, sunny-hearted girl which attracted him very 
 strongly. Yet he was not in love with her, nor she 
 with him ; it was not that sort of attraction, but
 
 pbitip Dane. 51 
 
 rather a spirit of sympathetic comradeship which 
 was very satisfying to them both. 
 
 " You spoke awfully well to-night, Phil," she said 
 quietly, and then added in a whisper, so that it 
 might not be overheard by her father and Mrs. 
 Hemming, who were talking together on the plat- 
 form, "Oh, I say, didn't friend Olivia surpass her- 
 self to-night, and did you see how she completely 
 bowled over my guest, who sat behind the door ? " 
 
 "Yes, I did," answered Dane, with an answering 
 gleam of amusement in his earnest dark eyes. 
 " Who was the lady, by the by ? " 
 
 "Oh, you will be interested to hear," answered 
 Hannah quickly. " That was Joyce Wyndham's 
 mother. And what do you think, Philip, she actu- 
 ally came to see for herself whether we were fit 
 company for Joyce, and, after Mrs. Hemming's out- 
 pourings on the marriage laws, I feel my heart 
 down in my boots." 
 
 Dane looked at her with a kind of incredulous 
 interest. She was often so full of gay banter which 
 meant nothing, that he was puzzled for the moment 
 to know whether she was now in earnest or not. 
 
 " Quite true," she said, with a nod. " I went up 
 this afternoon to see whether Joyce would come to 
 the meeting. She has wanted to come, you know, 
 dreadfully, for ever so long, and of course I had to
 
 52 TKlgn&bam's Daugbtet. 
 
 ask permission from her mother. She offered to 
 come instead, and now I doubt it is all over be- 
 tween Joyce and me." 
 
 " Oh, surely not," said Dane, with a good deal of 
 earnestness. "It will be easy enough for you to 
 explain that Mrs. Hemming is no particular friend 
 of yours." 
 
 " Well, but she is/' retorted Hannah quickly ; 
 "and I am not going to go back on Mrs. Hem- 
 ming for all the Joyces in the world. Mind you, 
 I am very fond of Joyce, and I think there is the 
 making of a splendid woman in her ; but, all the 
 same, if she comes as one of us, she has got to 
 swallow us whole. Do you understand ? " 
 
 Philip smiled, and the smile made a wonderful 
 difference to his somewhat gloomy face. He had 
 fine, clear-cut features, and there was a good deal 
 of strength in the square-cut jaw, and a certain un- 
 deniable power in the high and intellectual brow 
 which set him apart as one gifted beyond the 
 common. 
 
 "They are so dreadfully narrow-minded, those 
 complacent suburban folk," said Hannah presently. 
 " Mrs. Wyndham is, figuratively speaking, a dead 
 wall. Her prejudices are so strong that there is 
 no overcoming them. She calls herself a Liberal, 
 and I believe they read the Chronicle up at Over-
 
 pbiHp Dane. 53 
 
 ton ; but Mrs. Wyndham is the bluest of the blue 
 as far as strict Conservatism is concerned." 
 
 "And do you really think that she would go so 
 far as to forbid your being friendly with her 
 daughter simply because of what she heard here 
 to-night ? " 
 
 " I am sure of it, my dear boy," replied Hannah 
 promptly. " I saw it in her face. I am really very 
 sorry, but I rather think there will be some trouble 
 over it, for Joyce is a little headstrong, and is be- 
 ginning to demand greater liberty than they are 
 inclined to allow her. What should you think is my 
 duty in this instance ? " 
 
 " Well, if she wants to be friendly with you, you 
 cannot very well refuse, can you?" said Dane, and 
 it struck Hannah that his reply took the form of 
 a rather anxious question. 
 
 " I think I shall simply let matters drift ; I do 
 not see what else I can do," she said. " Now I 
 must go and rescue father from friend Olivia. Don't 
 you think he looks dreadfully bored? Sometimes, 
 after a tiring day or an unusually exciting meeting, 
 he looks so old it cuts me to the heart." 
 
 The girl's face became suffused with a tenderness 
 so living and so exquisite that it struck Philip 
 Dane almost painfully. He knew that she was de- 
 votedly attached to her father, but never had the
 
 54 "GdBnObam's Daughter. 
 
 passion of her love been so revealed to him. It 
 made him sad; he had seen a good deal of the 
 dark side of life, and he knew that those suffer 
 most who love most truly, and it struck him what 
 a desolate creature Hannah Thrale would be upon 
 the face of the earth were her father taken from 
 her. 
 
 "What are you thinking of?" she asked, suddenly 
 struck by the intenseness of his look. 
 
 "I was thinking of you," he answered simply; 
 " and though I do not pray much, Hannah, I could 
 pray that you and he may be spared to each other 
 for many years." 
 
 She answered him only by a quick nod ; her 
 heart was too full for speech. Then she crossed 
 the room rapidly to her father's side. 
 
 "You want your coffee badly, father. Will you 
 join us, Mrs. Hemming? Only on condition that 
 you don't speak much," she said, with a delicious 
 mixture of frankness and naivete. "You see, daddy 
 is so dreadfully tired, and I have to take such care 
 of him. He is just like a baby in my hands." 
 
 As she stood at his side she laid her cheek on 
 his shoulder, and he bent his grey head until it 
 touched hers. The pathos of the picture struck 
 the two who looked on, and long remained a 
 memory in their hearts.
 
 pbilip 2>ane. 55 
 
 " Oh, I won't stay, my dear," said Mrs. Hemming 
 promptly. " I know I speak too much, but it is not 
 always that one has such a sympathetic listener. 
 You are right to take care of him, child. Osborne 
 Thrale is precious to many hearts, and London can- 
 not spare him yet." 
 
 " I am spoiled by my friends," said the old man, 
 with a sweet smile, " and I think my Hannah is apt 
 to indulge me too much. I hope you will stay if you 
 can ; we shall be honoured by your company." 
 
 There was a certain old-fashioned chivalry in his 
 manner towards women, which impressed even the 
 most advanced who wished to fight shoulder to 
 shoulder with men without being shown any of the 
 little courtesies which most women prize. Mrs. 
 Hemming believed Osborne Thrale to be one of the 
 very few good men still left in the land. 
 
 " I won't stay to-night, thank you perhaps another 
 night. Just 'get me my jacket, will you, child ? I 
 must be going." 
 
 Hannah brought the unlovely and ill-fitting gar- 
 ment from its peg in the hall, and helped her to dress. 
 Then Philip Dane went downstairs and put her in 
 the omnibus which bore her to her home. 
 
 When he returned to the house, Hannah called to 
 him to come into the kitchen. The little maid went 
 early to bed, and the Thrales often spent a cosy hour
 
 5 6 WgnDbam's Daugbter. 
 
 by the kitchen fire, where Hannah made the coffee on 
 the stove, and set out the modest repast on the little 
 deal table. It was very quiet, too, being at the back 
 of the house, and removed from the din and traffic of 
 the street. Philip Dane was very much at home in 
 that little den, which he sometimes declared was the 
 pleasantest spot to him in the whole of London. 
 Osborne Thrale regarded Philip Dane almost as a 
 son. He had befriended him in his friendless youth, 
 and often wished, for Dane's own sake, that he had 
 chosen a different career. He always called himself 
 a workman, and there was a certain pride in the self- 
 adopted title. He was, in reality, the manager of a 
 large building concern which employed a great many 
 men. He felt his position very acutely, because he 
 was in a manner muzzled, and knew that to seek to 
 disseminate the doctrines which were as gospel to 
 him among his fellow workmen would have meant 
 instant dismissal. This to Philip Dane would have 
 mattered nothing had there been only himself to 
 consider ; but of his private life we shall hear again. 
 
 They talked earnestly while Hannah busied herself 
 about the supper-table. She was interested, of 
 course, in the subject of their talk, and yet she did 
 not listen with that avidity which sometimes distin- 
 guished her, and Dane thought her singularly silent. 
 He would have been very much astonished could he
 
 ' Oh, I won't stay, my dear," mid Mrs. Hemming promptly. 
 
 [Page 55.
 
 fcbilfp Dane. 57 
 
 have followed the train of her thought. She was 
 thinking of the breezy stretch of common where she 
 had been that afternoon, and of the pleasant seat 
 under the trees, where she and Joyce had been waited 
 on by sundry tall fellows in flannel suits and straw 
 hats, who looked as if they had no vocation on earth 
 except to interest and amuse them. 
 
 Philip Dane did not make any fresh allusions to 
 Joyce, although he remained later than usual, but the 
 look which had been on his face when she was 
 spoken of remained in Hannah's mind, and she 
 could not refrain from mentioning it to her father 
 when they were alone. 
 
 " I am afraid it is all up between Joyce and me, 
 daddy," she said, when she came back from the door, 
 where she had bidden Dane good-night. " How 
 many times do you suppose Philip Dane and Joyce 
 have met here ? " 
 
 " I could not say, child. Why do you ask such an 
 odd question ? " queried the old man, looking up 
 rather interested. 
 
 " Oh, because I thought that Philip looked quite 
 unduly distressed when I said to him that I thought 
 friend Olivia had rung the death-knell to our friend- 
 ship. Could you imagine any catastrophe more 
 appalling than that Philip Dane and Joyce should 
 fall in love with each other ? "
 
 58 TWlgn&bam's Daugbter. 
 
 It was a proof of the intimate understanding which 
 existed between Osborne Thrale and his daughter 
 that she could thus confide to him every fleeting 
 thought. He looked rather amused, not moved to 
 take her seriously. 
 
 " Philip Dane is a very fine young man, and any 
 woman might be proud to call him husband," he said 
 warmly ; " but I do not think he is a marrying man." 
 
 " Oh, all men say that until they meet the woman 
 they want," said Hannah quickly. " But really, it 
 would be a comedy, only it might very easily develop 
 into a tragedy. I do hope there is nothing in it" 
 
 " What makes you think there might be ? " 
 
 "Well, a kind of indescribable look I saw in 
 Philip's eyes when I spoke of it, and now that I come 
 to think of it I believe I have noticed the very same 
 look in Joyce's eyes. You know they do like to talk 
 to each other; you have noticed that yourself. Per- 
 haps it will be a very good thing for all concerned if 
 Mrs. Wyndham does put her foot down very strongly, 
 and I do not think there is any doubt that she will 
 do it." 
 
 " Were I Joyce Wyndham's father," observed 
 Osborne Thrale, " I should not take the least ob- 
 jection to Philip Dane as a son-in-law. He has a 
 fine intellect and a heart of gold." 
 
 " Well, but you and Joyce Wyndham's father are
 
 Ipbilip 2>ane. 59 
 
 two very different persons, daddy, and I can assure 
 you that Philip Dane might just as well ask one of 
 the Queen's daughters as ask for Joyce. However, I 
 hope things are not so serious as that. It will be 
 rather interesting, now, awaiting the development of 
 events. Do you think I should go up to Overton 
 Hall to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " asked the old man. He did not, of 
 course, appreciate the situation so much as Hannah. 
 " You had better go up, I think, and see what Mrs. 
 Wyndham thought of our meeting. I am very glad 
 that she heard Philip. Don't you think he spoke 
 well ? " 
 
 "Yes; but she also heard Mrs. Hemming," said 
 Hannah, with a groan, " and I do not think it pos- 
 sible for us to explain her away."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 IN A CLERKENWELL FLAT. 
 
 PHILIP DANE lived in Clerkenwell, occupying a small 
 flat at the very top of one of those huge model 
 buildings which have been erected in place of the 
 old insanitary dwellings occupied by the poor in 
 that and other neighbourhoods. It was almost mid- 
 night when he fitted his latch-key in his own door, 
 but the roar of traffic was still in the streets, the car 
 bells jingled noisily, and the taverns were beginning 
 to disgorge their frequenters as the closing hour 
 approached. It was, comparatively speaking, quiet 
 in the top storey of the building. A long climb up 
 the weary stairs was rewarded by a breath of clear 
 air, and it was possible to obtain from the windows a 
 sweeping view over the great forest of roofs in that 
 thickly populated part of London. The clear, high, 
 massive dome of St. Paul's stood out against the 
 blueness of the sky, lit by a glorious moon already 
 
 on the wane. Philip Dane loved his little home in 
 
 60
 
 3n a Clerfcenwell fflat. 61 
 
 that busy hive, and he would not have exchanged it 
 for the palace of a king. It pleased him to dwell 
 among his fellow-workers, among the people whose 
 needs and wants, whose sorrows and temptations he 
 knew, and sometimes could alleviate. He knew 
 every family in the building, and was honoured and 
 loved by them as a wise friend and a sympathising 
 counsellor, who neither spared sympathy nor rebuke. 
 He opened the door softly, and walked along the 
 little passage with the gentle step of a man who 
 fears to disturb someone within. 
 
 " It's all right, Philly, I'm not sleeping," called out 
 a shrill, sweet voice, to which Dane replied by a 
 cheery whistle as he hung up his hat. 
 
 " And what do you mean by being awake at this 
 hour of the night, you rogue ? " he cried banteringly. 
 " I shall have to give up going out in the evenings, 
 Bobbie, if you are to lie awake like this, with your 
 great eyes staring out into the darkness, counting the 
 minutes, I suppose, until I come home." 
 
 By the time he had finished this speech he was in 
 the middle of the kitchen, and had turned up the gas. 
 It was a very small, humble place, but neat and 
 scrupulously clean. It was furnished with the usual 
 articles for kitchen use, but had in addition a little 
 cot bed, which stood in a recess at the further side of 
 the fireplace, and was occupied by the person ad-
 
 62 "CClBn&bam's Daugbter. 
 
 dressed as Bobbie. To look at him as he lay there, 
 with his pale, sharp-featured face framed by its dark 
 curls, might have given a chance observer the im- 
 pression that he was a mere child ; but after a minute 
 or two his face seemed to assume an older look ; the 
 features had none of the rounded softness of child- 
 hood, and there was a wise and sad look in the eyes 
 which spoke of experience, and also of suffering. 
 Bobbie was the only relative Philip Dane had on 
 earth, and though there was a disparity of ten years 
 in their ages, they loved each other with a love 
 seldom seen .between brothers, and were comrades 
 and companions who had never had a difference or a 
 shadow of a cloud upon the perfect understanding 
 between them. The tie which bound them was one 
 of rare pathos. Bobbie was one of those whom we 
 speak of sorrowfully as the deformed ; he had 
 suffered from early childhood with a spinal complaint, 
 which had grown worse and worse year by year, and 
 though he now suffered less than formerly, he was 
 entirely helpless, and dependent on others for every 
 comfort and necessity of his life. This legacy 
 Philip Dane's mother had left to him on her dying 
 bed, and he had fulfilled his vow to her with a 
 devotion and unselfishness which is rare. It was 
 repaid by Bobbie's adoring worship, absolute, passion- 
 ate, and intense. The world, indeed, held but one
 
 3n a Glerfcenwell aflat 63 
 
 object for Bobbie Dane : his whole life was summed 
 up in the word Philip. 
 
 He raised himself on his elbow as his brother 
 entered the kitchen, and his big black eyes grew 
 round and wide with interest as he asked what kind 
 of a meeting they had had. It was not to be won- 
 dered at that Bobbie took an interest in such things 
 far beyond his years. He had nothing to do but lie 
 and think when he was tired with reading, and he 
 was a fervent disciple of the doctrines in which his 
 brother believed, seeing eye to eye with him in every- 
 thing. The discussions which took place in that 
 little kitchen in the top floor of Brandon Buildings 
 would have astonished and opened the eyes of any 
 who had been privileged to overhear them. It was 
 not very long before Bobbie discovered that his 
 brother was much quieter than usual the loving eye 
 is quick to discern every passing change on the face 
 of the loved one. Bobbie saw that Philip was grieved 
 or troubled about something, and that he was not 
 so ready as usual to reply to his eager questions. 
 
 " When is Hannah coming to see me ? " he asked, 
 by way of making a little diversion, when he saw 
 Philip sit down at the fireplace and take up his pipe 
 without making any effort to get himself a bit of 
 supper. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, I didn't ask her. I daresay
 
 Daughter. 
 
 she'd come to-morrow if she knew you wanted to see 
 her." 
 
 " I do want to see her, always," answered Bobbie 
 quickly. " It is two weeks since she was here. Will 
 you tell her that when you see her ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will. I daresay she'll come at once. 
 Would you like me to write a little note to her, as I 
 don't think I shall be seeing her for a few days ? " 
 
 " Why, ain't they going to have any more meet- 
 ings ? " queried Bobbie, with interest. 
 
 " Not just yet. There is a demonstration in Hyde 
 Park on Sunday afternoon, and I am going to take 
 you to see it." 
 
 " Are you ? " asked Bobbie, his face flushing with 
 excitement and pleasure. " But how can you take 
 me ? I am too big to carry." 
 
 " Yes, to carry all the way ; but I think, perhaps, 
 I might be able to afford a hansom for such a great 
 occasion," said Philip, with a slow, affectionate smile. 
 " Just think of that, Bobbie, a ride in a hansom, and 
 then a seat on the platform in Hyde Park. Then you 
 will hear Mr. Thrale speak, and Hannah will be 
 there, too." 
 
 " You like Hannah, don't you, Philly ? " asked the 
 boy, with his big black eyes fixed searchingly on his 
 brother's face. 
 
 " Yes, I like Hannah immensely ; in fact I don't
 
 5n a Clerfcenwell aflat. 65 
 
 think I like anybody in the world better except 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad you said ' except you,' " cried 
 the boy, " and that is all right. I don't mind you 
 liking her after me." 
 
 Dane listened to the boy's chatter without noticing 
 that it had a certain significance. Bobbie had many 
 strange thoughts as he lay there through the long 
 hours of the afternoon and evening, after the neigh- 
 bour who came to do the housework had gone for the 
 day. He also built many towering and lovely castles 
 in the air. One of them, perhaps the greatest 
 favourite of all, was of a day that should come 
 when Philip should marry Hannah Thrale, and when 
 they should all go into the country and live in a little 
 cottage planted in an old-fashioned garden, where 
 grew the roses and hollyhocks which Bobbie had 
 read of but never seen. ' This dream was too fondly 
 cherished as yet to be shared even with his brother. 
 This was indeed the first hint that he had ever 
 dropped concerning it, and he was rather glad 
 than otherwise to see that Philip did not take it 
 up. 
 
 It was rather a disappointing evening to Bobbie 
 altogether. Philip smoked his pipe almost in silence, 
 and when it went out he said good-night rather 
 abruptly, and went off to bed. But next morning he
 
 66 'Cdgnftbam's Baugbter. 
 
 was pleasant and talkative as usual, although he did 
 not say very much about his experience of the pre- 
 vious evening. This gave Bobbie quite sufficient to 
 reflect upon all day. 
 
 Dane was engaged on some building not far re- 
 moved from the Thrales' house, in Camberwell Road. 
 At the dinner hour, after he had partaken of his 
 simple lunch, he had sufficient time to make a call 
 there, and felt moved to do it. As he came out of 
 the side street in which the building shed was situ- 
 ated, and into the busier thoroughfare of Camber- 
 well Road, he saw Joyce Wyndham alight from a car 
 at the terminus where it had stopped. He felt 
 annoyed with himself that his face should so quickly 
 flush; he was in his workman's garb, and was not 
 ashamed of it, but he hesitated a moment whether to 
 wait for her recognition or hurry on as if he had not 
 seen her. She, however, solved his difficulty by a 
 pleasant smile and bow as she stepped from the 
 car, and as he raised his cap she came forward and 
 extended her hand frankly. It was the sort of thing 
 which pleased Joyce very much at that stage of her 
 advancing thought to speak to a workman in his 
 working garb in the street in the broad light of day, 
 to shake hands with him as if he were a valued 
 friend, and to observe that one or two people were 
 struck by her action, gave her quite a little thrill of
 
 5n a Clerfcenwell fflat. 67 
 
 excitement. It did not displease her to behold on 
 the opposite side of the road a maiden lady who was 
 on intimate visiting terms with her mother, and who, 
 she felt sure, would not fail to give her a highly- 
 coloured account of the affair. She was looking 
 well, and was always becomingly dressed ; but that 
 was no particular credit to her her mother order- 
 ing and directing every item of her attire. Philip 
 Dane was pleased when she spoke to him, simply, 
 genuinely, and honestly happy. He had never 
 before felt the slightest sensitiveness regarding his 
 position or appearance, and it troubled him a good 
 deal that he should be visited even by occasional 
 qualms regarding it. 
 
 " You did not come to the meeting last night, Miss 
 Wyndham," he said, looking into her face with his 
 honest, piercing eyes; "but I heard from Miss Thrale 
 that your mother was present." 
 
 " Yes, and oh, she has gone on about it ever since ! 
 Whatever did Mrs. Hemming say or do last night ? 
 She seems to have horrified my mother terribly. I 
 have heard ominously little about it, and that makes 
 me fear all the more." 
 
 " Fear what ? " asked Dane sharply. 
 
 " Fear that she won't let me come any more. Isn't 
 it horrid to be tied up as I am ? I am really a kind 
 of first-class prisoner, Mr. Dane; I can't do anything
 
 68 Qmgn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 or go anywhere, scarcely, without leave. I do envy 
 Hannah." 
 
 "But you have a very happy home, Miss Thrale 
 tells me," Dane ventured to say. 
 
 Joyce gave her shoulders a little shrug. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I am quite happy as far as my home is 
 concerned ; I have no fault to find with it Indeed, 
 I should be most ungrateful if I said anything else ; 
 but I do want to see something outside the four walls 
 of Overton Hall. There are too many restrictions. 
 For instance, if mother were to see me speaking to 
 you now, she would be sure to have something 
 to say about it. That is the sort of thing I can't 
 stand, really, Mr. Dane. What should you advise me 
 to do?" 
 
 She said this with a charming frankness which 
 almost carried Philip Dane away. 
 
 "Well, I don't think there is anything you can do," 
 he answered, quietly enough. " Perhaps by-and-by 
 your father and mother may give you a little more 
 liberty. Of course, you are still very young." 
 
 " Not so very young," put in Joyce quickly. " I 
 am nineteen, only a little younger than Hannah, and 
 she has been her own mistress ever so long." 
 
 "Ah, but you see she lost her mother when she 
 was a mere girl, and had to fill a woman's place. 
 That makes a great difference."
 
 3n a Glerfcenwell jflat. 69 
 
 " I suppose it does," said Joyce, with rather a dis- 
 contented look on her face. " How is your poor 
 little brother? Hannah has told me about him." 
 
 Dane's face flushed ; her sympathy and interest 
 were sweet to him, doubly sweet as they were quite 
 unexpected. 
 
 " Oh, he is as well as he will ever be, poor little 
 chap," he answered, and Joyce was struck by the 
 lingering tenderness of his voice, and by the softness 
 in his eye as he spoke. " But he is very bright, and 
 never complains, even when he happens to have a 
 very bad day." 
 
 " I should love to come and see him. Do you 
 think I might, one day ? " 
 
 " You might, certainly, if you would be so kind," 
 replied Dane, a trifle unsteadily. " Bobbie has not 
 many visitors ; he knows how to prize them when 
 they come. May I tell him you will come one 
 day?" 
 
 "Yes, do. When shall I come? I 'always like 
 to settle things if possible. I have no sympathy 
 with the people who are always talking vaguely 
 about doing things, have you ? " 
 
 " I have certainly more sympathy with the 
 workers than the talkers," answered Dane readily. 
 "If you could come on a Saturday afternoon or a 
 Sunday, I should then share in Bobbie's pleasure."
 
 70 "CClBnObam's Daughter. 
 
 " Then I will come on Saturday with Hannah, 
 if I can arrange with her," answered Joyce quickly. 
 " Now I must positively go, for it is lunch time, 
 and we are nothing if not punctual at home. I 
 am very glad to have seen you. Good-bye." 
 
 She extended her hand frankly to him as before, 
 and the shade of her lace parasol softened the 
 flush which his close hand-clasp brought to her face. 
 There was something more than mere elation at 
 her own daring in Joyce Wyndham's heart as she 
 walked slowly up Denmark Hill, a thing she could 
 not, and did not seek, to analyse. As for Dane, 
 he turned back from his intention of visiting the 
 Thrales, and re-entering the building yard, sat 
 down on a stool and smoked another pipe. What 
 were the thoughts accompanying it, who shall tell ?
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DAUGHTER AGAINST MOTHER. 
 
 JOYCE and her mother generally lunched alone ; 
 sometimes a friend would drop in at that informal 
 meal, however, and Mrs. Wyndham, hospitable by 
 nature, always accorded them a warm welcome. 
 When Joyce walked into the house a little late that 
 day, she was astonished, and a little annoyed, to 
 find with her mother the lady who had observed 
 her talking with Philip Dane. Her name was Miss 
 Maddison. She was an elderly spinster, who had 
 a large income, and nothing to do but concern 
 herself with other people's" business, which she 
 did most assiduously. During the five minutes 
 she had been in the house with Mrs. Wyndham 
 she had not failed to acquaint her with the little 
 scene she had witnessed at the bottom of Denmark 
 Hill. Mrs. Wyndham heard her politely, clever 
 enough to assume an indifference she was far from 
 feeling. She had been very much upset all day, 
 
 and had indeed been bracing herself to have it out 
 
 7 1
 
 72 'CClBn&bam's Baugbter. 
 
 with Joyce. Miss Maddison's presence at lunch 
 was not altogether unwelcome to her ; she was a 
 woman who hated scenes, and she feared that her 
 plain talking to her daughter would cause her a 
 good deal of pain. Joyce heartily disliked Miss 
 Maddison, and as she saw no particular reason why 
 she should be civil to her if she did not feel in- 
 clined, she left the conversation almost entirely to 
 her mother and their guest. 
 
 " You are very quiet, Joyce, my dear," said Miss 
 Maddison, suddenly leaving her talk of church 
 matters with Mrs. Wyndham, and pouncing down 
 upon Joyce, with her double eye-glass set firmly 
 across her piercing black eyes. " Perhaps you are 
 thinking of the tete-a-tete you had down the road. 
 Pray, who was your interesting companion ? " 
 
 :< His name is Dane, but I don't suppose you are 
 any the wiser, Miss Maddison," said Joyce, in her 
 most disagreeable manner. " Mother, may I leave 
 the table? It is so very hot, and I don't want 
 any pudding." 
 
 " You may, certainly, if you wish it," replied Mrs. 
 Wyndham, but she was not well pleased. Joyce, 
 however, did not care. She could not tolerate the 
 presence and company of Miss Maddison in her 
 present mood, and she hoped with all her heart 
 that she would take herself off whenever lunch was
 
 3>au0bter agatnst jflBotber. 73 
 
 over. This she did, finding the atmosphere of the 
 Wyndham household less pleasant than usual. Her 
 next step was to walk on to a neighbouring house, 
 and give it as her opinion that there was 
 something decidedly queer about Joyce Wynd- 
 ham. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham walked to the front gate with her 
 visitor, and then sought Joyce in a little summer- 
 house hidden among the trees, which was her favourite 
 resort on these hot afternoons. She was sitting idly, 
 with her hands clasped on her lap, and when her 
 mother entered she merely moved up a little on the 
 seat in order to make room for her, but made no re- 
 mark. Mrs. Wyndham sat down, and after a full 
 minute's silence turned to her daughter. 
 
 " I wish to speak to you, Joyce." 
 
 " Yes, mother," Joyce answered quietly, " I know 
 you do. I have been waiting for you to speak all 
 day." 
 
 " I have thought a good deal; my dear, about what 
 1 am going to say," said Mrs. Wyndham, " because I 
 wish it to be final. Before I go any further, my dear, 
 I would like to ask you one question." 
 
 " Yes, mother," answered Joyce, in a wonderfully 
 subdued voice. 
 
 " Are you assured of our love for you, your father's 
 and mine ? "
 
 74 'CdgnDbam's Dausbter. 
 
 " Why, yes, mother; I have never doubted it. How 
 should I ? " Joyce answered quickly enough. 
 
 " If you are assured of that, then, Joyce, you must 
 believe that we have nothing but your best interests 
 at heart, and that we would not willingly do anything 
 to vex or even to cross you. I think we have done 
 our best to give you a happy life." 
 
 " Oh, yes, you have given me everything, and I 
 haven't been grateful enough," Joyce answered. 
 
 " We have sacrificed some things for you, even, but 
 I need not enter into that here. I daresay you will 
 understand what all these preliminaries mean. I, am 
 going to ask you to do something for us now." 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Joyce, in a low, dull voice, 
 " give up Hannah Thrale." 
 
 " Yes. I went to the meeting last night with an 
 unprejudiced mind, although you may not believe 
 that, and I tried to take a just view of what I saw and 
 heard, and I came away determined that you should 
 not have any further dealings with these people if I 
 could help it." 
 
 " I should like very much, mother, if you will tell 
 me what you did hear," said Joyce, still quietly, but 
 with a harder note in her voice. 
 
 " I don't see that anything is to be gained by going 
 over what I heard, Joyce ; a good deal of nonsense, 
 and a good deal of what I considered worse than
 
 Daughter against /Dbotber, 75 
 
 nonsense most pernicious teaching, and I did not at 
 all like the look of the people ; they are a common 
 set entirely. I am not speaking of Hannah Thrale 
 and her father ; they are gentlefolk, anyone can see 
 that, and yet people are known, are they not, by the 
 company they keep ? " 
 
 "I do not think that Hannah has ever got any 
 harm from such company, mother," said Joyce 
 gloomily ; " and they are all very much in earnest. 
 It seems to me that they have something to live for ; 
 I have nothing." 
 
 The last words were uttered with a good deal of 
 passion, and they sent a stab to her mother's heart. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear you say you have nothing to 
 live for ; one might think that your father and mother 
 and your brother counted for a little. However, let 
 it pass. I spoke to your father last night, and he 
 entirely agreed with me that you should stop your 
 intimacy with the Thrales. We have both noticed a 
 great change in you since you began to be so much 
 in Hannah's company." 
 
 " What kind of a change, mother, may I ask ? " 
 asked Joyce quickly. 
 
 " Well, you are growing so discontented that 
 nothing seems to satisfy you. You do not take that 
 healthy interest which a girl of your age ought to 
 take in the ordinary affairs of life."
 
 76 1!ClBnz>bam's smugbter. 
 
 "They are so trivial," replied Joyce. "I can't 
 think how any human being could be satisfied with 
 the ordinary routine of life which falls to the lot of a 
 girl in my position." 
 
 " That is the distorted view you take of it, my dear," 
 answered her mother sadly. " There are very many 
 who might envy you. I am quite willing to admit 
 that it is a little hard upon you to be called upon to 
 give up your friend, and in order that it may be done 
 gradually, in the way which would make you feel it 
 least, your father and I are both agreed that it would 
 be a very good plan for you to go to Paris, and live 
 six months with your Aunt Grace." 
 
 A year ago such a proposal would have filled Joyce 
 with the liveliest delight, but now it did not even 
 cause a flutter at her heart 
 
 "You are banishing me as if I were a criminal. 
 Do you think that six months of Aunt Grace would 
 make me forget Hannah Thrale ? It is a mistake, 
 mother." 
 
 " I don't care whether you forget her or not," 
 replied her mother firmly; "but I am determined that 
 there shall be no comings and goings to her house so 
 long as those extraordinary and objectionable people 
 frequent it. Understand that my mind is finally 
 made up on this point, Joyce. I have given in a good 
 deal to you of late, but there comes a time when a
 
 2>augbter against flbotber. 77 
 
 parent must assert her authority, or her position is 
 lost." 
 
 " But why should I be under authority ? " cried 
 Joyce rebelliously. " I am nineteen, and I am not a 
 fool ; surely I know my own mind, and it shows how 
 very little you can trust me, mother, if you think I 
 am going to be contaminated by any of the foolish 
 things that are said at socialistic meetings in Mr. 
 Thrale's house. Why, even Hannah herself sees 
 through them and makes fun of them." 
 
 " All the same, they exercise a sort of influence 
 upon character and life," replied Mrs. Wyndham. 
 " Hannah Thrale is a very capable young woman, who 
 can look after herself, and besides, she is of a stronger 
 and more practical nature than you. Believe me, 
 Joyce, I know what I am talking about, and I am 
 sure that if you allow yourself to be carried away by 
 the false teaching of those dissenters from all law and 
 order, you will make shipwreck of your life." 
 
 Joyce remained silent, but an active rebellion shone 
 in her eyes, which seemed to be aimlessly watching 
 the leaves fluttering in the June sunshine. 
 
 " You heard what Miss Maddison said at lunch," 
 said Mrs. Wyndham, suddenly changing the subject. 
 " She gave me a little account of what she had seen 
 down the road. Of course I understood it to be 
 slightly embellished, but what I want to know is,
 
 78 TDHgnSbam's Daughter. 
 
 what acquaintance have you with this young fellow 
 Dane ? He may be very clever, but is, I understand, 
 quite a common workman." 
 
 Joyce's face flushed hotly. 
 
 " I have very little acquaintance with him. I have 
 seen him once or twice at the Thrales', that is all. 
 Miss Maddison is a hateful old gossip. Women like 
 her, who have no occupation but gadding about from 
 house to house retailing gossip and tearing up people's 
 characters, ought to be shut up. I think they are 
 quite as dangerous as lunatics." 
 
 "That is not the point, Joyce," said Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham. " Understand that neither your father nor I 
 choose that you should be on intimate terms with 
 any person, a young man especially, whom we cannot 
 invite to the house." 
 
 " You might invite him," said Joyce, with a 
 slight, enigmatical smile, " but he would not 
 come." 
 
 Somehow the tone of the words and the expres- 
 sion which accompanied them irritated Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham in no small degree. 
 
 " That is not a becoming way to speak, Joyce," 
 she said sharply. " I see that you are not at all 
 inclined to be guided by us in this matter. I 
 should like to put a straight question to you. 
 Suppose you don't go to your Aunt Grace, would
 
 2>augbter against jflfcotber. 79 
 
 you continue your friendship with Hannah Thrale 
 against our expressed wish?" 
 
 " Mother, I am afraid I should," Joyce answered, 
 with a good deal of quiet daring. This contest 
 had been imminent for a considerable time, and 
 now that it had arrived, she was determined not 
 to be a coward. " I know you are dreadfully 
 shocked ; but listen, mother, and I am sure you 
 will see the injustice of it. Here am I at nineteen, 
 almost a woman, ordered as if I were a mere 
 child to give up the friend I love best in the 
 world. Even you yourself admit that Hannah 
 Thrale is a splendid woman, and it is only because 
 you are afraid of the objectionable people I may 
 meet at their house that you wish to put an end 
 to our friendship. What explanation can I give 
 her? I think it would be most cruel and wicked 
 to ask me to do any such thing." 
 
 " Nevertheless, we do not only ask it, but we 
 shall insist upon it," said Mrs. Wyndham, in a 
 tone which Joyce had not often heard, but which 
 she knew to be final. " It is painful for us, my 
 dear," she added sadly, "that any such discussion 
 or difference should ever be possible between us. 
 I was very happy when you were born, and I said 
 to your father that I had nothing on earth left 
 to wish for. We had a good deal of anxiety over
 
 8o 'GClBn&bam's 2>au0bter. 
 
 you when you were a baby, and I had to pray to 
 God many a time to bring you back to us from 
 the very brink of the grave. I did not anticipate 
 a sorrow like this, Joyce." 
 
 " But why should it be a sorrow ? " asked Joyce 
 quickly, secretly moved by her mother's words, 
 and by the distressed look on her face. " Don't 
 you think that a girl ought to be allowed to 
 choose her own friends ? " 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham shook her head. " She is often, 
 by reason of her inexperience and lack of know- 
 ledge of the world, the very worst person to choose 
 her own friends. In this case you must permit 
 me to be the better judge, Joyce. I know how 
 it is with you, how easily your sympathies are 
 aroused, and how your passionate temperament 
 is quick to respond to the appeals made to your 
 heart rather than to your judgment. It is very 
 bad for a young girl to make herself conspicuous 
 in any way, and you will certainly very soon be- 
 come conspicuous and talked about if you identify 
 yourself with the people who hold meetings at 
 the house of the Thrales." 
 
 " It is Mrs. Grundy you are afraid of, mother," 
 said Joyce, with a faint, scornful smile; "but I 
 assure you that I am not going to allow Mrs. 
 Grundy to be the ruler of my life."
 
 Daugbter against dfcotber. st 
 
 " Nor your mother either, apparently," said Mrs. 
 Wyndham, in a dry, hard voice, for she felt the 
 futility of all their talk, " Then you will not break 
 your connection with the Thrales for your father's 
 sake and mine ? " 
 
 " I don't see how I can, mother, and really, if I 
 give in on this point, where is it to end ? I shall 
 have no liberty of action whatever." 
 
 " Then you may prepare for six months in Paris," 
 said Mrs. Wyndham curtly. " I shall write to your 
 Aunt Grace to-night." 
 
 So saying she rose, and walking into the house, 
 shut herself in her own room, where she shed some 
 very bitter tears. It was the first time Joyce had 
 openly defied her, and she felt for the time being 
 almost at her wit's end.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A TALK WITH HANNAH THRALE. 
 
 JOYCE sat still for about a quarter of an hour after 
 her mother left her, and then she got up as if 
 struck by a sudden thought, and entering the 
 house, got her gloves and sunshade. As she 
 walked rather quickly down the shady side of the 
 hill, and thence to the shelterless pavements of 
 Camberwell Road, she felt considerable excite- 
 ment, not unmingled with a certain exultation, 
 for this was her first revolting step, and she 
 wondered much what would be the outcome of it. 
 No qualms of conscience visited her ; she con- 
 sidered that she was unjustly dealt with, that her 
 mother treated her too much like a child, and she 
 believed that the time had come when she should 
 make a stand for her position. 
 
 Hot as it was out of doors, the little sitting-room 
 of the Thrales was wonderfully cool ; the blinds 
 were closely drawn, and both windows being wide 
 
 open, a pleasant current of air passed through the 
 
 82
 
 witb f>annab tTbrale, 83 
 
 room, and when Joyce was admitted by the little 
 maid-servant, she sank into the nearest chair with 
 a sigh of content. Presently, Hannah came to her 
 with a big cooking-apron over her print gown, 
 and sundry little patches of flour, not unbecoming 
 on her cheeks and chin. 
 
 " I was making a cake, and the crucial moment 
 in the beating-up process had just arrived as you 
 came to the door. That is why you have had 
 to wait," she said. " Isn't it hot ? I think I have 
 been rather expecting you all day." 
 
 " Can you sit down now," said Joyce, " and let 
 us have a good talk ? I have ever so many things 
 to say to you." 
 
 " Well, just wait till I take off my apron and 
 rub the smudges off my face," said Hannah, and 
 with a nod she left her. 
 
 Joyce removed her gloves, took her hat off, then 
 leaning back in the rocking-chair, she swayed 
 gently to and fro enjoying the cool and darkened 
 atmosphere of the room. When Hannah returned 
 she threw herself on the couch, and folding her 
 arms under her head turned interestedly to her 
 friend. 
 
 "Well, I am ready for the report. What was 
 the verdict and the sentence ? " 
 
 " What you might have expected," answered
 
 's Daugbtet. 
 
 Joyce. "Oh, Hannah, wasn't it the very irony 
 of fate that your Mrs. Hemming should happen 
 to have been at the meeting last night ? Nothing 
 worse could possibly have happened from mamma's 
 point of view." 
 
 " I knew it would be all up when I saw friend 
 Olivia come in," said Hannah soberly ; " but I 
 hope that your mother will not put an end to our 
 friendship, Joyce." 
 
 " She has done so," answered Joyce ; " at least she 
 has told me this afternoon that she desires us to 
 break with each other." 
 
 "And what did you say?" asked Hannah, with 
 a good deal of interest. 
 
 " I refused," answered Joyce. "It was very 
 difficult, of course, but I did refuse." 
 
 Hannah lay still a moment with her eyes turned 
 towards the ceiling, where she watched the flies 
 dancing for several minutes in silence. 
 
 " But where is the good ? " she asked at length. 
 " You know as well as I do, Joyce, that you cannot 
 be intimate with me if your mother says no." 
 
 " Why can't I ? " asked Joyce, with a distinctly 
 rebellious note in her voice. " A man does not ask 
 his father and mother's leave to have a friend. Why 
 should I ? " 
 
 " I don't think that your brother has many
 
 8 ftalfc wttb Ibannab ftbrale. 85 
 
 friends of whom his father and mother do not 
 approve," observed Hannah quietly. 
 
 " That is right enough," answered Joyce ; " but 
 then, you see, there are few such good boys as Tom. 
 You know as well as I do that men constantly make 
 and keep friends outside, whom their home people 
 do not at all approve of." 
 
 "What is the inference?" asked Hannah, with 
 a lazy smile. "That I am an objectionable ac- 
 quaintance who ought to be kept outside ? " 
 
 " Don't be tiresome, Hannah," said Joyce quickly. 
 " And you don't seem to me to take this matter 
 as seriously as it ought to be taken. Here have I 
 defied my mother for your sake, and you don't seem 
 to mind a bit. It is because I think you are worth 
 the sacrifice, Hannah, that I have made it." 
 
 "But am I worth it?" asked Hannah. "And 
 what is to be the end of it. I assure you I am quite 
 serious, Joyce. Now, let us look at this thing in its 
 true light." 
 
 " Well, what would you call its true light ? " asked 
 Joyce. " Let me hear it." 
 
 " Well, suppose you keep on coming here to visit 
 me, and attending the meetings if you like, without 
 your mother's consent, it would be very uncom- 
 fortable for you at home. If you want a quite frank 
 expression of opinion from me, Joyce, I should say
 
 86 TldgnDbam'6 jpaugbter. 
 
 that, looking at it from your point of view, it would 
 not be worth your while." 
 
 " But what is my point of view, Hannah ? I don't 
 think you understand it," said Joyce, a little passion- 
 ately. " You seem to forget that I may have some 
 little interest in the cause." 
 
 Hannah elevated her eyebrows. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you may have an interest in the cause, 
 of course; but supposing you had a very keen 
 interest indeed, you cannot do very much to help it 
 on. You are only a single girl, Joyce, and I believe 
 myself that you could do a good deal to help in a 
 quiet way by staying at home." 
 
 Joyce looked much annoyed. She had not ex- 
 pected a reception such as this. She had come 
 rushing off to her friend, expecting sympathy and 
 approval of her revolt, and lo ! she was met by such 
 reservations and cautious advice as might have fallen 
 from her mother's lips. 
 
 " It is a career I want," she cried passionately. 
 " I cannot make you out, Hannah ; you are quite 
 different from the girl who used to carry me away 
 with her enthusiasm. What has made you lukewarm 
 of late?" 
 
 " I am not lukewarm, dear ; but I flatter myself 
 I have one grain of common sense left, and I fail to 
 see what good you would be to the cause or to any-
 
 a Galfc witb tmnnab abrale. 87 
 
 body else by making a complete breach with your 
 excellent parents." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, which both felt to 
 be a trifle constrained. Hannah Thrale knew very 
 well what a blow she was inflicting on the enthusi- 
 astic heart of her friend, but she believed that she 
 was acting and speaking for the best. 
 
 "You don't want to join the new brotherhood, 
 do you ? " she asked presently. " Of course, if you 
 want to do that, it is a different matter." 
 
 " I would do anything," cried Joyce passionately, 
 " to get out of this horrible narrow groove in which 
 I have been sitting at ease so long. You don't 
 know what it is to have one's soul ground down as 
 mine has been by the awful narrowness and con- 
 ventionality of our lives. I simply can't stand it, 
 I shall run away, or do something dreadful." 
 
 " You may run away," answered Hannah shrewdly, 
 " but I don't think you would stop away very long. 
 Were I your mother, Joyce, I should allow you 
 to have your fling, to use a vulgar but very ex- 
 pressive phrase, just for one little year, because 
 I know it would end in your coming back cured." 
 
 " Oh, Hannah, I am so disappointed ! " cried Joyce, 
 with so much genuine feeling in her voice that her 
 companion felt a little twinge at her heart. " After 
 all our lovely talks, and the high ideals we have
 
 'a Daughter. 
 
 discussed together, to think that you should come 
 down to such a level ! What has come over 
 you ? " 
 
 " Nothing," answered Hannah ; but she did not 
 meet the reproachful gaze of Joyce's eyes. "Perhaps 
 it is that I am becoming a little cynical and 
 worldly-wise. A year or two ago I felt just as you 
 do; but I am beginning to see into the heart of 
 things, and they are not what they were, in my 
 estimation, at least. Do let us talk of something 
 else just for a minute, Do you know I have got 
 another situation ? " 
 
 " Have you ? " asked Joyce, with a very real 
 interest. " Where ? " 
 
 " In one of the Lambeth Board Schools ; and I 
 enter on my duties on Monday." 
 
 " A Board School," re-echoed Joyce, rather doubt- 
 fully. " Surely that is a downcome ; and won't it be 
 fearfully hard work ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is hard work ; but it is much more 
 interesting work, I assure you, than anything we had 
 to do at Acacia House. In the Board Schools we 
 do have a little human nature to work upon ; they 
 are not all cut in the conventional pattern, and are 
 sometimes allowed to forget that there is such a 
 thing'Jn the world as deportment." 
 
 Joyce laughed. This was a speech which the old
 
 B Galfc witb Ibannab Gbrale. 89 
 
 Hannah might have made, and it was pleasanter in 
 Joyce Wyndham's ears than the new wisdom. 
 
 " Lambeth isn't that a long way for you to go 
 from here ? " she asked. 
 
 "Oh, we shall have to move. We are thinking 
 seriously of joining the new settlement." 
 
 " Where is it to be ? " asked Joyce eagerly. 
 
 " It isn't quite decided yet, but probably about 
 Lambeth or Clerkenwell. Father thinks that it is 
 our duty to go, although I do not particularly yearn 
 for it myself." 
 
 " Who else will be in the settlement ? Do tell me 
 all about it, Hannah. I am perfectly famishing to 
 hear every single, solitary detail." 
 
 " There isn't very much to tell," answered Hannah 
 lightly. " A good many of the people you have seen 
 here will be resident with us. I expect Mrs. 
 Hemming for one, and Philip Dane and his little 
 brother. The Marshes, too, I think, intend to come. 
 Oh, I daresay we shall have quite a large 
 family." 
 
 " I would give ten years of my life, Hannah," said 
 Joyce fervently, "to be allowed to join that settle- 
 ment." 
 
 " And to work as a School Board teacher at 50 
 a year," said Hannah drily. "My dear child, you 
 don't know what you are talking about."
 
 90 "CdBnObam's Daughter. 
 
 "Yes, I do," Joyce maintained. "What a very 
 poor opinion you have of me if you think I can't live 
 without the luxuries to which I have been accustomed. 
 Why, I consider them as nothing." 
 
 " Until you are called upon to do without them," 
 put in Hannah significantly. 
 
 " I wish you would tell me something more about 
 the settlement," continued Joyce eagerly. " How 
 will you live? will it be like a large family, in a 
 way ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Hannah, " from what I hear, I 
 understand we shall each have our own little suite of 
 rooms, just as they do in other flats, and there will be 
 a common dining-hall or meeting-place. Why don't 
 you go and see Mrs. Hemming, Joyce? She would 
 tell you much more about it; she is one of the 
 moving spirits." 
 
 "Oh, I should not dare to go and see Mrs. 
 Hemming; she would be sure to think it frightful 
 presumption," exclaimed Joyce. 
 
 " No, she wouldn't ; nothing delights her more than 
 to explain the whole aims and objects of the brother- 
 hood to anyone who will listen to her. But there, I 
 am blowing hot and cold with one breath ; first I tell 
 you that it will be wiser for you to be quit of us, and 
 then I advise you to go to the most enthusiastic of 
 our members. I am a very poor sort of friend, Joyce,
 
 a {lalfe witb Itennab abrale. 91 
 
 and upon my word, I think the less you have to do 
 with me the better." 
 
 Joyce, leaning both elbows on her knees, dropped 
 her chin in her hands, and looked across at her friend 
 searchingly. She could not make this Hannah out 
 at all. She was so different from the old enthusiast, 
 who, by her passionate and constant dwelling upon 
 the themes in which the new brotherhood were in- 
 terested, had first awakened the restless discontent in 
 Joyce Wyndham's soul. She felt that there was 
 some subtle change in the girl, a change of recent 
 growth, and yet wherein did it profit to question 
 Hannah, since she would give no satisfaction about 
 her own inward feelings ? 
 
 " You are frightfully changed, Hannah Thrale, and 
 I would give, oh I don't know what, to know what 
 has changed you. Won't you tell me ? " 
 
 " I am not changed, Joyce," Hannah answered 
 quickly. " I am talking against my convictions, too, 
 and solely for your good. Do you suppose that I 
 should not be pleased if you came to the settlement, 
 and threw in your lot with the brotherhood, and 
 don't I know that it is just such ardent, enthusiastic 
 spirits that we want, if we are to do any service for 
 those down-trodden ones whom we wish to raise a 
 little higher, and to whom we would show, if we 
 could, something of the beauty and the fulness of life
 
 92 WgnDbam's SJaugbter. 
 
 as it ought to be? But I am not without some 
 regard for your father and mother, Joyce ; they have 
 been extremely kind to me, and I know very well 
 that the step which might make us happy would 
 break their hearts." 
 
 " But perhaps," said Joyce, " we might be able, in 
 course of time, to modify their views ; my father, 
 especially, is a very kind-hearted man, and if we 
 could convince him that it is good work for humanity 
 that we have in view, and not a mere fad, I believe 
 he would not only approve of my work, but help us 
 himself." 
 
 But Hannah only shook her head. 
 
 " He would not ; your father is a large employer of 
 labour ; he is one of the humanest and the most 
 generous, consequently his work-people have no com- 
 plaint. They are perfectly happy and content. But 
 that is precisely the reason why your father would be 
 harder than anybody to convince of the wrongs 
 which we know to exist. Were I in your place, 
 Joyce, I should try to banish all thought of the 
 brotherhood and the cause from my mind, and devote 
 myself to do such good as I could in the sphere open 
 to me. You could be a friend to your father's work- 
 people, and in that way help and please him, and I 
 believe you would be in the end far happier yourself, 
 because, remember, there is no end to our work, and
 
 B tTalfc wftb Ibannab Obtatc. 93 
 
 it is so heart-breaking and sad that it seems to take 
 all the life out of one. Be warned in time, Joyce. I 
 am really speaking seriously, and trying to be as 
 unselfish as I can." 
 
 " It is too late," answered Joyce, with a sad, bitter 
 note in her voice. " I have got a glimpse of the 
 nether world, and I shall never rest until I have gone 
 down into the depths, and tried to help those who are 
 struggling there. It was you who first awakened in 
 my heart any interest in this great question, Hannah, 
 an interest which will never sleep again."
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WHAT MR. WYNDHAM THOUGHT. 
 
 " I AM to be banished," said Joyce presently. " My 
 mother ordains that I am to go immediately to Paris 
 to be disciplined by Aunt Grace." 
 
 " Paris is very pleasant in June," observed Hannah, 
 " and I should not mind going with you." 
 
 " But I am to be kept there for six months," said 
 Joyce, with an odd little smile. " By that time 
 mother thinks that I shall be cured." 
 
 " Perhaps you will," said Hannah quietly. " There 
 is a very lively household at your Aunt Grace's, is 
 there not; and a number of very entertaining 
 cousins ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, they are very pleasant, once in a while ; 
 but I don't relish being sent off like this, and I have 
 quite made up my mind that I am not going." 
 
 "It is open rebellion, then, Joyce," said Hannah 
 thoughtfully. " Have you considered what it in- 
 volves? You will have to make a choice, my dear, 
 
 between your own people and us." 
 
 94
 
 "Qdbat flBr. TJdgn&bam Cbougbt. 95 
 
 " I don't see that any choice requires to be made," 
 answered Joyce quickly ; " and I think that probably 
 when my mother and father see how very much in 
 earnest I am they will give in." 
 
 Hannah shook her head. 
 
 " I am not at all so sure about it." 
 
 ' I wish Tom was a little more serious-minded," 
 said Joyce ; " he might be able to help me a lot. But 
 as he is at present, he is no good. Besides, he looks 
 upon mother as his ideal of all a woman should 
 be." 
 
 " And a very good thing, too," Hannah made haste 
 to answer. " It is so rare to find a young man re- 
 garding his mother as anything else than an old- 
 fashioned person, that it is quite refreshing to come 
 across one who has the courage to think as your 
 brother does." 
 
 " Then you are against me all along the line," said 
 Joyce a trifle bitterly, " and I must go through with 
 the fight alone." 
 
 " I don't say that, dear ; but I have a conscience, 
 and also, perhaps, a clearer sense of duty than some, 
 and I must say, when I come to think the matter 
 over seriously, and especially after the talk I had 
 with your mother the other day, I must say I think 
 that your duty lies at home. But all the same, if 
 you do elect to cast in your fortunes with us, I will
 
 96 TKlBn&bam's Bauebter. 
 
 stand by you, Joyce, even although I may not think 
 that you have acted wisely for yourself." 
 
 " It doesn't matter very much about that, I think," 
 Joyce answered very soberly. " Oh, I wish I could 
 make mother understand just how I feel. You see, 
 she thinks now that it is a mere restless desire for 
 change which pursues me ; she does not know how I 
 feel things, and how they eat into my heart If only 
 she were one little bit sympathetic, so that I could 
 speak to her as I can speak to you." 
 
 Hannah was a trifle touched by the extreme 
 earnestness with which Joyce spoke, and her face 
 became rather sad. 
 
 " Upon my word, I am very sorry for you all, and 
 I could wish that you had never had the misfortune 
 to make my acquaintance. It has been a very good 
 thing for me, Joyce, but not for you." 
 
 " Oh, you mustn't say that," cried Joyce eagerly. 
 " Whatever happens I shall never regret having 
 known you, Hannah Thrale ; you have taught me so 
 much, and made life seem worth living to me, even if 
 it should be nothing but a conflict all along. Now I 
 must go, for I did not say to mother that I was com- 
 ing here, but I did so want to talk things over. I 
 wish that you would say that you think I have done 
 right, Hannah ; it would help me ever so much." 
 
 But Hannah shook her head again.
 
 TMlbat /Ebr. TlfflBH&bam Cbougbt. 97 
 
 " You see, I have no mother, Joyce, and perhaps on 
 that account I am rather on the side of mothers. I 
 feel that if I had one of my own I would rather die 
 than grieve or cross her, although probably if she 
 were alive now I should do both. But don't forget, 
 dear, that though you make many kind friends in the 
 world, you can only have one mother. Has your 
 father spoken to you at all about it ? " 
 
 " No, but I am going to speak to him to-night. 
 Do you know what I am going to ask him, 
 Hannah ? " 
 
 Hannah shook her head. 
 
 " Something which I am afraid he will not grant," 
 she said. 
 
 " I believe you are right there, but still I am going 
 to try my luck. I am going to beg him to let me 
 have a career, that is to say, I want to be allowed to 
 earn my own living somehow or other. I am so 
 tired of being merely ornamental ; I want to be use- 
 ful if I can." 
 
 " And what will you do ? " asked Hannah, with - 
 considerable interest. 
 
 " Well, I think I should like to be allowed to teach 
 in the same school with you ; that is what would 
 please me more than anything." 
 
 " You would soon tire of that," said Hannah, shak- 
 ing her head. " It is frightful drudgery everyone 
 
 G
 
 98 "CdgnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 will tell you so ; and I should not be at all surprised if 
 your father absolutely declined to give his consent to 
 any such step. I must say I sympathise with you in 
 your desire to do some work, but there is another 
 thing to be considered, Joyce. Remember this, that 
 if you succeed in getting a situation, of whatever kind, 
 you may be taking the bread out of the mouth of 
 another woman who needs it much more than 
 you." 
 
 Joyce looked slightly startled. This view of the 
 case had not before presented itself to her mind. 
 
 " That is one of the things that we have got to con- 
 tend with in the labour market," said Hannah quickly. 
 " I am sure you have often heard it spoken of at our 
 meetings so many people who do not require to 
 work, but do so from various motives, and often 
 under-sell those who have to earn their own bread. 
 You would not wish to err in that way, would you ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I should not," answered Joyce. " Oh, 
 what a lot of difficulties there seem to be when one 
 wants to do anything in this world." 
 
 " I should like to give you just one bit of advice, 
 Joyce, before you go. Don't refuse to go to Paris. 
 You have always enjoyed visiting your aunt there, 
 and it is quite possible that you might come back 
 with different views, which would make yourself and 
 everybody else much happier. I am in earnest in
 
 "Qdbat /for. TKHBuDbam abougbt. 99 
 
 giving you this advice ; I have thought the matter 
 over well, and that is the conclusion I have come 
 to." 
 
 " It is too late, as I have told you," repeated Joyce 
 quickly. " You should have thought of that before 
 you interested me in all the great questions which 
 want people to help them on." 
 
 " Well, don't do anything rashly, dear ; remember 
 it is a much easier matter to lose a good home than 
 to find it again, and that there are thousands of 
 homeless people in this great city who would consider 
 it madness to act as you are doing." 
 
 Joyce walked home rather soberly after the cold 
 comfort given to her by her friend. She did not see 
 her mother again until dinner, and then there was 
 nothing said about what had passed in the afternoon, 
 nor was there visible in her demeanour any special 
 coldness, nor any sign, indeed, that the disagreement 
 of the afternoon was remembered or brooded over, 
 and yet it was the uppermost thought in Mrs. 
 Wyndham's mind. 
 
 Alfred Wyndham noticed that his wife was a little 
 less talkative than usual, but as Tom was present at 
 the table conversation did not flag. That young 
 man was always in a lively mood, and never at a loss 
 for something to say. He took his mother for a 
 stroll round the garden, while he smoked his cigar";
 
 too "CdgnDbam's Baugbter. 
 
 then Joyce, seizing her opportunity, remained with 
 her father. 
 
 " Well, how have you and mamma been getting on 
 to-day ? " he asked, with a little twinkle in his eye. 
 The whole affair rather amused him ; it had seemed 
 a little serious the previous night, when looked at 
 through his wife's eyes ; but the larger cares of his 
 business day had almost banished it from his mind, 
 or at least placed it among the minor worries. " I 
 hope you are not going to vex her any more by 
 going among these peculiar people. They seem 
 quite unsuitable for you. We don't want our little 
 girl spoilt, you know," he said, with an affectionate 
 smile. " We want to keep her as fresh, and natural, 
 and girlish as possible. What is the attraction 
 those very odd cranks have for you, Joyce ? " 
 
 Joyce sat down on a stool at her father's knee, and 
 looked up into his face most seriously. 
 
 " Father, will you listen to me for a few minutes, if 
 you please, and don't laugh at me, because I am very 
 much in earnest ? I have no hope of ever making 
 mamma understand what I mean, and what I want 
 to do ; my only hope lies in you. Will you promise 
 to take me seriously ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will ; I am quite willing to hear all you 
 have to say, my dear." 
 
 " Well, then, father, ever since I was quite a young
 
 TKHbat Mr. TKflEn&bam tTbougbt. 101 
 
 girl at school, and especially after I got to know 
 Hannah Thrale, I have thought about things so 
 much that they give me no peace. I am always 
 brooding over all the wrong, wicked things there are 
 in the world, and I have often felt that it was almost 
 sinful of me to be living at ease as I am now while 
 so many people are suffering, and the worst of it all 
 is that I have never done anything to earn this 
 luxury in which I am living. Do you think it can 
 be right to enjoy it ? " 
 
 " I have earned it for you, my dear," returned 
 Alfred Wyndham. " Your mother and I have both 
 worked very hard for a great many years. What 
 for, do you suppose ? Merely that our boy and girl 
 might have an easier time of it than we had, and all 
 the return we want is that they should enjoy it 
 heartily, and add a little brightness to our lives with 
 their happy youth." 
 
 Joyce was silent a moment. There was a certain 
 convincingness in her father's speech which held her 
 for a moment She was very fond of him, and would 
 not willingly vex him, but at that particular stage of 
 her experience she was a person of one idea. She 
 was absolutely and completely weaned of her exist- 
 ence, and had brooded so long upon a change that 
 it had become necessary to her. 
 
 " I understand just how you feel, papa," she said,
 
 Daugbter. 
 
 " and perhaps it is very wrong of me to have such 
 thoughts as I have ; but how am I to help it ? I do 
 wish you would let me go out in the world and earn 
 my own living." 
 
 Alfred Wyndham laughed silently, and watched 
 the blue wreath of his pipe-smoke ascending in the 
 air. 
 
 " In what particular capacity do you think you 
 would be able to earn your own living, little girl ? " 
 he asked, unconsciously adopting the very tone which 
 most wounded Joyce, for she was very much in 
 earnest. She wanted to be a woman, and to take a 
 woman's place in the world, and to do a woman's 
 work in some more congenial atmosphere than that 
 which now surrounded her. 
 
 " I haven't been taught to do anything, of course, 
 papa, but I can learn. Do you know what I should 
 like better than anything in the whole world ? " 
 
 " No ; let me hear." 
 
 " Well, I should like to go away from here for 
 quite a long time, and live among the people who 
 have to work, and suffer, and endure. I think then 
 I might be able to get at the deeper meanings of 
 life, and to understand humanity and these things 
 better than I do. Oh, I am so tired of living in this 
 idle luxury." 
 
 Alfred Wyndham regarded his daughter's face
 
 TKHbat /fir. TOnDbam abougbt. 103 
 
 steadily for a few minutes, struck by the distress 
 which was written there. Her eyes were fixed upon 
 his face, wide and pleading, and her whole attitude 
 was that of one who asks for some precious thing 
 sorely longed for. He was more disturbed by that 
 look than he cared to own. 
 
 " You ask what is impossible, my dear," he said, 
 and the strong feeling of his heart gave a certain 
 curtness to his tongue ; " and, moreover, you don't 
 know what you are talking about." 
 
 " Oh, why will everybody say that ? I do know 
 what I am talking about. I wish that I could find 
 in this whole world someone who understood me, 
 and to whom I could talk without being treated 
 as a mere girl or an ignorant child who knows 
 nothing." 
 
 " Listen to me, Joyce," he said presently. " What 
 you ask is an impossibility. You want your mother 
 and me to allow you to leave us, I suppose, and cast 
 in your lot with those extraordinary people, who 
 seem to have enlisted all your sympathies, to the 
 exclusion of your own people, who might be supposed 
 to have some little claim on you. You are our only 
 daughter, your place is at home with your mother, 
 and my counsel for you is to put away such foolish 
 thoughts out of your head, and try and do the duty 
 which lies nearest to you. That is my last word on
 
 the subject, and don't let me hear any more of 
 this foolish nonsense, or I shall certainly agree to 
 your being packed off to your Aunt Grace 
 next week."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 TOM IN THE BACKGROUND. 
 
 TOM WYNDHAM generally walked to and from 
 business, passing on his way the block of buildings 
 where the Thrales lived. He had got into the 
 way of regarding the windows as he passed with 
 an interest which would have surprised his mother 
 could she have witnessed it. But as yet her mind 
 was entirely at rest about her boy. Tom was 
 indeed a good deal more interested in Hannah 
 Thrale than anybody knew ; he did not himself 
 realise the depth and extent of that interest, al- 
 though the day was at hand when his eyes were 
 to be opened. Sometimes he was rewarded as 
 he passed by a glimpse of Hannah's beautiful face 
 at the window, and she never failed to give him 
 a smile and a nod which sent a very odd and 
 significant thrill through his big, honest heart. 
 Hannah Thrale was absolutely free from coquetry 
 or affectation of any kind. Many men had been 
 
 attracted by her, and she could have made a good 
 
 105
 
 io6 tClgn&bam's Baugbtcr, 
 
 match, from a worldly point of view, more than 
 once, but she had as yet shown no disposition to 
 change her estate, and had never given the slightest 
 encouragement to suitor or lover. 
 
 About six o'clock on the day after Joyce had 
 paid her visit to Hannah, there was a short, sharp 
 thunderstorm, accompanied by a heavy rain, which, 
 when its force was spent, settled into a dreary, wet 
 drizzle which obscured the clearness of the summer 
 air, and speedily rendered the pavements unpleasant 
 to the feet. That night, however, Tom walked 
 as usual, and when he came near to the block 
 of buildings which had always a very special 
 interest for him, he saw that the sitting-room window 
 was wide open, and that Hannah sat just within 
 the curtain, apparently enjoying the delightful fresh- 
 ness of the air which the rain had cooled. He was 
 not a vain man, or it might have occurred to him 
 that the girl was watching for him. He was 
 conscious of nothing but the usual thrill of pleasure 
 which the sight of her, even at that distance, never 
 failed to cause him. When she saw him coming 
 she stood up, and he felt his heart beating furiously 
 when he gathered from her demeanour and ex- 
 pression that she wished to see him. Hastily 
 lifting his hat, he crossed the street and ascended 
 the stairs by leaps and bounds. He had never been
 
 Gom in tbe :!8acfegroun&. 107 
 
 within the door of the house, and he could scarcely 
 believe that he was now about to enter, but when he 
 reached the landing the door was already open, 
 and Hannah stood on the threshold. 
 
 " I hope you will excuse me," she said, with that 
 bright, rare smile of hers which exceedingly 
 beautified her face. " I know it is perfectly dread- 
 ful of me to watch for you, as I did to-night, and 
 then to beckon you to come up, but I have some- 
 thing very particular to say to you. You do not 
 mind, I hope?" 
 
 " Why should I mind ? " said Tom, a trifle gruffly ; 
 "and you know quite well I am only too pleased 
 to get the chance of coming in, and that I have 
 often envied Joyce the privilege." 
 
 " I am sorry father has not come home yet ; I 
 should like you to see him," said Hannah simply, as 
 she held open the door. " What I want to say to you 
 won't take a minute. Joyce was here this afternoon." 
 
 By this time she had led the way into the sitting- 
 room, which Tom entered with a curious look on 
 his face which might have indicated a kind of 
 reverent hesitation. It was interesting for him, of 
 course, as it is for every man, to see the home 
 and habitation of the woman he loves ; not that 
 Tom had yet admitted to himself that he loved 
 Hannah Thrale ; nevertheless it was the truth.
 
 io8 QHgnDbam's HJaugbter. 
 
 "There isn't anything very wonderful about that, 
 is there?" he asked, attempting to speak lightly, 
 because he was ipwardly concerned. 
 
 " Well, no, but she came this afternoon on rather 
 a particular errand," said Hannah. "Won't you 
 sit down ? " 
 
 Tom took the chair opposite to her, looking at 
 her with a keen and earnest gaze, which might have 
 disconcerted her had her mind not been entirely 
 occupied with the subject she wished to discuss with 
 him. 
 
 " I suppose you know that your mother was here 
 last night ? " she began. 
 
 " I heard something about it, but not very much. 
 What then ? " he asked. 
 
 " She did not approve of what she saw here," 
 said Hannah then, "and she has been speaking to 
 Joyce about it. I am afraid that it will make an 
 end to our pleasant friendship. Haven't you any 
 influence over Joyce ? " 
 
 " Not much," answered Tom, shaking his head ; 
 "she is an awfully queer sort, you know, not like 
 other girls. She always has been full of fads and 
 fancies ; but, upon my word, I can't think what my 
 mother could have seen here to make her give you 
 any such decision." 
 
 Hannah faintly smiled.
 
 in tbc JSSacfcgrounfc. 109 
 
 " I am inclined to agree with you ; it is all so 
 trivial, it isn't worth paying the slightest attention 
 to ; that is my frank opinion, though of course I 
 don't feel called upon to say so to Mrs. Wyndham. 
 But I do think that she exaggerates its possible 
 effect upon Joyce. Couldn't you speak to your 
 sister, and try and get her to give in a little? " 
 
 "It isn't any good," repeated Tom. "Joyce un- 
 fortunately regards me as a species of heathen, and 
 has told me so more than once." 
 
 At this Hannah laughed outright She had a 
 very pleasant, musical laugh, never too loud or 
 obtrusive ; but presently her face grew quite grave 
 again, graver than Tom Wyndham liked to see it. 
 He had got so far that every passing change upon 
 her face was interesting to him, which of course 
 could have but one meaning. 
 
 " I sometimes wish that we had never met, Mr. 
 Wyndham ; I have only caused trouble in your 
 family. I gathered from what Joyce said that your 
 mother is very much vexed. She must be when 
 she thinks it necessary to send her away to Paris." 
 
 " To Aunt Grace," added Tom, with a little ex- 
 pressive whistle. " Is she really going to do that ? 
 But I can't for the life of me understand what all 
 the row is about." 
 
 It was a very characteristic speech. Tom had a
 
 no THIlgn&bam's 2>augbter. 
 
 very hazy idea of the subjects which were of such 
 engrossing interest to Joyce, and he was of opinion 
 that his mother was needlessly concerned about her. 
 
 "Joyce tells me that her mother has forbidden 
 her to be friendly any longer with me, and although 
 I feel it very much, I think that she is quite right, 
 looking at it from her particular point of view. I 
 can't tell you how much I regret having allowed 
 Joyce to meet certain people, and hear certain things 
 in this house ; it is all very well for those who are 
 unattached, and have nobody who would be vexed 
 or troubled about their views. With Joyce it is 
 quite different, and I am sure that it is her duty 
 to fall in with her mother's wishes. When I saw 
 you coming, it occurred to me all of a sudden to 
 ask you if you would not give Joyce a talking to, 
 and see if you can't persuade her to try and make 
 your mother happy. Good mothers are not so 
 plentiful that we can afford to make them miserable. 
 I think if my own were alive now, there is nothing 
 on earth I would not do or give up for her sake." 
 
 The colour rose a little in her cheeks as she spoke 
 those passionate words, and Tom Wyndham found 
 it difficult to keep his eyes from her face, and also 
 to control the expression of his own. 
 
 "We are going to move away from Camberwell 
 Road," she said presently, when he made no reply,
 
 in tbe 3Bacfc0rounC>. m 
 
 "and then there will not be the same temptation 
 for Joyce to run in here as she has always been in 
 the habit of doing. We are always meeting, you 
 see, whether we like it or not, and that makes it 
 very difficult to break off." 
 
 "But do you want to break off?" asked Tom 
 bluntly. 
 
 "It isn't a question of what I want," she an- 
 swered, looking away from him through the open 
 window to the steady drip, drip, of the rain through 
 the evening air ; " and I think it is Joyce's duty to 
 try and make her mother happy, and to meet her 
 wishes. It is duty, after all, that the best of us 
 aim at, is it not? Won't you do what you can to 
 make her see this ? " 
 
 " I can speak to her if you like," said Tom ; " but 
 I don't believe myself that it is any use. But think 
 how we shall all miss you up at Overtoil. When 
 do you leave Camberwell, may I ask ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; our movements are very un- 
 certain. My father may come in any evening and 
 say we shall go to-morrow. Then I shall have to 
 get up and go," said Hannah, with a quaint smile. 
 " It does not matter much to me where I go, so long 
 as I have him. I think I try to please him." 
 
 " I am sure you do," said Tom, with a great deal 
 more fervour than the occasion seemed to warrant ;
 
 's Daugbter. 
 
 but somehow these simple words touched him, and 
 he felt a great rush of pity towards the motherless 
 girl who sat opposite to him, that pity which is 
 akin to love. " Is it premature to ask where you 
 are going? I hope not to some remote part of 
 London where we shall never see you." 
 
 " It isn't quite settled yet ; but I know that it 
 will not be very far away," she answered, " although 
 I think myself that it would be better if we could 
 put the whole breadth of London between us. Per- 
 haps if she never saw or heard anything about us, 
 Joyce would forget more quickly." 
 
 " You believe that out of sight is out of mind ? " 
 said Tom suggestively. 
 
 " Oh, not always," she answered, and leaning for- 
 ward to the open window, she held her hand out 
 so that the rain-drops fell upon it. " I love the rain, 
 don't you ? " she said suddenly. " It is always so 
 clean and so cool, and there can never be any 
 mistake about its meaning ; it is bidden refresh the 
 earth, and does it without any more fuss or pre- 
 tension. And look how my plants rejoice in 
 
 it" 
 
 The quaint fancy seemed to please her, and a 
 smile crept about the corners of her lips. Tom 
 Wyndham thought he had never seen a more ex- 
 quisitely beautiful face than the profile half turned
 
 Gom in tbe 3Bacfcsroun&. 113 
 
 to him, with that half grave, half merry expression 
 playing about the mouth. 
 
 " And do you mean to say if you go away to 
 this place, wherever it may be," he said bluntly, 
 1 you will never come to see us any more ? " 
 
 " How can I ? " she answered, without looking 
 round. "If Mrs. Wyndham gives me to under- 
 stand that she prefers the friendship between Joyce 
 and me should cease, then whatever I may 
 feel or wish I am bound to respect her de- 
 sire." 
 
 " I don't see it," said Tom, inclined for the 
 moment to share his sister's rebellion, but from a 
 purely selfish motive. 
 
 "Oh, but I do," said Hannah calmly; "and I 
 wish when you go home to-night you would tell 
 your mother that you have seen me, and what I 
 have said. If she would like to talk it over with 
 me, I can go up to her, or she will find me here 
 to-morrow afternoon between three and five. But 
 just say to her " 
 
 Here she paused for quite a minute, still holding 
 her hand upon the sill, where the rain-drops splashed 
 upon it. 
 
 "What shall I say, then?" he asked, a trifle 
 impatiently, and wishing she would look round, so 
 
 that he might see her eyes. 
 
 H
 
 H4 Idfitt&bam's Baugbtcr. 
 
 She drew in her hand, wiped it with her hand- 
 kerchief, and turned round to him. 
 
 " Just say to her that I understand exactly what 
 she feels and wishes, and that I will do the best 
 I can." 
 
 " I think you are awfully good, then," said Tom 
 Wyndham, his face flushing slightly as he rose to 
 his feet. 
 
 Hannah looked at him with a secret approval. 
 He looked very big and manly and honest, and 
 his face was one which inspired trust. Had she 
 
 been asked at that moment to give a candid opinion 
 
 ,< 
 of Tom Wyndham, she would have replied without 
 
 hesitation that he was. a man she would jouTney 
 
 to the world's end with without a single question 
 
 '"X 
 or a doubt. $&&> 
 
 " And so all our cricket matches and drives an'd 
 jolly times are at an end ? " he said dolefully. 
 
 She looked up at him with a swift, amused 
 glance. 
 
 " We have had one drive to one cricket match ; 
 perhaps that does constitute jolly times, but I agree 
 with you in being sorry that it is over." 
 
 " But I don't see that it need be over, and it 
 won't be if I can help it," said Tom stolidly. 
 
 Then Hannah Thrale began to feel slightly dis- 
 turbed, she could not tell why ; and she suddenly
 
 in tbe JSacfcgrounO. 115 
 
 thought that perhaps she had done an exceedingly 
 foolish thing to invite this young man to come up 
 that afternoon. She had done so, however, in all 
 singleness of heart, acting upon the frank impulse 
 of the moment, as was her nature and habit. 
 
 " Well, we need not say any more about it, need 
 we ? " she said, a trifle quickly. " You won't forget 
 to tell your mother what I have said ? " 
 
 " No, I will tell right enough ; but while you are 
 all talking over this matter, and settling it to your 
 own satisfaction, don't forget that I am waiting 
 in the background, and I have got to be reckoned 
 with."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A LITTLE DINNER. 
 
 TOM WVNDHAM continued his walk up Denmark 
 Hill in rather a confused frame of mind after the 
 abrupt and significant speech which had been quite 
 unpremeditated on his part He had felt himself 
 gently dismissed by Hannah Thrale ; she had 
 simply ignored his parting words, though they had 
 caused rather a dull flush to spring to her cheeks. 
 This flush conveyed to Tom a little message of 
 hope, and he occupied himself as he walked through 
 the gently falling rain with wondering how he could 
 best help to remove the present uncomfortable state 
 of affairs, hingeing upon Joyce's friendship with 
 Hannah Thrale. He was rather given to seeing 
 the comic side of things, a happy disposition which 
 enabled him to extract a good deal more enjoy- 
 ment from life than most people, and though he 
 foresaw some trouble ahead if he persisted in his 
 present resolve, he felt no small amusement at the 
 
 idea of presenting to his mother a future daughter 
 
 116
 
 a Xittle Dinner. 117 
 
 in the person of Hannah Thrale. It had come to 
 that with Tom, and though he was in no haste, 
 he felt deep in his heart that if he could not make 
 the girl he had just left his wife, he should never care 
 for any other. Yet he had a great many pleasant 
 acquaintances among the sisters of his numerous 
 friends. Tom was, indeed, a general favourite by 
 reason of his good nature, lovable disposition, and 
 freedom from pretension or conceit of any kind. 
 
 By the time he had reached the gate of his 
 father's house, he had made up his mind that he 
 would have a serious talk with his mother that 
 very night; but just then he saw a brougham 
 drive away from the door, and remembered that 
 his mother was having a small dinner party. Then 
 the heinousness of his own offence in having 
 loitered on the way banished everything else from 
 his mind. The servants in the house grudged no 
 service for Mr. Tom ; he always repaid them with 
 a smile and a pleasant word, and although Ada 
 had been busier than usual, she had taken time to 
 put his evening things all ready for him, for which 
 the young man inwardly blessed her as he hastily 
 dressed. This timely help enabled him to reach 
 the drawing-room only five minutes late. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham did not give large dinners, but 
 rather prided herself upon the selectness of her
 
 "8 Wgn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 parties. There were six guests only that night : 
 the vicar, the Rev. Louis Meynell, and his daughter 
 Ursula; the family doctor and his only son, who 
 was also his partner in practice ; an old business 
 friend of Mr. Wyndham's from Manchester, with 
 his wife, completed the party, and Mrs. Wyndham 
 flattered herself that they were very well chosen. 
 She was not a scheming woman, but I suppose 
 that all mothers do scheme a little in a harmless 
 way for their children, and had the secrets of Letitia 
 Wyndham's heart been laid bare that night, two 
 desires would have been found there side by side. 
 One was that her son, when he chose a wife, would 
 let his choice fall upon sweet Ursula Meynell, and 
 the other that Joyce might requite the devotion of 
 Jack Ferrars ; and certainly regarding these two 
 couples as they sat side by side at Mrs. Wyndham's 
 flower-laden table, it seemed the most natural and 
 desirable thing in the world that they should be 
 attracted to each other. Ferrars was Tom Wynd- 
 ham's bosom friend, although he was his superior 
 in intellectual gifts, and devoted to his profession ; 
 but they had been boys together at St. Paul's 
 School, and had shared everything like brothers. 
 There was a decided contrast between them. 
 Ferrars was tall and slender, with a thoughtful, 
 serious face and a pair of piercing dark eyes which
 
 a Xittle SMnner. "9 
 
 seemed to have the power of reading the very soul. 
 He had always cared for Joyce, but had not yet 
 asked her to be his wife, because Mrs. Wyndham 
 had begged him to wait a year or two till Joyce 
 should be able to discriminate and to understand 
 the value of what was offered to her. 
 
 Tom looked very happy as he sat by the side of 
 Ursula Meynell. She was a very pretty girl, with 
 a fair, pink-and-white prettiness, and an abundance 
 of soft hair which seemed to have caught the sun- 
 shine. They had known each other for years, and 
 there was never any flagging of talk between them. 
 Mrs. Wyndham watched them, well satisfied, and 
 only wished that the other two appeared as well 
 pleased with each other. 
 
 "You haven't been to the vicarage for ever so 
 long, Mr. Tom," said Ursula, finding him, as she 
 imagined, somewhat quieter than usual. " I suppose 
 cricket represents the whole sum and substance of 
 existence at present ? " 
 
 " Well, that is about it," answered Tom ; " but 
 I will be up one of these evenings. You are always 
 so much engaged with parish work, it is difficult 
 to see you. Out every night, aren't you? Upon 
 my word, it is just a kind of dissipation." 
 
 " Indeed, I often say that to papa," replied 
 Ursula, looking up the table towards her father,
 
 120 < GdBn&bam'fl 2>augbter. 
 
 whose devoted daughter and helpmeet she was ; 
 " and he always replies that there is nothing like 
 plenty of occupation for everybody. What is the 
 matter with Joyce just now? She seems to me to 
 look dreadfully worried quite ill, in fact." 
 
 <; As a matter of fact there has been a little 
 worry about Joyce," said Tom, lowering his voice. 
 " Haven't you heard anything about it ? " 
 
 " No," answered Ursula, with interest. " What 
 is it about ? Has she been going to any more 
 socialistic meetings lately ? " 
 
 "That is what it has all been about," answered 
 Tom confidentially. "Don't you think that the 
 mother worries rather more than she need about 
 it?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know," answered Ursula, as she 
 twisted the curb bracelet on her white arm. " You 
 see Joyce is not just like other girls; things take 
 such hold upon her. Now I have listened to 
 Hannah Thrale holding forth over and over again, 
 and it never makes the slightest impression on me. 
 But Joyce is different." 
 
 "You do not approve of Miss Thrale's views, 
 then?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do, up to a certain point ; but I don't 
 think there is any good to be done by the kind of 
 agitation they go in for demonstrations in the
 
 & Xittle Dinner. 121 
 
 parks, and all that sort of thing. It only satisfies 
 the vanity of the few who go to speechify there, 
 and like to feel themselves the centre of interest. 
 I rather think that Mrs. Wyndham and papa are 
 talking about it just now." 
 
 Tom turned quickly towards the head of the 
 table, but though he saw that his mother and the 
 vicar were talking earnestly, they had lowered their 
 voices so that no words were distinguishable at the 
 lower end of the table. 
 
 " Papa likes the Thrales very much, and I think 
 that Hannah is a splendid girl. I do admire her 
 so much ; don't you ? " She lifted her innocent 
 blue eyes frankly to her companion's face, but Tom 
 kept his steadily fixed on his plate. 
 
 " I don't know," he answered, a trifle confusedly, 
 though he inwardly blessed the sweet girl by his 
 side for her frank approval. 
 
 " A lot of men don't like Hannah, I suppose, be- 
 cause she does not allow them to talk nonsense to 
 her," said Ursula, with a little teasing smile. 
 "Perhaps that has been your experience, Mr. 
 Tom?" 
 
 " No, indeed ; I thought you had a better opinion 
 of me than that, Miss Meynell. I am not much 
 given to talking nonsense to girls; in fact, I often 
 envy those who can."
 
 I2 2 "CdgnSbam's Daughter. 
 
 " Oh, well, you need not," replied Ursula quickly, 
 "because I assure you that most girls do not like 
 it in the least. I grant that there are some who 
 do ; but any sensible girl whose opinion is worth 
 having will not thank you to make silly compli- 
 ments to her, as so many men think it their duty 
 to do." 
 
 " There are not many girls like you, though, Miss 
 Meynell," said Tom, quite innocently and sincerely; 
 but, though he meant nothing, the words sent a 
 warm pink flush to the cheek of the girl beside 
 him. 
 
 " I am always so sorry for Hannah Thrale," she 
 said, with a tender note in her sweet voice ; " she is 
 so very lonely. You see she has no mother, and 
 though her father is a fine old gentleman and 
 devoted to her, of course, still she leads a very 
 peculiar life." 
 
 " But it does not seem to have hurt her in any 
 way," said Tom, with a kind of quick earnestness 
 which rather struck Ursula Meynell. 
 
 " Oh, no ; in fact, I believe that it is her environ- 
 ment which has largely made Hannah what she 
 is. Perhaps if she had lived in a home like mine 
 or yours she would have been much less interesting." 
 
 "You would not call her unwomanly or ad- 
 vanced, surely ? " said Tom rather anxiously.
 
 H Xittle Dinner. 123 
 
 " Oh, no," answered Ursula, with a little laugh, 
 " by no means, certainly not unwomanly. Advanced 
 I should say she is, but not in any objectionable 
 way. I should say that she is a woman with very 
 strong opinions and plenty of courage to support 
 them. I often wonder what kind of a career she 
 will have. I should not think it at all likely that 
 she will marry, should you ? " 
 
 " I am sure I don't know," said Tom, his eyes 
 again fixed steadily upon his plate. " What makes 
 you think that ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing in particular, only I don't think she 
 is much interested in that sort of thing. Where are 
 you going for your holidays this year ? Papa and I 
 seriously contemplate a little voyage to the North ; 
 he does want a complete change so much, and I think 
 if I could get him away where the echo of St. Saviour's 
 bell would never sound in his ears, it would do him a 
 world of good." 
 
 " You will not go to Felixstowe, then, this year ? " 
 asked Tom. 
 
 " No, indeed," she replied decidedly ; " it is not far 
 enough away. They kept sending for papa on every 
 trivial pretext, and so this year I have put my foot 
 down, and said that we shall have a complete holiday, 
 ' far from the madding crowd.' " 
 
 " Then I do not suppose we will go to Felixstowe
 
 2>au0bter. 
 
 either," answered Tom, "and I don't think I mind 
 it much. It is rather a slow place. Did you hear 
 that my mother wants to send Joyce away to Paris to 
 Aunt Grace for six months ? " 
 
 " No," replied Ursula, with quick interest ; " that 
 would be very pleasant for her, but I should think 
 your mother will miss her dreadfully. When is she 
 going to let poor Jack speak ? Don't you think she 
 might do a great deal worse than become Mrs. 
 Ferrars ? " 
 
 " Indeed I do," answered Tom, looking across the 
 table with an appreciative smile to his friend. He 
 responded with an answering smile, not knowing that 
 he was the subject of their conversation. " Whoever 
 marries Jack Ferrars, I can tell you, will be jolly well 
 off. He is the prince of good fellows ; I only wish I 
 were a girl and had the chance." 
 
 " How enthusiastic a man always is about his friend 
 when he has one such as you have in Jack Ferrars," 
 said Ursula thoughtfully. " Do you think women are 
 as single-minded and generous towards their friends ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so," replied Tom. " Just recall what 
 you have been saying about Miss Thrale. I am sure 
 no man could speak more warmly about his friend 
 than you have done about her." 
 
 " Well, I meant every word of it," said Ursula. 
 " Do you know I have a curious feeling about Hannah
 
 a Xittle Dinner. 125 
 
 Thrale ; I think she will suffer a great deal. I seem 
 to see it in her face." 
 
 " Why should she suffer ? " asked Tom briskly ; " in 
 what way ? " 
 
 " Well, in her contact with the world. A woman 
 with a strong and deep nature like hers is bound to 
 suffer, she cannot escape ; but of course she will enjoy 
 things more ; that is the compensation. I hope I 
 shall always know her, and if I can help her when she 
 is in trouble, I should like to do it, I think, more than 
 anything in the world." 
 
 Years afterwards Tom Wyndham recalled these 
 words to Ursula's remembrance, when she herself had 
 forgotten the letter though not the spirit of them. 
 
 " There is your mother waiting to give us the signal. 
 I have brought a new song to-night. Don't sit here 
 prosing for an hour," she said, with a bright smile, as 
 she rose from her chair. "If you are very good I will 
 sing it for you when you come up."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HOPES AND FEARS. 
 
 JOYCE felt considerably out of sorts, and Jack Ferrars 
 had seldom found her more disinclined for talk. He 
 was not a man who possessed a large fund of small 
 talk, and when he found his companion inclined to be 
 silent, he also relapsed into silence. It disconcerted 
 Mrs. Wyndham somewhat to observe how very quiet 
 Joyce's part of the table became, and she felt a sense 
 of irritation against the girl. It distressed her not a 
 little ; she wanted to live at peace always, and to have 
 her family affairs go smoothly no very extravagant 
 desire, and yet one likely to be denied her. 
 
 When they went to the drawing-room she found an 
 opportunity to whisper a quick word in her daughter's 
 ear. 
 
 " Try and make yourself agreeable even if you do 
 not feel so, and remember that you should be 
 courteous to guests in your father's house." 
 
 Now Joyce did not feel at all discourteous ; she 
 
 was simply bored and occupied with her own thoughts. 
 
 126
 
 Ibopes an& tfears. 127 
 
 In the present strained relations between her mother 
 and herself, that quick word of reproof stung her to 
 the quick, and she immediately went to the opposite 
 extreme, talking incessantly and in an extremely silly 
 manner, which was noted with surprise by the ladies 
 present. It was a relief when the gentlemen came 
 up ; then Ursula Meynell went to the piano, and sang 
 for them an old English ballad, to which she did 
 ample justice. She had a very sweet, true voice, and 
 was absolutely free from affectation or mannerism of 
 any kind. Mrs. Wyndham, sitting in her chair, with 
 a conventional expression on her face, regarded the 
 girl at the piano with envy, comparing her sweet, 
 womanly ways with Joyce's tantalising moods, and 
 when she saw Tom hovering about the piano she 
 magnified his simple courtesy into significant atten- 
 tion, and was well pleased thereby. Tom, at least, 
 would never worry or disappoint her. Immediately 
 the guests had gone, Joyce went off to bed, and while 
 Mr. Wyndham retired to the dining-room to smoke 
 his last pipe, Tom lingered a moment in the drawing- 
 room with his mother. 
 
 " You look awfully tired, mother," he said affection- 
 ately. " Why will you give dinners in June ? It is 
 too hot for anything." 
 
 " But I don't think they felt it," she said quickly, 
 anxious concern for the success of her little party
 
 'e Daughter. 
 
 uppermost for the moment. " I am sure the dining- 
 room was beautifully cool That block of ice on the 
 sideboard was a splendid idea. You didn't feel it too 
 hot, did you ? " 
 
 * Oh, no, I was all right ; but I wish you would not 
 look so frightfully worried, mother. Worry doesn't 
 pay." 
 
 " Oh, I know that very well, and I haven't had much 
 of it until lately, Tom," she answered. " Don't hurry 
 down to your father for a minute. I want to talk to 
 you." 
 
 She sat down on the sofa, fanning herself vigorously. 
 Tom walked to the window and threw it open, and 
 the sweet scent of the roses heavy with the night dew 
 came in on the breath of the evening wind. 
 
 "Joyce didn't behave well to-night, Tom," she said 
 quickly. " What do you suppose we are to do with 
 her ? " 
 
 " Leave her alone, I should say, mother," observed 
 Tom cheerfully. 
 
 " But that is just exactly what we cannot do," said 
 his mother perplexedly. " Nobody knows what she 
 will say or do next if she is left quite alone. She 
 must go to Aunt Grace." 
 
 " I shouldn't think it would do much good myself," 
 said Tom, leaning up against the window. " You 
 wouldn't mind if I lit a cigarette here, would you,
 
 " You wouldn't mind if I lit a cigarette here, would you mother?" 
 
 [Page 128
 
 foopes ant) tfears. 129 
 
 mother ? It helps a fellow to talk common-sense, I 
 think." 
 
 " All right, light it," said his mother quickly. 
 'Didn't Ursula look sweet to-night?" 
 
 " Yes ; I don't know a jollier nor a more sensible girl 
 than Ursula Meynell," said Tom heartily enough. 
 " She is an out and out good friend. I saw you com- 
 paring her with Joyce ; but you know, mother, you 
 must not be quite so hard on Joyce. She isn't so old 
 as Ursula, for one thing, and then she has never had 
 her responsibility. There is nothing like responsi- 
 bility, you know, for sobering anybody down." 
 
 " Ah, but Joyce has not Ursula's sweet disposition. 
 I am horribly anxious about her," said Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham, with a great sigh. " I don't think I shall know 
 any peace of mind until she goes away to Paris." 
 
 " But will you know any after she is there, 
 mother ? " asked Tom bluntly. " I should like to 
 know what it is you are all afraid of. I must say, 
 if you will excuse my speaking so frankly, that I 
 think you are alarmed about a very simple matter." 
 
 "You were not at that meeting, Tom," said his 
 mother quickly. " I had no idea how much Joyce 
 was really contaminated until the talk I had with her 
 this afternoon." 
 
 "Contaminated?" echoed Tom bluntly. "Oh, 
 that is surely rather a strong word, mother."
 
 130 TOlBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 "Well, she has revolted against my authority al- 
 together, my dear. I assure you she flatly refused 
 to give up her acquaintance with Miss Thrale, and 
 said I had no business to ask such a sacrifice from 
 her." 
 
 Tom took two or three puffs at his cigarette, keep- 
 ing his face steadily turned out towards the garden, 
 where the moonlight lay white and soft upon the 
 lawn. He felt himself in rather an awkward corner ; 
 feeling as he did towards Hannah Thrale, it was 
 difficult for him to listen unmoved to his mother's 
 strictures upon her. The impulse was upon him for 
 the moment to lay bare his own secret, and to cast 
 himself upon his mother's loving-kindness. But a 
 second glance at her worried and troubled face 
 decided him to hold his tongue, for the present at 
 least. 
 
 " I can't help thinking it is a bit rough on Joyce, 
 mother," he said at length. "You see you have 
 allowed them to be friendly so long, and they have 
 got to be fond of each other. Just put yourself in 
 Joyce's place. How would you like it? I know I 
 shouldn't, if you were to step in and tell me I must 
 have nothing more to do with Ferrars, for in- 
 stance. It would cut me up a bit rough, I can tell 
 you." 
 
 " Ah, but that is different," responded his mother
 
 fcopes an& ffears. 131 
 
 quickly. " Nobody could take the slightest ex- 
 ception to Jack Ferrars. I only wish " 
 
 " Yes, mother, I know what you wish. You would 
 like to see Joyce marry Jack Ferrars, and I believe 
 you would not mind if I were to go in for Ursula 
 Meynell." 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham faintly laughed. 
 
 "Well, I should certainly feel then that my 
 troubles were at an end, and Jack is very fond of 
 Joyce." 
 
 " Yes, he is," assented Tom, " and I must say that 
 whoever marries Jack Ferrars will be a lucky 
 woman." 
 
 " And the man who marries Ursula will be a lucky 
 man ? " his mother hazarded. 
 
 Tom nodded slowly. 
 
 " Agreed ; Ursula deserves the best that can be 
 got, and I hope she will get it." 
 
 His mother looked up at him anxiously, admiring 
 the tall, well-built figure leaning against the open 
 window, and the honest, kindly face, which was the 
 index to a heart both tender and true. 
 
 " Then you are not thinking of Ursula ? " she said, 
 a little wistfully. " It would make us all very happy. 
 I know that Mr. Meynell would not object." 
 
 Tom shook his head. 
 
 " No, mother, I like Ursula awfully ; I really think
 
 132 TWlBn&bam's Baugbter. 
 
 she is about the nicest girl I know ; but I don't think 
 I could marry her." 
 
 " Why not ? " his mother asked quickly. " I am 
 sure she is pretty, and ladylike, and clever, and 
 good." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know she is all that, but I am not in 
 love with her, I suppose," said Tom, with rather a 
 conscious laugh, " and, after all, that is the main 
 thing." 
 
 " Perhaps it may come yet," his mother said hope- 
 fully. 
 
 " I shouldn't think it likely," observed Tom. "You 
 see, I have known Ursula all my life, and I have 
 never felt like that to her, and I am sure she would 
 not care about me in that way either. We are very 
 good friends ; I hope you won't do anything to spoil 
 our friendship, mother." 
 
 "Oh, no, I shouldn't think of that," his mother 
 answered, in rather a sad voice, for Tom had destroyed 
 one of her most fondly cherished hopes, and she was 
 observant enough to know that his answer was 
 final. " Well, I hope you won't go and do anything 
 foolish to vex your father's heart and mine," she said 
 quickly. " Joyce is enough on our hands at present. 
 We had better go downstairs to the dining- 
 room." 
 
 " And have you really forbidden Joyce's acquaint-
 
 Dopes anD ffears. 133 
 
 ance with Miss Thrale?" asked Tom, trying to 
 speak indifferently, although his voice had a good 
 deal of earnestness in it. 
 
 " I have told her that I disapprove of the intimacy, 
 but Joyce flatly declined to give her up." 
 
 " But do you think that Joyce has got any harm 
 from her ? " asked Tom, a little indignantly. 
 
 " Oh, no ; I have always liked Miss Thrale. 
 There is something very sweet about her ; but you 
 know they have a very objectionable set of acquaint- 
 ances, and it is impossible for Joyce to visit at their 
 house without coming into contact with them. 
 There is nothing I dread more than Joyce becoming 
 imbued with all these horrid notions about freedom 
 and emancipation, which are ruining the young 
 women of the day. I have been most careful myself 
 in my teaching and example, and Joyce is the kind 
 of girl who goes so thoroughly into everything, that, 
 if she takes up this objectionable fad, there is no 
 knowing where it may end." 
 
 Tom listened in silence to these words, which gave 
 forth no uncertain sound. Any lingering desire he 
 had had to confide the inmost secret of his heart to 
 his mother was quenched for the time being, but he 
 went to bed that night with a heavy heart. He was 
 honestly and tenderly attached to his parents, and 
 would not willingly grieve them, and yet his heart
 
 134 'Gdgn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 turned so passionately to Hannah Thrale that he 
 could not face the idea of giving her up. 
 
 Next morning, as he walked down the road to 
 business, he met Jack Ferrars, who had been out 
 making an early visit 
 
 " Hallo, Tom ! " he cried cheerily, " you look very 
 glum this morning. Indigestion, eh ? " 
 
 " No ; never have anything of that sort, thank 
 goodness. I shall keep out of the clutches of you 
 and your kind as long as I can help it," Tom 
 answered back, as he shook hands warmly with his 
 friend. " You are early on the trot. Have you been 
 up half the night ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, just called as I was sitting down to 
 breakfast, and I am jolly hungry now. All well at 
 Overton this morning ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, all well ; but things are rather at sixes 
 and sevens in our place just now. Has the mater 
 said anything to you about Joyce lately ? " 
 
 " No," answered Ferrars, and the quick look of 
 inquiry on his face betrayed his keen inter- 
 est. 
 
 "Then I'd better keep quiet," answered Tom ; 
 " but she is going off to Paris next week to live for 
 six months with Aunt Grace." 
 
 " For six months ? " exclaimed Ferrars. " What 
 on earth is the meaning of that ? I never heard of
 
 Ibopcs and ffeacs. 135 
 
 anything so odd. Your sister seemed well enough 
 last night." 
 
 " Oh, she is well enough in her health ; it is her 
 mind, the mater would tell you," answered Tom, with 
 an enigmatical smile. " It is all about the Thrales. 
 You know them, down in Camberwell Road ? My 
 mother wants Joyce to break with them, and Joyce 
 won't a case of the revolting daughter." 
 
 " Oh," said Ferrars, and there was a good deal ex- 
 pressed in that monosyllable. " When did you say 
 she was going ? " 
 
 " Monday, I believe, or Tuesday." 
 
 " For six months ? " 
 
 Tom nodded. 
 
 " Oh," said Ferrars again. " Well, I must be off." 
 
 Tom smiled as he turned away. 
 
 " Jack will put a spoke in the wheel," he said to 
 himself, " before he is many hours older, or I am 
 much mistaken."
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ANOTHER DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 JACK FERRARS made a very poor breakfast that 
 morning. His father, who had breakfasted alone 
 and who was busy with his newspaper, did not 
 notice anything amiss, although it occurred to him 
 that his son was a trifle less talkative than usual. 
 The old doctor and the young were very good 
 friends, and though many pitied them because 
 of their lack of women-folk, they were very happy 
 together, and entirely united regarding their work, 
 in which both took the interest of enthusiasts. 
 Old Doctor Ferrars had built up his practice himself, 
 and could point to his large connection proudly 
 as his life-work. It was no small joy to him that 
 his one son had not only been willing but eager to 
 follow in his footsteps. The old man had remained 
 faithful to the memory of his boy's mother, and 
 though it had occurred to him from time to time 
 
 that, in all probability, Jack would marry one day, 
 
 136
 
 Bnotbcr Disappointment. 137 
 
 he had always put it from him as rather an un- 
 comfortable thought, because he knew that such an 
 event would put an end to the close comradeship 
 between them. Of late years he had been much 
 comforted by observing his son's demeanour towards 
 women ; beyond being interested in them as patients, 
 he did not seem to concern himself much about 
 them. Joyce Wyndham was the very last woman 
 that Mr. Ferrars would have thought of as a likely 
 wife for his son. A man is apt to regard a girl 
 at whose birth he has assisted as a very young 
 person indeed ; and old Doctor Ferrars had never 
 awakened to the fact that Joyce was now a grown- 
 up young lady, eligible for matrimony any day. 
 
 Breakfast over, Jack and his father made out their 
 visiting-list for the day, and then parted, each going 
 his separate way. About two o'clock, having 
 finished his rounds, Jack stopped his victoria at 
 the gate of Overton Hall, and sent it home. Then 
 he walked with a firm, rather determined step 
 towards the house. His face was very grave, and 
 he looked like a man who had something on his 
 mind. He expected to find Mrs. Wyndham at 
 home, and she was much surprised at receiving a 
 visit from him at that hour of the day. 
 
 " I hope there is nothing wrong," she said 
 anxiously, as she shook hands, " and that your father
 
 138 < CClBn&bam'0 Daugbtcr. 
 
 is none the worse for his dinner last night? He 
 seemed to enjoy it." 
 
 " He did, indeed," answered Jack, smiling to 
 reassure her, " and is as jolly as possible to-day. 
 No, I have come to pay a visit to you on my own 
 account, if you are not too busy to listen to me for a 
 few minutes." 
 
 " I am never too busy to speak to you, Jack," 
 Mrs. Wyndham answered quickly, and she meant 
 what she said. 
 
 " I saw Tom this morning as he went down to 
 business," began the young doctor, in his usual 
 straightforward manner. " What is all this about 
 Joyce being sent to Paris ? " 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham's face flushed. 
 
 " Oh, did he tell you ? Well, Mr. Wyndham and 
 I have come to the conclusion that it will be a good 
 thing for Joyce to be away from home for some little 
 time. Did Tom tell you the reason which has 
 caused us to come to this decision ? " 
 
 " Well, he did say something. He said, I believe, 
 that it was on account of the Thrales. But surely 
 you do not anticipate for a moment that the Thrales 
 could do Joyce any harm ? " 
 
 " That is exactly what Tom says," said Mrs. 
 Wyndham ; " but I think I may be permitted to 
 know better than either you or he what is right and
 
 anotber SMsappofntment. 139 
 
 best for Joyce. You know what extraordinary 
 people they associate with, don't you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I have heard talk of it, of course," answered 
 Ferrars lightly ; " but, I assure you, Osborne Thrale 
 is a very fine old chap, and a perfect gentleman, just 
 as his daughter is a thorough gentlewoman." 
 
 " Then you would not disapprove of Joyce's 
 friendship with her ? " 
 
 " Not with her, certainly," answered Ferrars at 
 once. " Not that I have any business to have an 
 opinion on the matter ; but I rather think that my 
 errand here to-day, Mrs. Wyndham, is to ask 
 whether you would have any objection to according 
 me a special interest in Joyce's welfare." 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham's face flushed again, and she 
 waited just a moment, not sure what his words 
 might imply. 
 
 " I have always cared for Joyce, I think, since I 
 knew her a little girl in pinafores," said Ferrars 
 simply ; " and when Tom told me to-day that she 
 was going away for so long, I seemed to get all at 
 once a clear view of my own mind. Would you 
 have any objection to me as a son-in-law ? " 
 
 " Objection ? " cried Mrs. Wyndham, and her eyes 
 filled with tears. " I should give Joyce to you with 
 a thankful heart, and thank God for His goodness to 
 me and mine."
 
 140 "OQlEn&bam's Bauabter. 
 
 " Then I have your permission to speak to Joyce, 
 and Mr. Wyndham's also ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, but I am just afraid," she said doubtfully. 
 " Have you any idea how Joyce feels towards you ? 
 She is such a strange child, and, although I am her 
 mother, I don't think I understand her in the least, 
 and I certainly have not the key to the secrets of her 
 heart." 
 
 Ferrars shook his head. 
 
 " I haven't the slightest idea, but I can only hope 
 that she will not refuse me. When could I see her ? 
 This is Thursday, and Tom told me that you had 
 actually decided to send her away on Monday. I 
 should like, if you would allow me, to speak to her 
 before she goes." 
 
 " Ah, but if Joyce would make us all happy by 
 accepting you, Jack, then she need not go," cried 
 Mrs. Wyndham. " I do hope that she will not be so 
 foolish as to throw away such a prize." 
 
 Ferrars laughed, somewhat embarrassed. 
 
 " Come now, Mrs. Wyndham, don't talk like that. 
 I believe I am a fairly decent chap, and I will do my 
 best to make happy the woman who honours me by 
 becoming my wife. I mean Joyce, of course, because, 
 if she refuses, no other woman shall ever have the 
 chance." 
 
 " I hope she will not refuse you," repeated Mrs.
 
 Bnotbec Disappointment. 141 
 
 Wyndham fervently, and she felt at the moment that 
 she could almost have gone down on her knees to 
 Joyce to beg her acceptance of the good gift about to 
 be offered to her. 
 
 "Well, I shall look in this evening, after dinner, 
 and if you will allow me a few minutes' private talk 
 with Joyce, I shall be much obliged," said Ferrars, as 
 he rose. " I should prefer that you do not say any- 
 thing to her in the interval. Of course, you under- 
 stand that I don't want any pressure brought to bear 
 upon her. My wife must come to me of her own free 
 will or not at all." 
 
 " I won't say anything," Mrs. Wyndham answered. 
 " She will not be home till almost dinner-time ; I 
 believe she has gone to Clapham to spend the 
 day." 
 
 " Very well, then, I shall look in between eight and 
 nine. Good-bye just now." 
 
 " Does your father know what you have in your 
 mind, Jack ? " she asked, as she accompanied him to 
 the door. 
 
 " I don't think he has any inkling of it yet," re- 
 plied Jack, with a slight smile. " It will be time 
 enough to tell him when Joyce accepts me. I dare- 
 say you understand, Mrs. Wyndham, that my 
 marriage will be, in a manner, a blow to my father 
 whenever it happens, though he should himself choose
 
 's Daughter. 
 
 the wife. You see we have been chums and all in all 
 to each other so long that the old man will naturally 
 feel it a good deal." 
 
 " Yes ; but a good woman who would be a devoted 
 daughter to him would increase his happiness as well 
 as yours, I should think," she said earnestly. 
 
 " That. I could very well believe, and I have heard 
 him say that if there were more wives and mothers 
 like you, matrimony would not be the problem it so 
 often is." 
 
 He spoke the words sincerely and unaffectedly, 
 without the slightest suspicion of flattery or compli- 
 ment-paying, and they fell very sweetly upon the 
 ears of the woman who heard them. In middle life 
 we are able to appreciate such words at their full 
 value ; it is only the young, upon whom they are so 
 richly lavished, that pass them lightly by. 
 
 Joyce arrived home that evening only in time for 
 dinner, and they had scarcely risen from the table 
 when Dr. Ferrars was announced. Mrs. Wyndham 
 went to the drawing-room with him for a moment, 
 and then came to find Joyce. 
 
 " What is all this mystery about, mother ? " Joyce 
 asked, as she came out of the dining-room. " Why 
 can't Jack come in as he always does, without any 
 ceremony? Is it a professional visit ? " 
 
 11 No, my dear, he wants to talk to you. Go into
 
 Snotber SMsappotntment. 143 
 
 the drawing-room now and hear what he has to 
 say." 
 
 " Dear me, that is very funny," said Joyce care- 
 lessly ; and without a moment's serious thought, she 
 crossed the hall and entered the long drawing-room, 
 which was only lit by the glow of one standard lamp 
 under its soft yellow shade. 
 
 " What do you want to talk to me about, Jack ? " 
 she said unconcernedly. " Couldn't we go out into 
 the garden ? It will be just as well ; the house is 
 so fearfully stuffy, I think, in this weather." 
 
 " Perhaps we may go out into the garden after- 
 wards, Joyce," he answered, and he felt his heart beat 
 as he looked upon the slender, graceful figure in the 
 soft white gown. Joyce always wore white of an 
 evening ; it was a fancy of her father's. 
 
 " It is a very mysterious proceeding this, isn't it ? " 
 she asked, looking up at him with a slightly mocking 
 smile. She hadn't the slightest idea of what was 
 passing in his mind, but as she looked at him, some- 
 thing in his eyes made her a trifle uncomfort- 
 able. 
 
 " I hear you are going away to Paris next week," 
 he said, rather lamely, for there was nothing in the 
 girl's matter-of-fact expression to encourage him to 
 go on without some preliminary remark, 
 
 Joyce shrugged her shoulders.
 
 's 2>augbter. 
 
 " So they say ; but I am not gone yet. Are you 
 in the conspiracy, too ? " 
 
 " I didn't know there was any conspiracy," he 
 answered. " All I know is that I hope you won't go 
 just yet, and I came to-night to ask you to stay." 
 
 " But what have you got to do with it ? " she asked, 
 in a slightly puzzled voice. " Has mother enlisted 
 you on the enemy's side, or what do you mean ? " 
 
 " Haven't you the slightest idea, Joyce ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think I have," she said slowly. " I 
 am waiting to be enlightened." 
 
 Again she felt that vague sense of discomfort as 
 she met his very earnest gaze. 
 
 " I daresay it is my fault that you have not guessed 
 my feelings long ago, Joyce," he said hurriedly. " I 
 hope I have not waited too long ; but you see I have 
 always thought of you as a very young person indeed, 
 and I seem to have awakened all at once to the 
 fact that you are quite grown up. I have always 
 cared for you, and I have come to ask you if you will 
 be my wife." 
 
 Joyce looked startled, and then an expression of 
 very real distress came upon her face. 
 
 " Oh, Jack Ferrars, what a shame of you to come 
 like this, and stop all our friendship, for I have liked 
 you so much and depended on you as a friend, 
 and now I suppose it is all at an end."
 
 anotber Disappointment. 145 
 
 " Not necessarily," said Ferrars quickly, though 
 his heart sank. " It is sometimes possible, I be- 
 lieve, for husband and wife to be friends. I hope 
 that you will not send me away, Joyce. I am 
 very much in earnest. You know that I am not 
 one who can lightly come and lightly go in a matter 
 of this kind. I have never felt the slightest interest 
 in any girl except you, and I love you very dearly." 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry," cried Joyce, clasping her 
 hands. " I didn't know I hadn't the slightest idea. 
 Oh, I hope that I haven't led you to think or 
 imagine that I cared for you in that way. You 
 see I have always known you, and so I thought 
 I was safe to say anything to you. I feel just 
 as I do to Tom, for instance." 
 
 " Don't say that," interrupted Ferrars quickly. 
 " It is like giving a stone to a man who asks for 
 bread." 
 
 " But it is true," cried Joyce, and her face grew 
 very soft and tender in its expression as she saw 
 the look on his. " I like you better than anybody 
 in the world except father and mother and Tom, 
 but not in that way." 
 
 " And do you think you never will ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am sure I never shall," she answered 
 fervently. "You see it would be just like trying 
 to fall in love with one's brother. That is the
 
 146 TOnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 difficulty with people who have always known each 
 other as you and I have." 
 
 " I suppose so," he answered, with a sigh. " Well, 
 if I am to take this as final, I hope that we may 
 still be friends, and that you will try and forget 
 what I have said." 
 
 He took his refusal manfully in the quiet way 
 characteristic of him, but nevertheless he had got 
 a severe blow. He only realised during the bitter 
 minutes between Overton and his own home how 
 he had built his hopes upon Joyce Wyndham, and 
 what her refusal meant to him. Fortunately there 
 was some work waiting for him when he got in, 
 and it was late when he returned home. He was 
 not surprised to find his father sitting up as usual 
 for him. As they smoked their last pipe together, 
 the old man noticed the cloud on his son's face. 
 
 " Anything specially worrying you, Jack ? " he 
 asked affectionately. " I haven't heard you say 
 you have a very bad case on." 
 
 " No, I haven't, except my own," he replied, with 
 a faint, dry smile, and the next moment the yearn- 
 ing for some human sympathy banished his former 
 prudence to the winds. " I think it right to tell 
 you, dad," he said, looking him straight in the face, 
 "that I have tried my luck to-day with Joyce 
 Wyndham, and she has refused me. So it is un-
 
 Bnotbcr Disappointment- 147 
 
 likely that I shall ever marry now, and we can 
 be chums together to the end." 
 
 The old doctor sat up in his chair, and looked 
 across at his son, almost stupefied by surprise. 
 
 " Refused you, has she ? " he said, after a long 
 pause. "Well, the loss is hers. Never mind, my 
 boy, there is nothing like time for healing these 
 wounds. Aye, the loss is hers." He got up and 
 took his son's hand in a warm, close grip, and 
 they looked into each other's eyes with a look 
 which brought them nearer together than they had 
 been since the days when Jack was a little chap, 
 and used to ride on his father's shoulder. " Aye, 
 the loss is hers," repeated the old man to himself, 
 as he went upstairs an hour later, with his candle 
 in his hand. But he could not sleep that night 
 for thinking of the disappointment which he saw 
 had wrung his son's heart.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IN HYDE PARK. 
 
 WHEN Mrs. Wyndham heard the outer door close 
 behind Dr. Jack after the very short interview be- 
 tween him and Joyce, she guessed how it was. 
 When Joyce dismissed her lover, she came calmly 
 out of the drawing-room in search of her mother. 
 She knew perfectly well that her answer to Jack 
 Ferrars would be a very bitter blow to her mother, 
 and she felt that the sooner they understood each 
 other the better. Before she left the drawing-room 
 she stood for a moment before the open window, 
 and let the cool night wind blow on her hot face. 
 She had a strange, unreal feeling, as if she were 
 looking on at some drama being played out by 
 others. It was unfortunate, she told herself, that 
 Jack Ferrars' proposal should have come in the 
 very midst of her strained relations with her mother. 
 It helped to complicate matters very much. As 
 she passed through the hall she met her mother 
 coming out of the morning-room, looking anxious 
 
 and a little wistful. 
 
 148
 
 She stood for a moment before the open window. [Page 148.
 
 parfc. 149 
 
 "I thought I heard the front door. Jack has 
 not gone already, has he, Joyce ? " she said quickly. 
 
 "Yes, mother," Joyce answered calmly, "he has 
 gone." 
 
 " Which means, I suppose, that you have re- 
 fused him ? " said her mother, with a hard, bitter 
 note in her voice. 
 
 " We need not discuss the matter in the hall, 
 mother," answered Joyce quickly, and turned back 
 to the drawing-room. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham was too bitterly disappointed 
 to be able to hide her feelings. 
 
 " I feared that in your present mood Jack had 
 no chance," she began at once. " But oh, Joyce, 
 I hope you have considered the matter well. Any 
 woman might be happy and proud to be Jack 
 Ferrars' wife; there are not very many like 
 him." 
 
 " I like him very much, mother," answered Joyce, 
 very quietly "and I wish for your sake, and for 
 everybody's sake, that I could have said yes to him ; 
 but I don't care for him in that way, and I never 
 shall." 
 
 "You speak very decidedly, Joyce, for one so 
 young," her mother observed. " Did you not say 
 that perhaps if he would wait you might be able 
 to answer him differently ? "
 
 X 5 TKHgn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 " No," answered Joyce promptly, " because I am 
 confident I never should. I know it is a disap- 
 pointment to you, mother, and I hope you will 
 believe that I don't willingly inflict it; but I am 
 sure you would be the very last to advise me to 
 marry a man for whom I did not care." 
 
 "Well, but are you sure you know your own 
 mind ? So many girls are headstrong. If your 
 father and I were to search the whole of London, 
 we could never find a man to whom we should more 
 willingly give our only daughter than Jack Ferrars ; 
 he is simply everything we could desire." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know," answered Joyce quickly, but 
 not impatiently, for she sympathised with her 
 mother up to a certain point ; and her heart was 
 gentle and soft with the memory of the look on 
 Jack's face when she had given him her decisive 
 answer. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham looked at her perplexedly, her fair 
 face betraying the deep anxiety consuming her. 
 There was nothing soft and yielding in the girl's atti- 
 tude and look as she stood leaning up against the 
 open French window, with her hands clasped before 
 her, looking out into the night. But her face was a 
 trifle sad. 
 
 " Mother, I wish I had been born different," she 
 said suddenly. " It must be so nice to be able to fall
 
 parfe. 151 
 
 in with everything 1 , and make everybody happy. I 
 would give ten years of my life if I could." 
 
 " But, dear, are you quite sure of your feelings 
 about Jack Ferrars ? You have always been so fond 
 of him." 
 
 " That is just it, mother," interrupted Joyce 
 quickly. " I know him too well ; I feel to him just 
 as I feel to Tom. It is a mistake for a man to be so 
 brotherly to a girl if he wants to marry her." 
 
 " I hope," said Mrs. Wyndham, in a low, anxious 
 voice, " that there is no one else." 
 
 " No, mother," answered Joyce promptly ; " only I 
 don't think that I shall marry." 
 
 " Your father will be very much disappointed. He 
 has looked upon your marriage with Jack Ferrars 
 almost as a settled thing. Upon my word, I could 
 wish that we lived in France, where girls have to do 
 as they are bid." 
 
 Joyce's lip curled, and her gentler mood passed. 
 
 " I don't think, if we are to believe Aunt Grace 
 and the girls, that the results of that particular form 
 of domestic management are conspicuously success- 
 ful," she said. " Really, girls are made to marry men 
 they don't care anything about, and they simply go 
 their own way after marriage, and the reason French 
 girls fall in so readily with their parents' wishes is 
 because they know that marriage will bring them
 
 152 tdgnDbam's Daugbter. 
 
 complete emancipation. Here, you see, it is just 
 the opposite. When you are married you are bound 
 hand and foot." 
 
 " But it is a happy bondage, you will admit that," 
 cried Mrs. Wyndham. " Who could be happier than 
 I am with your father ? " 
 
 " Oh, no one," answered Joyce readily ; " but then 
 papa and you always cared for each other. Perhaps 
 I had better go away to Aunt Grace with all possible 
 speed, because I seem to be doing the wrong thing 
 always." 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham sighed, and made no immediate 
 reply. She felt that she and her daughter were 
 thoroughly out of tune, and as there seemed no pos- 
 sible chance of their agreeing on any subject, she felt 
 that the sooner Joyce left home for a time the better 
 it would be for all concerned. 
 
 Next day was Sunday, and while her father and 
 mother took their usual after-dinner nap, Joyce 
 dressed herself carefully and left the house without 
 saying to anyone where she was going. She had 
 always plenty of pocket-money, thanks to her father's 
 generosity, and when she got without the gates she 
 hailed a passing hansom, and told the man to drive 
 her to the Marble Arch. It was a beautiful and 
 sunny afternoon, with a light westerly breeze blowing, 
 to relieve the a ; r of its midsummer sultriness. The
 
 Jn Ibsfce frarfc. 
 
 recent rain had refreshed the grass, and washed clean 
 the trees and shrubs. As Joyce entered the park 
 with the throng, and caught its fresh beauty, two 
 lines from an old hymn she had learned in her child- 
 hood ran persistently in her ears : 
 
 " Where every prospect pleases, 
 And only man is vile." 
 
 The park was crowded with the usual well-dressed 
 Sunday throng, augmented by a great gathering of 
 people from the poorer quarters, who had assembled 
 to aid in the special demonstrations organised by the 
 Socialists for that special afternoon. 
 
 Joyce had never before seen such a gathering. 
 She could see the banners wave above the platform 
 but the crowd was so dense that she felt it would be 
 impossible to approach near enough to be recognised 
 by any of her friends. She was not at all nervous or 
 excited by a crowd, and was able to look with 
 intelligent interest on the great multitude, who 
 mostly looked smiling and contented, as if they had 
 come out for some pleasant outing, rather than to 
 take part in a protest against the existing state of 
 things. She pressed as far into the crowd as she 
 thought was safe, but could scarcely hear a word of 
 what was said by an artisan, dressed in his working 
 garb, who stood on the nearest platform. His
 
 iS4 TIGlBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 remarks seemed to be approved, however, by those 
 who could hear, for when he ceased, the applause was 
 hearty and prolonged. Immediately afterwards 
 Osborne Thrale rose to speak. Joyce never forgot 
 the picture the old man made, nor the contrast he 
 presented to the great mass of those about him, 
 standing with his noble figure, and his fine, clear-cut 
 features showing like a cameo against the waving 
 background of the trees. She longed to be near in 
 order that she might hear the words which fell from 
 his lips. She was standing on tiptoe, stretching for- 
 ward to try and catch his words, when someone 
 touched her arm, and she turned hastily to meet the 
 earnest eyes of Philip Dane. 
 
 " I caught a glimpse of you a minute or two ago," 
 he said quickly. " You would like to get forward, 
 would you not, to hear? If you will kindly take my 
 arm, I will do my best to get you through the 
 crowd." 
 
 Joyce hesitated a moment, thinking of her mother, 
 and then laid her hand obediently on Philip Dane's 
 arm. There was something at once entreating and 
 commanding in his look and manner, and she thought 
 of nothing at the moment but the joy of being near 
 him. After some little delay, Joyce found herself 
 quite close to the platform, where she recognised 
 several people whom she had seen from time to time
 
 155 
 
 at the house of the Thrales. But Hannah she did 
 not see. She sat down on the lower edge of the 
 platform, and presently found herself shaking hands 
 with Mrs. Hemming, who looked much interested 
 and pleased to see her. 
 
 " I am so glad to see that you have the courage of 
 your convictions, my dear," she said heartily, " and I 
 am sure our dear Hannah would be pleased also. 
 She has not come to-day, unfortunately having a bad 
 headache." 
 
 " Oh, I am sorry to hear that," said Joyce quickly. 
 " I don't think I should have come had I not ex- 
 pected to see her here." 
 
 " But you are not alone ; you see we have a good 
 many women present." Mrs. Hemming never used 
 the word lady. It was one of her favourite remarks 
 that the word which had been so much abused, and 
 which had become so little significant of real gentle- 
 hood, ought to be banished from the vocabulary of 
 truthful and earnest-minded people. " How did you 
 ever get leave to come here ? " asked Mrs. Hemming, 
 more interested for the moment in Joyce's sudden 
 appearance than in the impassioned words which 
 were being spoken on the platform above her. " I 
 understood that your father and mother were very 
 much opposed to your taking any active part in our 
 interesting movement."
 
 t$6 TKflgttobam's Daligbtet. 
 
 " They don't know I have come," answered Joyce 
 promptly ; " but I promised I would some day, and 
 as I expect I shall be going away to Paris on 
 Monday, I thought this would be my only oppor- 
 tunity. Pray, Mrs. Hemming, who is that poor lad 
 in the invalid chair ? " 
 
 " That, my dear, is Bobbie Dane, our good Philip's 
 brother, and an enthusiast in the cause. Just look at 
 his face while he listens to Mr. Thrale. Is it not 
 eloquent ? " 
 
 " Indeed it is," said Joyce quickly. " It was the 
 eyes which drew me. He is not at all like his 
 brother." 
 
 " Not in looks, perhaps, but he has the same 
 enthusiastic soul. We have lost one of our most 
 powerful advocates in Bobbie Dane. Had he only 
 possessed his brother's health and strength, he would 
 have been one of our prophets." 
 
 " He has a beautiful face," observed Joyce, looking 
 at him with a keenness of interest she could not hide. 
 Philip Dane saw that look, noted the sweet com- 
 passion in her eyes and the exquisite tenderness 
 about her mouth, and his heart went out to her in a 
 passionate rush of gratitude and love. 
 
 " Come, tell me, my dear, why it is that you are 
 being banished to France," said Mrs. Hemming, 
 with interest. "I hope you can regard me as a
 
 5n IbfiOe path. 157 
 
 friend, because Hannah has told me a great deal 
 about you, and I am a woman who has seen and 
 suffered a great deal. Perhaps out of my experience 
 I may be able to help you a little in this crisis of 
 your life." 
 
 Joyce turned and looked at her with a sudden, 
 eager, yearning look. Something in that strong, sad 
 face moved her, and she wished for the moment that 
 they had been in some less public and crowded place, 
 so that she might have poured out her heart to one 
 whom she felt would understand her even better than 
 Hannah. Of late, indeed, Hannah had not been to 
 Joyce the friend of yore. 
 
 " Oh, I wish I could tell you," she cried im- 
 pulsively. " Everything seems to be going wrong ; 
 it culminated last night when I had an offer of 
 marriage from a man whom my parents are ex- 
 tremely anxious I should marry, and I don't care for 
 him. It is very hard to go against the wishes of 
 parents, Mrs. Hemming, especially when they are 
 good and kind as mine are." 
 
 " I quite understand the position," said Mrs. 
 Hemming, " and as you say, it is a great deal more 
 difficult to stand up for one's rights when they are 
 threatened so gently and lovingly. But this is not 
 quite the place to discuss such private matters. 
 Could you not come and see me in my little home,
 
 158 "QClEn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 where we could have a long talk ? I am interested 
 in you, my dear ; my only child, had she lived, would 
 have been just your age." 
 
 " Oh, I should love to come if I may," said Joyce 
 eagerly, feeling that she would do so at any cost. 
 
 "We can arrange it before we part to-day," said 
 Mrs. Hemming. " Now Philip Dane is going to 
 speak, and he is always worth listening to."
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE QUARREL UNDER THE ELM TREE. 
 
 JOYCE turned round quickly, full of eager interest to 
 hear what Philip Dane had to say. That he was a 
 favourite was evident by the pleased interest visible 
 on every countenance, and that his sentiments were 
 approved of was shown by the frequent applause 
 which interrupted his remarks. He spoke upon the 
 great labour question moderately and sensibly, Joyce 
 thought, although many who listened thought his 
 views extreme. His frank, honest, noble face, im- 
 passioned manner, and winning voice, all told, and 
 the party were right in looking upon him as 
 one of their most promising members. Many 
 strange thoughts chased each other through Joyce 
 Wyndham's excited brain ; as she listened to the 
 glowing and eloquent words, a great sense of the 
 injustice and inequality of things oppressed her, 
 accompanied by a passionate longing to be able to 
 do something towards ameliorating the condition of 
 things manifestly so much in need of redress. Her
 
 J 6o Wgn&bam's Daugbter. 
 
 face became flushed with the depth and intensity of 
 her feeling, and her eyes shone. Mrs. Hemming 
 watched her intently, finding her a much more in- 
 teresting study than the question under discussion. 
 She beheld in her a kindred soul burning to redress 
 the wrongs of the world, and became imbued with a 
 strong desire to make her one of themselves. 
 
 Philip Dane did not look much, if at all, at Joyce 
 while he spoke, but he was never for a moment un- 
 conscious of her presence, and when he stepped 
 down amid ringing applause from the platform, it 
 was to her he turned, eager to see whether he could 
 gather from her face that she approved of what he 
 had said. She met his glance somewhat timidly, 
 but he failed to read the expression on her face. 
 She was feeling herself far beneath him, scorning 
 herself for her scanty knowledge of the various 
 points with which he had so eloquently dealt, and 
 was almost afraid to speak to him, lest in speaking 
 she should betray her ignorance. 
 
 " Bravo, Philip," said Mrs. Hemming heartily. 
 " I think you surpassed yourself, and the mantle of 
 our leader has fallen upon you." 
 
 " Hush ! " he said, a trifle sharply. " I only felt 
 how inadequately I was dealing with it. May I ask 
 what you thought, Miss Wyndham ? " 
 
 " Oh, I thought it was splendid perfectly
 
 Quarrel un&er tbe ;6lm {Tree. 161 
 
 splendid," said Joyce, in a low, eager voice, and yet 
 with a slight sigh. " Only I fear I did not follow 
 you quite. I am so very ignorant ; you see, I want 
 to know and understand everything. Do you think 
 I shall ever understand it all ? " 
 
 " None of us will ever reach that point, I am 
 afraid," he made answer. " But you have no lack of 
 keen perception, and I should think that with a little 
 study of the question you would soon get far ahead 
 of most of us." 
 
 " I quite agree with you, Philip," said Mrs. 
 Hemming quickly. " I have been watching her 
 while you spoke, and she has enthusiasm enough to 
 come to the front. I am just trying to arrange 
 a little visit she is to pay to me, when we shall talk 
 things over. Perhaps, if we arrange it for the even- 
 ing) you might be able to join our little party. I can 
 also invite Mr. Thrale and Hannah." 
 
 " I shall be very glad," said Dane; but he did not 
 speak with the alacrity which might have been 
 expected. He glanced from the sternly-marked face 
 of Olivia Hemming to Joyce's frank, open, girlish 
 one, and there was a deep significance in his eye. 
 He admired Olivia Hemming for many things, and 
 would have been the first to grant her usefulness 
 as a friend of the cause ; but he would have kept 
 Joyce and her apart. Someone claimed his attention
 
 i$2 TJdgttobam's Baugbtec. 
 
 just then, and, when he turned away from them, 
 Mrs. Hemming took up the thread again. 
 
 " Then when can you come ? I have rather a 
 busy week ; but I think I am free on Tuesday 
 evening. Could you come on Tuesday evening 
 about six o'clock ? " 
 
 " I should like to. I shall try," Joyce mur- 
 mured, 
 
 " You know where I live, do you not ? " 
 
 " I think I have heard that you live very near Mr. 
 Dane." 
 
 " Yes, I live in the same building, on the floor 
 beneath him. There is my card, and I shall 
 expect you about six o'clock on Tuesday 
 evening." 
 
 " I will come if I can," answered Joyce, as she 
 slipped the card into her pocket. " Now I am afraid 
 I must go home. They will wonder where I have 
 been, and tea will be over when I get back." 
 
 " Shall you tell them ? " asked Mrs. Hemming 
 significantly. 
 
 Joyce coloured slightly. 
 
 " If they ask me, of course I must," she replied. 
 " Do you think I am afraid ? " 
 
 Mrs. Hemming gave her shoulders a little expres- 
 sive shrug. 
 
 " I should not think you would be afraid of much ;
 
 (Quarrel un&er tbe lm fcree. 163 
 
 but I can conceive from what I have heard that the 
 circumstances might be a little trying. But re- 
 member, my dear, that every cause demands from its 
 devotees a certain amount of suffering. I hope that 
 we number you among the friends of the cause ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so," answered Joyce, but with 
 a slight hesitation. She had, indeed, but a vague 
 idea of what the speaker meant. 
 
 Mrs. Hemming's eyes were quick to read her 
 hesitation correctly. 
 
 " I see that you are wondering what it is all 
 about," she said good-humouredly. " Perhaps it will 
 help you if I sum it up in a word or two. We fight 
 for humanity and freedom ; do you understand ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do ; at least, I hope I do," said Joyce, 
 with a faint smile. " But I shall let you see the 
 extent of my knowledge, perhaps, on Tuesday 
 night, if I may be allowed to come. Good-bye." 
 
 She shook hands hastily, and without waiting for 
 another word with Philip Dane. It was now almost 
 five o'clock, and she began to realise that she had 
 done rather a serious thing as regarded from the 
 stand-point of her father and mother, She was not 
 exactly afraid as the hansom bore her rapidly 
 through the busy throng of Oxford Street, but she 
 felt that the struggle was likely to become more 
 sharp and bitter, and there was a vague wonder in
 
 164 TKngn&bam's 2>augbter. 
 
 her mind as to how it would end. It was almost 
 half-past five when the hansom drew up on the road 
 outside her father's gates. The thick shade of the 
 trees and the distance from the house prevented her 
 arrival from being observed, and when she entered 
 the grounds she saw them gathered, as usual, for tea 
 under the thick elm tree on the lawn. Her father 
 and brother were enjoying their cigars ; her mother 
 sat in a basket-chair with her face towards the house, 
 so that Joyce could not see her expression. She had 
 gone half way across the lawn before she was 
 observed. 
 
 " Hallo ! here is the truant," cried Tom. " Well 
 Miss Muffit, where have you been ? We have had 
 serious thoughts of sending the bellman round in 
 search of you." 
 
 Joyce made no answer, but walked calmly over to 
 the little circle, and seated herself in her chair. 
 
 " Where have you been, Joyce ? " her mother asked 
 quietly, laying her book on her lap, and regarding 
 her with straight scrutiny. 
 
 " I have been at Hyde Park," she replied quietly, 
 beginning to remove her gloves. 
 
 " Alone ? " asked her mother shortly. 
 
 "Yes ; I went and came in a hansom." 
 
 Tom gave an expressive whistle. 
 
 " Independent young woman ! Anything on
 
 Quarrel under tbc Elm {free. 165 
 
 there ? You might have given yours truly a chance 
 to see the fun." 
 
 " There is a demonstration there this afternoon 
 on the labour question," she replied, " and I wanted 
 to hear what they had to say." 
 
 All this time Mr. Wyndham had been regarding 
 his daughter gravely, and had never spoken a word. 
 He now sat up, and the expression on his face 
 indicated that he was much annoyed. 
 
 " Hyde Park, on Sunday afternoon, in such a 
 rowdy crowd, is no place for any modest girl to go 
 alone," he said sharply. "Why didn't you tell us 
 you wished to see what kind of foolishness goes on 
 there? Your brother or I would have taken you. 
 I suppose it is nothing to you that your mother has 
 been worrying about you for the last two hours." 
 
 " I never thought about it," Joyce answered can- 
 didly ; " but why should she worry ? I am quite 
 able to take care of myself, and I don't think you 
 ought to say, father, that no modest girl would walk 
 in Hyde Park by herself on Sunday afternoon. I 
 saw hundreds there. It is as safe as it is in this 
 garden." 
 
 " That is all you know about it," said Mr. Wynd- 
 ham, more crossly than Joyce had ever heard him 
 speak before. " My dear," he said, turning to his 
 wife, " why don't you rate her soundly, and tell her
 
 166 T!Cln&bam'5 s>augbter. 
 
 we have had enough of this silly nonsense, and that 
 it must come to an end ? " 
 
 " I have had my say, Alfred," Mrs. Wyndham re- 
 plied, in a low voice, " and Joyce has paid no heed to 
 it. Perhaps she will listen to you." 
 
 Joyce Wyndham had been an indulged and 
 idolised daughter all her life, living in an atmosphere 
 of sunshine and approval, and her nature was quick 
 to resent any strictures being placed upon her con- 
 duct. The slow colour burned in her cheeks, and 
 her eyes became ominously bright. 
 
 " You do not approve of her escapade this after- 
 noon, I suppose ? " said Mr. Wyndham, a trifle 
 irritably. It was hard that his peaceful Sunday 
 afternoon, so hardly earned, and which he always 
 spent quietly in the bosom of his family, should thus 
 be rudely spoiled. Besides, he was now somewhat 
 seriously concerned about his daughter. 
 
 " No, I don't approve of it," replied Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham coldly ; " but I have had my say, and I will 
 leave you to deal with her now. I suppose you 
 went there with your friends the Thrales ? " she said 
 bluntly, fixing her eyes on Joyce's changing face. 
 
 " No, I didn't ; I went and came alone," she 
 answered. " Hannah wasn't there, and I only saw 
 her father in the distance speaking on the plat- 
 form."
 
 Quarrel unDer tbe Elm ree. 167 
 
 " Well, I hope you heard something that edified 
 you," put in Tom, anxious to relieve the tension of 
 the moment. " I must say, any time I have stopped 
 to listen to any of them haranguing in the park, I 
 have always, thought what rubbish it was, and 
 wondered how anybody could waste their time 
 listening to them." 
 
 " That is all you know about it," retorted Joyce, 
 looking at him from under her veiled lids with a 
 fine quick scorn. 
 
 " Perhaps so," said Tom meekly ; " but I know a 
 good many people who are of the same mind. You 
 don't happen to be the centre of all the wisdom in 
 the world, Miss Muffit." 
 
 Joyce liked Tom's scathing sarcasm even less than 
 the displeasure of her father and mother. 
 
 " They are people in earnest, anyhow," she said 
 bitterly ; " and they do think sometimes of something 
 a little higher than kicking a ball from one part of 
 the Common to the other." 
 
 " Well, there is no use saying any more about it," 
 put in Mr. Wyndham quickly ; " but understand 
 this, Joyce, that the next time I hear of your playing 
 us a trick of this kind, I shall take summary 
 measures to put an end to it. However, as you are 
 going away to your aunt's on Tuesday, there will be 
 no more of it."
 
 168 'TCflBnObam's Baugbter. 
 
 " I haven't said I am going," said Joyce sullenly. 
 
 " No, but I have said it I and your mother to- 
 gether," observed Mr. Wyndham quietly. He was 
 a very good-tempered and gentle-mannered person 
 as a rule, but somehow that afternoon Joyce suc- 
 ceeded in raising a very bitter anger in him, the root 
 of which, of course, was his deep love and intense 
 anxiety for an idolised child ; but to its true meaning 
 in the meantime Joyce's eyes were holden. 
 
 " You are getting her things ready, aren't you 
 mother ? " he said suddenly, turning to his wife. 
 
 " They don't want getting ready ; she has plenty of 
 things to take with her," answered Mrs. Wyndham, in 
 a low voice, which had rather a hopeless ring in it. 
 Looking at Joyce's forbidding face, she felt that the 
 struggle was unequal, and that somehow in dealing 
 with her daughter she had missed the way. 
 
 " Well, the sooner you get them ready the better. 
 I believe I shall go and wire to Grace that she will 
 be over to-morrow night instead of Tuesday morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " I am not a chattel to be disposed of so summarily 
 without consulting me," cried Joyce angrily, " and I 
 am not going." 
 
 " Oh, draw it mild, Joyce," said Tom, now 
 thoroughly uncomfortable. Family jars of a serious 
 nature had hitherto been so rare in this peaceful and
 
 Quarrel un&er tbe Elm aree. 169 
 
 happy house that one such as this made everyone 
 miserable. 
 
 " It is all very well for you," said Joyce quickly 
 and eagerly. " Nobody says what you shall do or 
 shall not do ; you come in and go out as you like, 
 and nobody asks any questions, simply because you 
 are a man, I suppose. Why shouldn't I have the 
 same right ? I will have it, too," she cried, giving her 
 foot a little passionate stamp. 
 
 " You can go into the house, my girl," said Mr. 
 Wyndham drily, but in a manner that said a good 
 deal more, " and you can stop there till you come to 
 a better frame of mind." 
 
 Joyce started from her chair, and marched towards 
 the house with her head in the air. Mrs. Wyndham 
 dropped her head on the arm of her chair, and burst 
 into tears.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 
 
 MRS. HEMMING sat in her small sitting-room, en- 
 joying her frugal supper, that Sunday evening be- 
 tween nine and ten. It was oppressively hot, and 
 although the window was wide open, the air which 
 came up from the busy Clerkenwell Road was 
 neither sweet nor refreshing. That congested 
 thoroughfare had its usual Sunday evening throng, 
 orderly for the most part, and every car and omnibus 
 was crowded to its utmost limit. She was thinking, 
 as she sat at the open window, of Joyce Wyndham. 
 Something in the girl's frank, earnest face had 
 touched her heart, awakening there the yearning of 
 motherhood which she had thought buried in her one 
 child's grave. Her life was lonely, but she never 
 suffered herself to be dull or to brood too much over 
 her position. She filled her days with busy concern 
 for other people, interesting herself in almost every 
 public question. In some quarters she was indeed 
 more feared than beloved, yet she was far from being 
 
 happy ; her eyes had a restless gleam in their depths 
 
 170
 
 Gbe (UnejpecteD <5uest. 171 
 
 and her mouth in its repose was unutterably sad. 
 There were few to whom Olivia Hemming revealed 
 her inner self, which was the true woman after all. 
 
 Her reverie was interrupted, shortly before ten 
 o'clock, by a short, quick, eager tap at her door. 
 She would not have been surprised at a visit from 
 Philip Dane, who often looked in on his way up to 
 his own rooms ; but she knew it was not his knock, 
 and wondered who could want her at such an hour. 
 She lighted a taper and turned on the gas in the 
 dark little hall before she opened the outer door, so 
 that she was able at once to recognise the figure 
 that stood without. 
 
 " Miss Wyndham ! " she exclaimed, in great 
 astonishment. " What can you possibly want here 
 at this hour ? " 
 
 " May I come in ? " Joyce said hurriedly, " and I 
 will try to explain." 
 
 " Certainly, my dear. I hope that I have not 
 made you feel that you are unwelcome ; but natur- 
 ally I am surprised to see you here so late." 
 
 She held the door wide open and motioned Joyce 
 in, securely shutting it behind her. Then she led 
 the way into the sitting-room, where she hastily lit 
 the gas and drew down the blind, wishing to have a 
 full view of the girl's face while she listened to the 
 explanation of this unlooked-for visit.
 
 172 TKHgnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 " I forget whether I told you that I was to be 
 banished to Paris to-morrow," began Joyce hurriedly. 
 " If I didn't tell you, perhaps Hannah did, and after 
 what they said to me this afternoon about my having 
 gone to the meeting, I thought I had better take a 
 step on my own account." 
 
 " And you have run away, I suppose ? " said Mrs. 
 Hemming, and Joyce could not gather either ap- 
 proval or disapproval from her face. 
 
 " I suppose it amounts to that," she said, with a 
 little nervous laugh. " What could I do ? I am not 
 a mere child to be sent out of the country because 
 I happened to misbehave, looking at it from one 
 particular point of view. I simply want to make a 
 protest against this interference with my personal 
 liberty." 
 
 " How old are you, may I ask ? " was Mrs. 
 Hemming's next question. 
 
 " I am nineteen ; I shall be twenty before Christ- 
 mas," said Joyce bravely. " Surely if a woman is 
 ever to know her own mind, she ought to know it 
 now." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I grant you that. Well, sit down, my 
 dear, and let us talk this thing quietly over. I ex- 
 pect I am a bit taken aback ; it is rather a serious 
 step for you to take." 
 
 " I thought you would approve of it," said Joyce,
 
 Tanespectefc Ouest. 173 
 
 with a quick note of disappointment in her voice. 
 " You were so very kind and sympathetic to me this 
 afternoon, that my first impulse, of course, was to 
 come to you." 
 
 " But why not to Hannah, Miss Wyndham ? 
 You have known her so long." 
 
 " Hannah would have sent me back at once," said 
 Joyce, with a slight, bitter smile. " I cannot under- 
 stand Hannah of late ; she seems to have changed 
 so completely. I am sure her heart is not in the 
 cause as it used to be." 
 
 " I am not sure but that in this question she 
 would have acted rightly," said Mrs. Hemming 
 slowly, "and I think that I shall take you back 
 myself." 
 
 Joyce sat down, and her face wore a look of great 
 determination. 
 
 " If you will not allow me to remain here, then 
 of course I must seek accommodation somewhere 
 else," she said quietly. " I am not going home ; 
 never again, until conditions are altered. They 
 must get a lesson, and be made to understand that 
 they cannot do with me exactly as they like." 
 
 Mrs. Hemming leaned her elbow on the mantel- 
 shelf, and turned her thoughtful face towards Joyce. 
 She was an advocate for personal liberty and for 
 individual rights, and had herself suffered acutely
 
 174 "COlgnD barn's Daughter. 
 
 in her struggle to obtain them. She was constantly 
 bewailing the fact that the lack of courage among 
 women as a body accounted for the many disabilities 
 under which they laboured. But though she had 
 acted perhaps foolishly in the past herself, she was a 
 woman of the world, who could look things squarely 
 in the face, and she was not so completely carried 
 away by enthusiasm for the cause that she could 
 not realise the seriousness of the step which Joyce 
 Wyndham had taken. 
 
 " I admire your courage and your strength," she 
 said presently; " but do you think you quite realise 
 what you have done ? Let us put it into plain 
 words. You have deliberately left your father's 
 house and cut yourself off from your family, for what 
 object, may I ask ? " 
 
 " So that I may take up some work in the world, I 
 hope," Joyce replied readily. " If I had stayed there 
 they would never have allowed me any more liberty. 
 I want to see and understand life as it really exists ; 
 I could do something towards helping the suffering 
 of the needful." 
 
 " It is a fine idea," said Mrs. Hemming shortly. 
 " I remember well when I was imbued with a like 
 enthusiasm. Far be it from me to seek to quench it 
 in you, or to throw cold water upon your high re- 
 solves ; experience winnows out the wheat from the
 
 TUnei-pecteO (Buest. 175 
 
 chaff, so time will show what it is you really long for. 
 It is all very well to hold such noble ideals ; but, 
 unfortunately, there are other things in this world 
 besides the ideal. There is the real and the actual, 
 which has to be reckoned with every day. From 
 what I have heard of your parents from Hannah 
 Thrale, I should imagine that if you once offend 
 them they will be inexorable. How, then, do you 
 propose to descend to the primary question how 
 do you propose to get bread to eat ? " 
 
 " I can work, I suppose," said Joyce. " I am 
 young and strong ; surely there is something I can 
 do which will be worth a few shillings a week to 
 some employer of labour." 
 
 Mrs. Hemming faintly smiled. 
 
 " I could laugh at your innocence if it did not 
 sadden me too much," she said. " I daresay, as you 
 say, something might be found for you to do ; but 
 come, tell me, did you give your parents any hint of 
 your intention to-night ? " 
 
 " I wrote a letter to them when they were at even- 
 ing church," she answered, " in which I have tried to 
 explain why I have left. But it will not give them 
 any clue as to my whereabouts." 
 
 " They will go at once, of course, to Mr. Thrale's 
 house," put in Mrs. Hemming. "They do not 
 know, I suppose, that you have come here ? "
 
 1 76 'QQlBn& barn's Daughter. 
 
 " Oh, no ; if I had called there I should never have 
 been allowed to go any further. I feel confident that 
 Hannah would have forced me to go back." 
 
 " It is possible she may seek you here, however," 
 suggested Mrs. Hemming. " I think it likely that, 
 directly your father and mother return from church, 
 they would set out on their quest, and we may ex- 
 pect them here shortly." 
 
 " They may come if they like," said Joyce stoutly, 
 " but I shall not go back with them, unless, indeed, 
 you turn me out." 
 
 " I should not do that," said Mrs. Hemming, with 
 great good-humour. " I am not all sure that I ap- 
 prove, remember, of the step you have taken of its 
 worldly wisdom, at least; but I like your eager, 
 ardent spirit, and I think there may be a work for 
 you to do here or elsewhere. You are welcome 
 to stay here as long as it seems suitable to 
 you." 
 
 " I will not be a burden upon you," cried Joyce. 
 " I shall only ask to stay until I have found some 
 more suitable place, and something definite to do ; 
 and I can pay," she said, fumbling nervously in her 
 pocket for her purse, from which she turned a little 
 heap of gold into her lap. " You need not look at 
 me so suspiciously," she exclaimed quickly ; " it is 
 my own money, given to me by my father at various
 
 Cbe TUnejpcctcO (Suest. 177 
 
 times. He has always been lavish with me, and I 
 have not spent it ; surely it is my own." 
 
 " Certainly," said Mrs. Hemming. 
 
 "Then why do you look at me with that ex- 
 pression on your face, as if you inwardly disapproved 
 of me and my action ? " 
 
 " I don't disapprove of it ; but I once had a little 
 child, and I was wondering how I should feel to- 
 night if she were alive, and should act to me as 
 you are now doing towards your parents." 
 
 "Oh, you would never seek to keep a daughter 
 of yours within such narrow bounds, nor would you 
 wish to make her marry against her will." 
 
 " No, that I should not," cried Mrs. Hemming, 
 with great emphasis. "That was the curse of my 
 life, being forced into marriage which I did not 
 desire, and which was quite unsuited to my age 
 and to my character. I have more sympathy with 
 you now than I have had. Listen, and I will tell 
 you a story." 
 
 Joyce felt an inward qualm as she listened to 
 these words ; her conscience reminded her that she 
 was presenting a highly-coloured picture of her 
 case ; but she was so eager to strengthen her own 
 position that she had almost convinced herself that 
 she was being forced to accept the man whom her 
 
 parents had chosen for her. 
 
 M
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 BEHIND THE VEIL. 
 
 " I WAS an only daughter like you," began Mrs. 
 Hemming, "only I had no brother. My father 
 was a clergyman, the incumbent of a wretched living 
 in the Salt Marshes, where the stipend was so small 
 that it could scarcely keep body and soul together. 
 My father and mother were an ill-assorted couple, 
 who ought never to have been married, and I had 
 a miserable childhood in every sense of the word. 
 I was always a grave, studious child, fond of books 
 and of thinking over matters more suited to persons 
 much older than myself. Perhaps it was the nature 
 of my environment which caused me, from my 
 earliest years, to have a passionate interest in, and 
 sympathy with, the down-trodden and the oppressed. 
 My father, though he was in holy orders, was a 
 bully and tyrant, and the way he treated my poor 
 mother used to make my blood boil ; and I grew 
 up with a very low opinion of men, and looked 
 
 forward to a day when I should show them that 
 
 178
 
 JBebtnfc tbe Weil. 179 
 
 there was one woman, at least, who would not be at 
 their beck and call. My father was a great student, 
 and, for his means and position, had a very con- 
 siderable library, to which I had access, although 
 he had not the slightest idea of the extent and 
 nature of my reading. I read everything philo- 
 sophy, history, travel, theology and out of that 
 ill-digested mass there arose a great many con- 
 victions, strong, original ; but many of them, as I 
 have since proved, quite erroneous. I had no one 
 to guide my taste, or to help me to understand and 
 discriminate in my reading. My head was full of 
 knowledge, which, by reason of its confused and 
 one-sided nature, was likely to do me much more 
 harm than good ; and it did. I was considered very 
 pretty in my youth, though looking at me now I 
 daresay you would find it hard to believe. Although 
 in the remote village where we lived there were few 
 to pay me any attention, still I had my admirers, 
 and among them was the man who ultimately, 
 through the coercion of my parents, became my 
 husband. He was the squire of our village, and the 
 patron of the living, and was, of course, considerably 
 older than I was. He was a widower, and had one 
 son, who, however, had been abroad so long, that 
 no one remembered having seen him. This man, 
 between fifty and sixty, wished me, a young girl
 
 's 2>au0bter. 
 
 not out of her teens, to become his wife. And my 
 father was so delighted at the idea of his daughter 
 becoming the great lady of the parish, that he simply 
 informed me that the marriage was to take place, 
 in much the same way as he might have told me 
 to go an errand for him to the village. It would 
 take me too long to tell you of the protracted 
 struggle I made against the siege which from the 
 beginning was hopeless for me. I was strong in 
 some ways, but I was very young, and the pressure 
 brought to bear upon me was so great, that though 
 I very often contemplated taking some such step 
 as you have taken, though with much less cause, I 
 suffered myself to be overruled by those who were 
 supposed to have my best interests at heart, and I 
 married to please them. I will not burden you 
 with details of my married life; it was absolute, 
 hopeless misery from the very first. I hated the 
 man, who was totally unfitted to make any woman 
 happy, much less a young girl in whom the beauty 
 and the nobleness of life was cherished as I cher- 
 ished it then. To obtain some relief from the 
 degradation and misery of my surroundings, I began 
 to occupy myself more completely with the questions 
 and social problems of the day. This, of course, 
 gave mortal and dire offence to my husband, who 
 belonged to the old order, and held very strong
 
 3SSebfnD tbe Dell. 181 
 
 opinions as to the subordinate position of working 
 people. We lived in the most bitter strife, conse- 
 quent upon my continuing to write, and occasionally 
 to speak upon these questions with all the force 
 and eloquence of which I was capable. It was an 
 outlet for my miserable, crushed, and aching heart. 
 Soon, almost immediately after my marriage, I left 
 off attending church, which was another thorn in 
 the flesh of my husband and my parents. It seemed 
 to me such awful mockery. My brief experience of 
 life had taught me that the professing Christians 
 were more the servants of Satan than those who 
 professed nothing. Some of the people who had 
 been kind to me were without the pale of the 
 Church, and I gradually lost my faith in things 
 human and divine. Then my little child was born ; 
 for a time she filled my hungry heart, and gave me 
 some sweeter thoughts, some kindlier feelings, even 
 towards those against whom I had previously felt so 
 bitter. She was spared to me for only two years, 
 and at her death I found it impossible to continue 
 any longer under my husband's roof. I had never 
 liked or respected him; the closeness of the tie 
 which bound me to him had turned my toleration 
 into the most bitter aversion, and I felt I could no 
 longer respect myself and remain. So I took my 
 life in my hands, knowing what position the world
 
 182 TKflBttf barn's Baugbter. 
 
 assigns to the woman who has the courage to dare 
 and suffer for her own opinions. That is fifteen 
 years ago. I have had a long, hard struggle ; many 
 a time I have been without bread to eat, but some- 
 how the way has been opened up to me even in my 
 most desperate straits ; and through the most bitter 
 privations of my lonely life there has crept back to 
 me a little of the belief with which I, as a child 
 playing in the orchards and the fields, used to look 
 up to the blue sky and feel that nothing very bad 
 could happen to me or to anybody so long as God 
 was behind that blue canopy." 
 
 She stopped suddenly, and began to walk to and 
 fro the narrow little room, and Joyce, listening 
 breathlessly, saw that she was overcome by the 
 depth of her own strong feeling. 
 
 " I am a woman whom few understand, and not 
 many love. I do not wear my heart on my sleeve. 
 Even to Hannah Thrale, whom I have known and 
 loved for years, I have never told as much as I have 
 to-night told to you. I think, my dear, that you 
 are on the right side ; it is time that women rose up 
 to demand something of the freedom of thought and 
 action which their brothers claim as their right. 
 During these long, lonely years I have met many 
 women who have suffered in the struggle, and some 
 have died rather than allow the ordering of their
 
 JBebinfc tbe Deil. 183 
 
 lives to lie in the hands of others. But though I 
 agree with you in the main, and although I believe 
 that you are actuated by a high motive, I would 
 seek to advise you as I would have advised my own 
 lost darling had she been spared to me. It seems 
 to me that your particular fight with fate is not so 
 bitter but that it may yet end in peace. Your 
 parents, unlike my own, have laid you under a debt 
 of gratitude for many years of loving care and kind- 
 ness. If you ever live to have little children of your 
 own, you will understand what they feel to-night." 
 
 The truth of these words, so quietly and impres- 
 sively spoken, went home to Joyce Wyndham's heart ; 
 but she tried to shake off the misgivings which began 
 to assail her. Having taken the decisive step and 
 put her hand to the plough, she must not yet turn 
 back. 
 
 " You will stay here to-night, at all events," said 
 Mrs. Hemming, observing the girl closely, and draw- 
 ing her own conclusions from her changing face, 
 " and we shall see what to-morrow brings. I have a 
 very small establishment, as you will see ; but, for- 
 tunately, I can give you a little corner to yourself." 
 
 " I feel that I am intruding upon you," said Joyce, 
 with difficulty, for her welcome was less warm than 
 she had anticipated, " and yet I must accept your 
 hospitality for this one night at least."
 
 184 "CdgnDbam's Daugbter. 
 
 " You are more than welcome to it, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Hemming quickly. " If I have seemed less 
 cordial to you than you expected, it is explained by 
 the strong sense of responsibility I feel towards you. 
 I have lived longer than you, and it may be that ex- 
 perience has made my vision clearer. Meanwhile, I 
 cannot quite approve the decisive step you have taken ; 
 but should it prove final you will have no reason to 
 complain of my lack of interest in you, and sympathy 
 with you. Now I am going to send you to bed, for I 
 see that you are very tired, and I myself will be glad 
 to rest." 
 
 " I am not tired," answered Joyce hastily, " and I 
 am quite sure that I shall not be able to sleep." 
 
 " But you look tired, and I must not keep you up. 
 Come and see your new quarters, then," said the 
 elder woman, motioning Joyce to follow her. 
 
 Off the little narrow passage two small bedrooms 
 opened ; both were neat and clean, but plainly 
 furnished, bare, indeed, compared with the room 
 which Joyce had left in her father's house. She had 
 her own luxuriously furnished bedroom and sitting- 
 room adjoining, where she was allowed her own 
 taste in decoration and arrangement, and which were 
 filled with beautiful things gifts made to her from 
 time to time by those whom she had requited so 
 ill.
 
 tbe Defl. 185 
 
 It was not until Mrs. Hemming had bidden her 
 good-night and left her alone that the contrast struck 
 her sharply. She sat down on the edge of the little 
 bed, and tried to realise where she was and what she 
 had done. It was now past eleven o'clock ; she had 
 never been so late out of her father's house without 
 escort in her life, and a feeling of helplessness stole 
 over her, not unmingled with a vague dread of some- 
 thing she knew not what. Afraid to face long the 
 companionship of her own whirling thoughts, she 
 made haste to open the small bag she had brought 
 with her, and take from thence the few necessary 
 personal things that it contained. Nothing was to 
 be got by sitting there brooding over the step she 
 had taken. Mrs. Hemming's parting advice to get 
 to bed quickly and go to sleep seemed the most 
 timely just at that moment. Contrary to her ex- 
 pectation, before her head had lain long on the 
 pillow she was fast asleep. She was young and 
 strong and healthy, and as yet had encountered no 
 experience bitter or absorbing enough to rob her of 
 that heritage of youth sound and dreamless sleep. 
 She was quite unaware that shortly after having seen 
 her unexpected guest to her own room Mrs. Hem- 
 ming quietly stole out of the house, locking the door 
 behind her, and quickly ran up to the flat above, 
 occupied by Philip Dane and his brother. It chimed
 
 's JDaugbtet. 
 
 the half hour after eleven as she tapped quickly at 
 the door. Dane had not yet gone to bed. He was, 
 as a matter of fact, preparing the breakfast he was to 
 carry with him in the early morning, and though he 
 was surprised at the knock, he recognised it, and 
 came at once to see what his neighbour wanted. 
 
 " I am awfully late," she whispered, stepping within 
 the door the moment he opened it ; " but I have got 
 something to tell you. Is Bobbie asleep? I don't 
 want to disturb him." 
 
 " Sound asleep," answered Dane, with a nod, " and 
 it will take something more than ordinary talking to 
 disturb him. What has happened ? " 
 
 " Something which will astonish you very much, I 
 think," she said quickly. " I have got an unexpected 
 guest downstairs that friend of Hannah's, Joyce 
 Wyndham." 
 
 Philip started, and the colour mounted high in his 
 face. Fortunately, however, in the semi-dusk of the 
 room where they talked, Mrs. Hemming did not 
 notice it. 
 
 " What does she want ? " he asked blankly. 
 
 " She has run away, revolted, in the most orthodox 
 fashion," said Mrs. Hemming, with a curious, dry 
 smile. " I have just been giving her a proper good 
 talking-to. Silly girl, not to know when she is well 
 off! Were I her father and mother, I should leave
 
 30ebin& tbe IDctl. 187 
 
 her severely alone for the next six months. What do 
 you think I ought to do ? " 
 
 " Why, take her back in the morning," he said 
 quickly. " There is nothing else you can do." 
 
 " I am not so sure about that," she said, with a 
 somewhat shrewd smile. " I think it would do her a 
 world of good to be allowed a taste of life as it is in 
 certain quarters. Were she my daughter, she should 
 be allowed the luxury of earning her own bread, as 
 she so anxiously desires. I think I am safe in pre- 
 dicting that six months will work a permanent cure." 
 Dane answered nothing. He was, indeed, so much 
 surprised and bewildered, he found it difficult to 
 realise the truth of what he had been told. 
 
 " I think I shall go down now and write a few lines 
 to her mother ; I can have it posted before midnight, 
 and she will get it in the morning. It will at least 
 relieve her anxiety ; but I thought I'd like to run up 
 and tell you. Queer, isn't it ? One does come across 
 a few odd experiences in one's lifetime. Good-night. 
 Tell Bobbie I shall come up and see him in the 
 morning after you are gone." 
 
 So saying, she returned to her own room to per- 
 form the kind act which had naturally suggested 
 itself to her. She wrote a few characteristic lines to 
 Mrs. Wyndham, and five minutes before midnight 
 carried it herself down to the pillar-box at the other
 
 1 88 
 
 side of the street. Then she went to bed, and, not 
 having anything particular to worry her, she also fell 
 asleep. 
 
 In the flat above Philip Dane sought sleep in vain. 
 He had never been so disturbed in his life as he was 
 by the knowledge that Joyce Wyndham had taken 
 the rash and foolish step of leaving her father's house, 
 ignorant of all such a step involved.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 THE SERPENT'S TOOTH. 
 
 AT the supper table at Overton Hall they waited in 
 vain for Joyce, and at last Mrs. Wyndham rang 
 hastily, and bade Ada go up to her room and tell her 
 she was keeping the meal waiting. 
 
 " Cook says Miss Joyce is out, ma'am," the girl 
 answered. " She met her in the Camberwell Road as 
 she came up carrying a bag ; and when she saw cook 
 she took a hansom." 
 
 The father and mother and son looked at one 
 another in consternation. Then Mrs. Wyndham got 
 up suddenly, and ran up to Joyce's room, in the faint 
 hope that there she might find some explanation of 
 this extraordinary proceeding ; and there, in the true 
 orthodox fashion, lay the note on the dressing-table 
 of the missing girl. It did not contain very many 
 words, but they left the mother in no doubt as to her 
 daughter's intention to leave them. 
 
 " DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER," it said "I hope 
 189
 
 Daughter. 
 
 you will forgive me for taking this step. I feel that 
 I cannot fall in with your wishes and go to Paris to- 
 morrow as you have arranged, so I have gone away 
 to a friend a lady who will help me to get some- 
 thing to do, and to make a better use of my life. I 
 feel that I am acting perhaps ungratefully and 
 selfishly towards you, but something urges me to this 
 step. I want to see and to know what life is in a way 
 which I can never do here. I thank you very much 
 for all you have done and given to me, and I hope 
 that when I have made a career for myself you will 
 forgive me enough to let me come back and see you 
 sometimes. I wish I could have done and been all 
 you wish, but I cannot help feeling as I do; I suppose 
 I was born so. I may just say that I am not going 
 to Hannah Thrale, and you need not inquire for me 
 there ; she would not approve of what I am doing, 
 and knows nothing about it. Please try to forgive and 
 think kindly of 
 
 "Your affectionate 
 
 " JOYCE." 
 
 With this letter open in her hand Mrs. Wyndham 
 marched downstairs, and laid it on the table without 
 a word. Her husband read it through, and then, 
 before she could prevent him, tore it up into small 
 fragments and threw it into the waste-paper basket.
 
 Gbe Serpent's Eootb. 191 
 
 "Tom, you must be both son and daughter to 
 us now, my boy," he said, with a slight unsteadiness 
 in his voice. " Your sister has cast us off." 
 
 "Oh, but she will come back, dad," said Tom 
 cheerfully, though his honest face wore a look of 
 deep concern. " Where has she gone ? " 
 
 "She does not say, except that it is to a lady, 
 save the mark, who will help her to a career. Now, 
 mother, listen to me." He turned to his wife, 
 whose face was white as the delicate lace on her 
 cap, and taking no heed of the anxious look in 
 her eyes, spoke thus, with stern decision : " She 
 has made her bed, and she shall lie on it. We 
 have lavished and spent our all upon her, and this 
 is how she has repaid us. We have given her 
 bread, and she has chosen the husks ; let her feed 
 on them until, like the prodigal of old, she begins 
 to think longingly of her father's house. I forbid 
 you to seek her out, or to bring her back. Do 
 you hear, Letitia ? " 
 
 " I hear, Alfred," his wife answered, but her voice 
 had a far-away ring in it as if her thoughts scarcely 
 followed him. 
 
 "When she has had enough of her career, as 
 she calls it, we shall see her face fast enough, and 
 then she will maybe find out that parents are not 
 made to be used as footballs by their ungrateful
 
 192 IdBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 offspring. Tom, if you should see her outside, I 
 forbid you to speak to her. She has cast us off; 
 the least we can do is to follow her example." 
 
 Tom gave a great gulp, and hastily ran out 
 of the room. His mother sat down by the table, 
 and, folding her arms on it, dropped her head down 
 in silence. She was crushed to the earth, and 
 could not even weep. 
 
 " I wish you would say something, Letitia ; it 
 would do me good to hear you storm and rage a 
 bit at the ungrateful minx," cried Alfred Wyndham, 
 unable to bear the strain a moment longer. 
 
 " Oh, Alfred," she said, with a moan, " do you 
 remember how proud we were of our little girl, 
 and how sweet she looked that day I short-coated 
 her; it was in June, do you remember? And 
 she had a sweet little sunbonnet on when I brought 
 her to meet you at the gate, and you said that 
 she was just like a June rosebud." 
 
 " Better if she had died in her sunbonnet days," 
 said Alfred, with something like a groan. " Perhaps 
 we were too much set up when she was born, 
 Letitia. It may be that we have made an idol 
 of her ; but God knows that if we have fallen short 
 we are punished for it to-night." 
 
 Then they sat down together, the father and 
 mother, upon whom age was creeping slowly, and
 
 Serpent's ZTootb. 193 
 
 who needed the comfort their children ought to have 
 been to them, and tried to talk the matter over 
 calmly, and to decide what should be done for the 
 best. It never occurred to them, curiously enough, 
 to go forth in search of her at once, and the outcome 
 of their talk was a decision to leave her in the 
 meantime and let her have a taste of the experience 
 for which she had so fervently craved. What it 
 cost them to come to this decision no one knew, 
 but amidst all their deep love and affection for her 
 there was a feeling of outraged pride which helped 
 them. Neither slept that night, and in the intervals 
 of their talk, each prayed mutely and fervently 
 that good might yet come out of what seemed 
 such a bitter evil. Prayer was the sure anchor of 
 that simple-hearted and devoted pair. They be- 
 lieved that God knew of their trouble, and had 
 even permitted it for some wise purpose of His 
 own. That absolute belief alone saved them from 
 despair. 
 
 Next morning, when Mrs. Wyndham entered the 
 dining-room, she found Olivia Hemming's hastily 
 penned note on her plate. She did not recognise 
 the bold, characteristic handwriting, and opened it 
 with but a mild curiosity, not expecting that it 
 would relate in any way to Joyce. These words, 
 written by a solitary and often misjudged woman
 
 194 TOlgn&bam's 5>au0bter. 
 
 out of the fulness of her heart, seemed to Letitia 
 Wyndham a direct answer to the prayers with which 
 she had charged the silent watches of the night. 
 
 "DEAR MADAM, I write this to let you know 
 that your daughter is under my roof. My name, 
 I believe, is not unknown to you since you were 
 at the meeting in Mr. Thrale's house, where I spoke. 
 She is at present full of a mistaken enthusiasm, 
 which, however, I think it would be unwise to check. 
 My advice to you is to let her remain here in the 
 meantime. She talks of seeking to earn her own 
 living : if she does it will be under my guidance and 
 supervision. I have seen a good deal of the unrest- 
 ful and discontented spirit which makes unhappy so 
 many girls of her age, and my experience has taught 
 me that if allowed a certain freedom of thought and 
 action in such a crisis in their lives the cure is 
 usually speedily worked. My advice to you, there- 
 fore, is to leave her alone, and not to seek the 
 slightest communication with her, or let her see even 
 that you are anxious about her. I will take care 
 of her for the sake of my only child, whom I buried 
 in her babyhood. I can write, or, if you prefer it, 
 come to see you from time to time. Meanwhile I 
 am, 
 
 " Yours with sincere sympathy, 
 
 "OLIVIA HEMMING."
 
 Serpent's aootb. 195 
 
 When Alfred Wyndham entered the dining-room, 
 he saw his wife perusing this letter, with a strange 
 light on her face, and when she passed it to him 
 her hand and her lips were trembling. 
 
 " Read that, Alfred ; I pray God to forgive me 
 for the harshness of my judgment. That is one of 
 His servants, although she may call herself by a 
 different name." 
 
 Two tears rolled down Wyndham's cheeks as he 
 read the words which Olivia Hemming had written 
 straight from the heart, and when Tom presently 
 entered the room he saw that something unusual 
 had occurred. 
 
 " Well, what are you going to do this morning ? " 
 he asked quickly. " Shall I go down to the Thrales 
 and inquire if they really don't know anything about 
 her ? " 
 
 " No, my boy ; we have had some news, good 
 news. So far your sister is in safe keeping, and 
 there in the meantime she will remain." 
 
 They did not show him the letter, nor com- 
 municate its contents to him ; but after he had gone 
 away to business they sat down to read it again 
 together, and to talk it over, and between them 
 they concocted the reply which Mrs. Hemming 
 received by the afternoon post. 
 
 Tom was late for business that morning, and, in-
 
 196 TldBii&bam's 2>au0bter. 
 
 stead of walking as usual, took the car. As it 
 passed by the block of buildings where the Thrales 
 lived, he saw Hannah watering her flowers, and 
 although he had been told it was no use to inquire 
 there for Joyce, he got down with great speed 
 and ran up to the door. Hannah, occupied with 
 her flowers, did not see him leave the car, and was 
 therefore much astonished when the little maid 
 showed him suddenly into the sitting-room. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Wyndham," she said gravely, 
 and not with her usual cordiality. " You are a very 
 early visitor. I am sorry my father is not up yet, 
 He did a good deal of speaking in the Park yester- 
 day, and it tried him very much. He is not so 
 vigorous, of course, as he was." 
 
 She spoke rapidly and appeared to be anxious 
 to hide a certain embarrassment which was most 
 unusual in her. But Tom was too much absorbed 
 by the sad matter for which he had come to observe 
 anything in her demeanour. He was for the 
 moment entirely free frdm any personal thought. 
 
 " An awful thing has happened at our house," 
 he said suddenly. " Joyce has run away." 
 
 " Run away ? " exclaimed Hannah, and there 
 was no mistaking the frankness of her surprise. 
 
 " Fact," he said, with a nod. " Last night when 
 we were in church, ran off carrying a bag, and left
 
 Serpent's tlootb. 197 
 
 a note in the orthodox fashion ; says she has gone 
 to seek a career. I needn't ask if you know any- 
 thing about it ? " 
 
 "No indeed, nothing. I heard from my father 
 that she was at the Park yesterday afternoon, but 
 I was not there, as I had a headache ; but I under- 
 stood him to say that she did not stop long, and 
 that she drove away home in a hansom." 
 
 " Oh, she came home right enough at tea time 
 or a little later. It was when we were in church 
 that she went off. Have you any idea where she 
 can have gone ? " 
 
 Hannah shook her head. 
 
 " I know of only one person to whom she might 
 have gone, and I can go up and see her this morn- 
 ing. What a mistake she has made ! " 
 
 " I am glad you think that," said Tom, with hearty 
 relief, " because I think that she has behaved 
 abominably to the poor old dad and mother. They 
 have simply adored her too much, I think ; they 
 have been a jolly sight too good to us both all 
 along." 
 
 " There is no fear of your serving them like that," 
 said Hannah, with a sudden sweet smile which 
 seemed to break like a ray of sunshine on the gloom 
 of Tom's soul. 
 
 " No, not if I know it. I will do my honest
 
 's 2>augbter. 
 
 duty by them as I ought to do, out of gratitude 
 for their kindness. Besides, I am too fond of them 
 ever to do anything to vex them seriously. I can't 
 make Joyce out, can you ? " 
 
 " I think I understand her a little," said Hannah ; 
 " but I must say I never expected her to take such 
 an extreme step; but it won't last. She will soon 
 be convinced of the mistake she has made, and 
 will probably be home to-day or to-morrow at the 
 latest." 
 
 Tom shook his head. 
 
 "She may want to come, but I question very 
 much if she will be allowed. You know how it is 
 with people who have been good and long-suffering 
 for years, and then something happens which sours 
 them, as it were. I rather think that is how it is 
 with father and mother now where Joyce is con- 
 cerned. I hope you will excuse my coming up; 
 I didn't think of it until I saw you at the window, 
 and I thought it just possible that perhaps you 
 might know something about it." 
 
 "I only wish I did," answered Hannah; "but I 
 will find out, if there is anything to find out, before 
 the day is much older." 
 
 She went with him to the door again, and they 
 shook hands cordially, but in a matter-of-fact 
 fashion. Hannah felt grateful that their meeting
 
 tTbe Serpent's Eootb. 199 
 
 had been so matter-of-fact throughout, and she 
 honoured Tom Wyndham in her inmost heart for 
 his honest, true-hearted, and loving consideration 
 for the father and mother who had given him such 
 a happy home, and made him what he was.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE NEXT MORNING. 
 
 NEXT day Joyce had quite recovered from the depres- 
 sion caused by Mrs. Hemming's plain speech of the 
 previous evening. She awoke with a start, confused 
 for the moment, and unable to recollect where she 
 was. The next moment, however, it all flashed upon 
 her, and sitting up in bed, she looked round the little 
 plain room where she had slept soundly all night 
 long, and realised that she had set out upon her 
 career. There was something about the situation 
 which pleased her, and when a vision of her parents 
 anxious faces rose up before her, she hastily banished 
 it, and sprang up to prepare for what a new day 
 might have in store for her. She was about half 
 dressed when a knock came to the door, and Mrs. 
 Hemming opened it. She wore a very scanty and 
 unbecoming morning gown, almost entirely covered 
 by a huge cooking apron of the aggressive hue known 
 as butcher's blue. At another time her grotesque 
 
 200
 
 flejt Aornfng. 201 
 
 appearance must certainly have amused Joyce 
 Wyndham ; but she was in the mood to take every- 
 thing seriously. 
 
 " Well, my dear, and how have you slept ? " said 
 her hostess brightly. " I hope I haven't disturbed 
 you with my household operations. Monday morn- 
 ing I generally give my living rooms a good switch 
 out, which lasts all the week. I see your eyes 
 growing round with astonishment. That is one of 
 the joys of the emancipated ; none of us can afford to 
 pay anybody to do our daily drudgery for us, so we 
 either do it ourselves or leave it undone. I prefer 
 the former." 
 
 Joyce looked intensely interested. This was living 
 in earnest. 
 
 " Why didn't you awaken me, and I should have 
 helped ? I ought to have been up to earn my 
 breakfast. If you don't let me help you in every 
 way, I shall feel that I am only a guest whom you 
 regard as a kind of curiosity. I want you to take me 
 seriously." 
 
 " Oh, so I shall, so I shall," said Mrs. Hemming, 
 with the greatest good-humour. " So you slept 
 soundly, did you ? I am glad of it, for I hardly ex- 
 pected it. It is not quite such a secluded locality as 
 Denmark Hill. I thought it particularly noisy this 
 morning, perhaps because I kept thinking of you.
 
 202 TJClgitobam's Daughter. 
 
 We have rather more market carts than usual on 
 Monday morning." 
 
 " I never heard them," answered Joyce frankly. 
 " Can I do anything now ? " she asked, as she put the 
 finishing touch to the silk tie above her dainty 
 cambric blouse. " I think I could get breakfast if 
 you would allow me." 
 
 " Oh, it is ready," said Mrs. Hemming ; " a very 
 frugal meal, I assure you. I cook on a little gas 
 stove to save work and time. I lived a little time 
 abroad, and I got used to their simple coffee and 
 rolls. Can you breakfast on coffee and rolls ? " 
 
 " I will try," said Joyce. " In this new sense of 
 freedom everything seems fresh and delight- 
 ful." 
 
 Mrs. Hemming smiled a slight, inscrutable smile, 
 and led the way to the little kitchen, where a simple 
 breakfast was laid on the table at the window. She 
 had made no difference in her morning habit for her 
 strange guest. She wanted the girl to see everything 
 in its true light, and get some idea of what she might 
 expect. 
 
 " And what do you propose to do to-day ? " she 
 asked, as she poured the coffee from the plain brown 
 jug, which must have presented to Joyce's eyes a 
 great contrast to the dainty silver urn which hissed 
 upon her mother's breakfast-table.
 
 horning. 203 
 
 " I must set about getting something to do," said 
 Joyce, with eager interest. 
 
 Mrs. Hemming nodded. 
 
 " Yes, quite so. And have you any idea of what 
 sort of work you want ? " 
 
 " What do you think I ought to try ? " asked Joyce 
 anxiously. 
 
 " It isn't what you would like, or what you could 
 try, but what you will be able to get, my dear," said 
 the elder woman frankly. " Teaching, I suppose, is 
 about the only thing you are fit for. Of course, you 
 have been well educated ? " 
 
 " Yes, very well, and I think I should like teaching 
 very much, especially poor children. I would not 
 wish to be a governess, of course, or anything of that 
 sort." 
 
 " Well, I must say I don't think there is much 
 chance of your getting a situation such as Hannah 
 has got, for instance, because, of course, you have had 
 absolutely no training for the work. I will give you 
 one or two addresses, however, to which you may go 
 when you leave the house. I cannot myself accom- 
 pany you, because I have two meetings to attend 
 to-day ; besides, I do not know whether I should go 
 even if I could. It is well that you should stand on 
 your own feet. It is what you would wish, is it 
 not ? "
 
 204 TIQlEn&bam's Daugbter, 
 
 " Oh, yes" cried Joyce, with great enthusiasm. 
 " And I don't even know whether I ought to stay 
 here. I have no claim upon you, and I think it was 
 extremely kind of you to keep me here last night." 
 
 " I could not do otherwise when you came to my 
 door so late," said Mrs. Hemming gravely ; " and I 
 think, if you feel that you can be comfortable, you 
 had better remain here in the meantime; it will be 
 better for you for many reasons." 
 
 " I will stay gladly, of course, if you will allow me 
 to pay," said Joyce, but with some confusion, fearing 
 almost lest her suggestion should be resented. 
 
 " Why, certainly, if you stay you must pay, because 
 I am very poor, and have the greatest possible diffi- 
 culty in getting ends to meet. I have all the heart 
 to be hospitable, but not the means. You don't feel 
 inclined to go back to Denmark Hill, then, this 
 morning, and ask to be forgiven for the step you took 
 last night ? " 
 
 Joyce coloured, and her eyes dropped down. 
 
 "No, I can't go back now," she said, in a low, 
 difficult voice. " Do you think I ought ? " 
 
 " I gave you my opinion last night, my dear girl. 
 I am of the same mind still." 
 
 " And if my father and mother should seek me 
 here," cried Joyce, " promise me you will not join 
 them in seeking to drive me back to the old life."
 
 Ittejt dBorntng. 205 
 
 " Oh, no, I will keep on entirely neutral ground," 
 said Mrs. Hemming, with the same still inscrutable 
 smile. " But I am not at all afraid of your father 
 and mother seeking you." 
 
 " Why? " asked Joyce, moved by curiosity. 
 
 " Because I think you have offended them too 
 deeply, and that the first advance will have to come 
 from your side." 
 
 Joyce said nothing, but was not at all convinced 
 that Mrs. Hemming was right. She lived in 
 momentary expectation, indeed, of hearing a knock 
 at the door, and her father's voice inquiring for her. 
 There would not be much difficulty, she knew, in 
 their finding out her present whereabouts, because 
 they would turn naturally to Hannah first, and 
 she would at once guess to whom she had 
 gone. 
 
 " You know, I suppose, that Philip Dane and his 
 brother live in the flat above us ? " said Mrs. 
 Hemming presently, changing the subject. 
 
 " I knew they lived near here," Joyce answered. 
 " I should like to see the little boy : he is a sad 
 invalid, is he not ? " 
 
 " He is an invalid, but not at all sad. Bobbie is 
 perhaps the brightest soul in all this great dreary 
 building. It always does me good to see him. I 
 think after we have breakfasted you might run up
 
 206 "CdgnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 and have a little talk with him. He would interest 
 you, I am sure." 
 
 " I should like it above all things," said Joyce, 
 " and I suppose his brother will have gone out to his 
 work ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, Philip goes out at six, I believe. I 
 sometimes hear him going downstairs if I am lying 
 awake ; he is seldom late." 
 
 When they rose from breakfast, Joyce went off up- 
 stairs, and Mrs. Hemming smiled as the door closed 
 upon her, thinking how natural it was for her to step 
 out and leave everything behind. It was the force of 
 home habit, where everything was done for her and 
 no service required at her hands. 
 
 Joyce found the door of the upper flat wide open, 
 and the woman whose duty it was to make the place 
 comfortable for the two brothers sweeping out the 
 little hall. She was an unlovely specimen of her 
 kind, but an honest, faithful soul who could be 
 trusted with the house and all its small contents. 
 
 " Yes, you can go in," she said, giving her head a 
 jerk towards the inner portion of the little hall. 
 Joyce stepped in somewhat timidly, but before she 
 reached the kitchen door a shrill voice called out, 
 " Who wants me ? Whoever it is can come in." 
 
 Thus guided, she entered the bright, homely little 
 place where the morning sun lay in a golden flood.
 
 mejt /aborning. 207 
 
 Bobbie had got up for the day, and was reclining in 
 his invalid chair, which had been one of his brother's 
 many gifts to him. He looked much surprised at the 
 sight of his friend's face and figure in the doorway, 
 but something in the girl's eyes, which grew moist 
 with sweet compassion as they rested on his pale 
 worn face, which looked so child-like and yet so old, 
 attracted him in that first look, and he beckoned her 
 to enter with his grave, old-fashioned smile. 
 
 " I don't know you, but I think you are nice," he 
 said. " Come in and sit down. Where have you 
 come from ? " 
 
 " I came 1 from downstairs," she answered. " I am 
 staying with Mrs. Hemming." 
 
 " Oh, are you ? I thought it was Mrs. Hemming 
 coming up to see me; I didn't know she had any- 
 one staying with her." 
 
 "My name is Joyce Joyce Wyndham," she 
 answered. " I have heard of you from Hannah 
 Thrale. You know Hannah, don't you ? " 
 
 " Rather," said Bobbie, with an appreciative glance 
 from his large dark eyes. " So you are Joyce 
 Wyndham; I have heard her speak of you, and 
 Philly has told me about you, too. I think you look 
 rather nice." 
 
 Joyce smiled at this candid expression of opinion, 
 and sat down in front of him, feeling quite at home
 
 208 WlsnObam's Daugbter. 
 
 with the boy who was like, and yet so unlike his 
 brother. 
 
 "What are you stopping at Mrs. Hemming's for? " 
 he asked vvonderingly. " I thought you were a 
 swell ; I am sure Philip said so." 
 
 " No, I am not ; at least, if I ever was I am not 
 now," answered Joyce, with a smile which made her 
 face look very sweet indeed to the lad who saw very 
 few kind faces, and whose eyes were so quick to read 
 them. " I have come to live just a little while with 
 Mrs. Hemming, and I am going to earn my own 
 living." 
 
 "Oh, are you?" inquired the boy, with great in- 
 terest. " What are you going to do ? " 
 
 " Teach, I suppose," said Joyce ; " but perhaps I 
 will be able to tell you more about it when I come 
 back at night. I am going out to look for work 
 to-day." 
 
 " It seems queer, it does," said the lad, fixing her 
 with his large, penetrating eyes. "You don't look 
 like one to look for work. Phil has had to look for 
 work in his time, but not for ever so long. He has 
 been on a good job for nigh a year now. Say, I 
 don't think you will like it." 
 
 " But we have got to do a lot of things we don't 
 like in this world, haven't we ? " said Joyce, forgetful 
 how remiss she had been in the performance of this
 
 " My name is Joyce Joyce Wyndham." 
 
 [Page 207,
 
 Ittejt /l&orning. 209 
 
 very duty, praise of which now fell so glibly from her 
 lips. 
 
 " Do you know any stories ? " asked the boy 
 suddenly ; " any good new stories ? I know all 
 Philip's from beginning to end, and Hannah's too ; 
 but perhaps you know some new ones ? " 
 
 " I know a lot of stories," Joyce answered readily. 
 "If you tell me what kind you like, I will come and 
 tell you stories until you are tired ; there is nothing 
 I like better. I can make them up, too," she said 
 brightly ; " at least, I can improve on the ones I have 
 read." 
 
 " All right ; when will you come and tell me some 
 of them ? " he asked, bluntly. 
 
 " Perhaps this evening, after I come in from my 
 search for work. Don't you get very tired lying here 
 day after day ? " 
 
 o
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE PLAIN SPEECH OF HANNAH. 
 
 " OH, yes," said the boy, with a grave, rather sad look 
 flitting across his face. " I do get tired, awfully, 
 especially when Philly has to go out all the evening 
 after he comes in from work. Don't you think my 
 brother a great splendid fellow ? I think he ought to 
 have been a king." 
 
 Joyce never forgot the glory on the hunchback's 
 face as he spoke of his brother in a voice tremulous 
 with adoring love. It was a revelation to her, and 
 it gave her an insight into Philip Dane's nature 
 which nothing else could have done. 
 
 " He is so grand and clever, there is nothing he 
 could not do if he liked," said the boy quickly, 
 " only he prefers being a common working man, 
 so that he can always be among working men. 
 He says they are his brothers, and that Jesus of 
 Nazareth Himself was not ashamed because He 
 was a carpenter. Do you know the story of Jesus 
 
 of Nazareth ? " 
 
 210
 
 plain Speccb of Dannab. 211 
 
 Joyce felt, she could not tell why, a sense of shame 
 stealing over her. Had she not been taught to lisp 
 His name from her very childhood ? and yet how 
 far off she was from understanding the spirit of His 
 teaching and life which seemed to be understood 
 and applied by these simple people, who had so 
 little of what the world regards as its precious 
 things ! 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know His story, of course ; I have 
 always known it, I think, since I was a child," she 
 answered, but with a slight hesitation which, how- 
 ever, the boy did not understand. 
 
 " Of course, that is the story of stones ; all the 
 rest are well enough, but none of them are like 
 that. I never tire of it. Shall I tell you what I 
 think sometimes ? That Philly is like Jesus of 
 Nazareth. He goes about all the time trying to 
 do good among people. He spends nearly all his 
 money, except what we need here, and we try to 
 do with as little as we can so that he will have 
 more to spend on the poor who have no money and 
 who can't get work." 
 
 " But I should have thought," said Joyce, keep- 
 ing her voice steady with an effort, " I should have 
 thought that you were not very rich here ? " 
 
 " Oh, we are not rich," said the boy cheerfully 
 " but of course when Philly has settled work he has
 
 212 TMlEn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 a big wage far more than we could spend and so 
 he gives it all away. Sometimes people ask him 
 why he does not save any money. Have you ever 
 asked him that ? " 
 
 " No, indeed," answered Joyce, " I should not 
 dream of asking him any such question." 
 
 " Well, if you did ask him he would tell you that 
 the Master never saved anything, that He never 
 had any money. Phil copies Him in everything, 
 or tries to do it. He would not like me to say 
 any more than that." 
 
 " I suppose he goes to church always regularly ? " 
 said Joyce, more for the sake of something to say, 
 and anxious to continue the theme which was of 
 such absorbing interest to her. 
 
 " No, he never goes to church, at least not often. 
 I can't tell you why ; but perhaps if you ask him 
 he will explain it to you. You see, he knows 
 everything, and can always tell you exactly what 
 he means." 
 
 Before Joyce could make any answer to this 
 expression of absolute belief, a quick foot came 
 along the little passage, and Hannah Thrale walked 
 in upon them. At sight of her Bobbie displayed 
 the liveliest delight. 
 
 " Two visitors all in one morning ! " he cried joy- 
 fully. "What news for Philly when he comes home!"
 
 tlbe plain Spcecb of fjannab. 213 
 
 " I am afraid I did not come to see you this 
 morning, Bobbie," said Hannah, as she came swiftly 
 to his side, and, stooping down, kissed him as affec- 
 tionately as was her wont. " Of course, I am very 
 glad to see you, all the same ; but it is this young 
 lady I have come to talk to." 
 
 Joyce noticed that she did not offer to kiss her, 
 nor did she give her any greeting, except a some- 
 what mournful and reproachful glance. 
 
 " I have come to take your new visitor away, 
 Bobbie, just for a minute. I have something very 
 particular to say to her ; I daresay she will come 
 back directly. You don't mind, do you ? " 
 
 " Oh no," said Bobbie brightly, but at the same 
 time his face wore a slightly disappointed look. 
 
 " She shall be back in a few minutes, I promise 
 you. I can't stay, you see, because it is quite early 
 in the day, and I have such a lot to do at home. 
 Just come downstairs a minute, Joyce, will you? 
 Of course, you have a pretty good guess what I 
 have come to say." 
 
 She turned away as she spoke, and Joyce felt 
 compelled to follow her, although she knew very 
 well she was about to hear some more unpalatable 
 truths. But there was something quite imperative in 
 Hannah's manner that morning, and Joyce did not 
 dream of disobeying her.
 
 214 IdBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 " Oh, Joyce Joyce Wyndham, what have you 
 done ? " Hannah said, the moment they were without 
 the door. " We need not go any further than this. 
 I can say here what I want. Mr. Dane won't mind 
 my going into his sitting-room without a special 
 invitation." 
 
 She pushed open the door on the other side of the 
 passage, and Joyce followed her in, too much agitated 
 by Hannah's very grave and disturbed manner to 
 take much notice of the room, which at another time 
 would have been most interesting to her. It was a 
 very plain, bare little place, singularly devoid of all 
 those little dainty charms which a woman adds to the 
 poorest place, making it into a home. It was used 
 by Philip Dane chiefly as a study, and his books and 
 papers lay about in confusion on the common deal 
 table which stood in the middle of the floor 
 not even adorned by the cheapest of table- 
 covers. 
 
 " I have seen your brother this morning, Joyce," 
 Hannah began at once. " He came in on his way to 
 business. What can you mean by this extraordinary 
 step ? " 
 
 " I don't think you need ask that in such a sur- 
 prised tone of voice," said Joyce, a little petulantly. 
 " You have known all along that I have been con- 
 templating some such step. I am only showing
 
 flttafn Speecb of Ijannab. 215 
 
 those who would not believe in me that I am in 
 earnest." 
 
 " But it is so senseless and so silly," cried Hannah, 
 with a groan. " What have you run away from, and 
 why? If you had been persecuted, or ill-used, or 
 anything at home, I could have understood it ; but 
 such a home ! Joyce, you don't know what you are 
 doing ; but you will know very soon, unless you go 
 straight back to your mother and ask her on your 
 penitent knees to forgive you." 
 
 " I won't do that, you may be very sure," said 
 Joyce, with the first touch of sulkiness Hannah had 
 ever seen in her. " I am not aware that I have done 
 anything to require forgiveness." 
 
 " You will know some day," said Hannah, with a 
 great sigh. " You don't even ask how they are this 
 morning, or how they are bearing the blow you have 
 inflicted on them." 
 
 " I told my mother I should be quite safe in 
 the letter I left, and that she need not worry about 
 me," said Joyce, in the same low, rather resentful 
 voice. 
 
 " That isn't it," cried Hannah quickly, in a great 
 burst of indignation. " It is the frightful ingratitude 
 you have shown them. The very idea that their own 
 child, on whom they have lavished everything, should 
 have treated them so will break their hearts. Oh,
 
 2*6 CdgnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 Joyce, I have never felt anything so much in all my 
 life. But you will go back, this very day, too, won't 
 you ? " 
 
 " No, I won't," answered Joyce; " and if you hadn't 
 anything better to say to me than that, you need not 
 have come," she said quickly. " I have taken the 
 decisive step, and I am going to prove that I have 
 something in me. I only claim the right to live my 
 own life." 
 
 " And nothing your best friends can say or do will 
 change your mind, then ? " said Hannah sadly. 
 " Mrs. Hemming thinks as I do ; she has just been 
 telling me of all she has said to you." 
 
 " I am frightfully disappointed in you all, I can 
 tell you," said Joyce petulantly. " I cannot think 
 why you imagine yourselves to be supporters of a 
 cause, because you are not; you preach freedom, 
 but you won't allow others to practise it." 
 
 " Oh, I have no patience with you," said Hannah, 
 " and I am not going to stop here to talk to you. 
 One thing only I must tell you, and that is, that 
 if you think your father and mother are going to 
 run after you now, begging you to go back, 
 you are mistaken. From what your brother said 
 this morning, I rather think they are inclined to 
 let you go your own way, now you have chosen 
 it.'
 
 flMatn Speecb of Ibannab. 217 
 
 " I am very glad to hear it," answered Joyce, " and 
 I didn't think they would prove so sensible." But at 
 the same time her heart sank, and somehow the 
 future, which was so rosy an hour ago, began to wear 
 a different look.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE REALITY. 
 
 HANNAH did not prolong her visit. She had simply 
 come to satisfy herself that Joyce was under Mrs. 
 Hemming's care, and having delivered herself of her 
 usual frank expression of opinion, she retired home 
 to her household duties, and to confide the history of 
 Joyce's escapade to her father. She was surprised to 
 find him rather interested and inclined to be sympa- 
 thetic a little towards the girl, who, though mistaken 
 in her ideas, had still the courage to strike out a new 
 path for herself. 
 
 " I wonder how you would look if I were to gird 
 up my loins and go off in any such fashion, leaving 
 you in the lurch, daddy?" said Hannah, rather 
 indignantly ; whereat the old man laughed softly, 
 and followed her quick, lithe, graceful movements 
 with an affectionate smile. 
 
 " Ah, I know you would not do that, my dear," 
 was all he said. 
 
 Mrs. Hemming had a busy day, and it was almost 
 218
 
 Cbe "RealitB. 219 
 
 six o'clock before she returned from her long atten- 
 dance at an afternoon meeting. She had given 
 Joyce a latch-key, so that each was independent of 
 the other's home-coming. As she came off the car 
 in the Clerkenwell Road, and glanced up at her own 
 window, she caught a glimpse of Joyce sitting dis- 
 consolately there, looking listlessly out into the 
 street Her face did not wear a bright, hopeful 
 look, and Mrs. Hemming was therefore not at all 
 unprepared for the tale of disappointment and dis- 
 couragement to which she listened. Both were tired 
 and hungry, but, accustomed to being waited on 
 and having everything prepared for her, it had not 
 occurred to Joyce that she might improve her leisure 
 by getting tea ready for her kind hostess, thus show- 
 ing herself too careless of practical details. Already 
 things were wearing a different aspect to the head- 
 strong and mistaken girl, and during the long hours 
 of that stifling day, when she had trod the burning 
 streets on her strange and self-appointed quest, her 
 thoughts had often turned longingly towards the 
 cool greenness of her father's garden, and the fragrant 
 shade of the comfortable family house, where four- 
 and-twenty hours ago she had been a cherished 
 inmate. 
 
 " Well, my dear, what luck ? " said Mrs. Hemming 
 cheerfully, as she came bustling in, her large presence
 
 's Daughter. 
 
 seeming to fill all the little room, dwarfing it in 
 comparison. 
 
 Joyce turned to her with a quick sigh of relief. 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad to see you," she cried ; " it has 
 been such a long, disappointing day." 
 
 " You didn't find, I suppose, that easy and con- 
 genial situations come to us for the mere asking ? " 
 said Mrs. Hemming good-humouredly. " Well, I 
 hardly expected you would. Where did you go 
 first?" 
 
 " I went to the agency in Oxford Street to which 
 you recommended me, and when I said that I had no 
 experience, the manageress simply shook her head 
 and said she could not suit me. Then I went to 
 Mr. Baynes in Southampton Row, and he said there 
 was no vacancy in any of the schools in which he is 
 interested, but promised to inquire whether any 
 supernumeraries could be taken on." 
 
 "And what about the orphanage at Hammer- 
 smith ? " asked Mrs. Hemming. 
 
 " I went there also, but I don't think I should like 
 that sort of work," said Joyce, with a little dreary 
 smile. " It distressed me dreadfully to see all those 
 poor little things dressed exactly alike, like so many 
 wooden dolls. I think to teach in such a place 
 would crush the life out of me." 
 
 "Why not give up the idea of teaching al-
 
 TRealitg. 221 
 
 together," suggested Mrs. Hemming, " and try 
 something else? How would you like a business 
 life?" 
 
 " Do you mean a shop ? " asked Joyce, with a very 
 expressive shrug. 
 
 Mrs. Hemming laughed silently. 
 
 " And supposing I did mean a shop ? I thought 
 you were bent upon earning your own living. It 
 doesn't matter where or how, so long as it is done 
 honestly." 
 
 " But it is not only a living I want to get," cried 
 Joyce desperately, feeling that she was being mis- 
 understood all round. " I want a sphere where I can 
 be useful, and do good to people, and be kind to 
 them." 
 
 " Well, you would have plenty of companions in a 
 shop, and lots of opportunities for fulfilling that very 
 desire," said Mrs. Hemming ; " or would you not 
 like to go and learn typewriting ? So many young 
 ladies go in for that now, and you have plenty of 
 money to pay the necessary fees." 
 
 " No, I shouldn't like that," said Joyce, rather dis- 
 contentedly. " I should feel like a machine myself. 
 I want contact with people little children, if pos- 
 sible. It seems to me that there ought to be a 
 corner for me in this great world. It isn't very much 
 I ask."
 
 222 TKflBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 "Not very much, perhaps," observed Mrs. Hem- 
 ming a little sadly, "but there are thousands and 
 tens of thousands asking the same question in this 
 city, and people to whom it is a question of more 
 desperate moment than it is to you. It is one of the 
 truths that will come home to you, my dear, if you 
 persist in your search for a career." 
 
 " It all seems so sad and unequal," said Joyce. " I 
 can't think how the Creator can bear to have it so ; 
 it seems to me that the world is all a chaos, and that 
 there is very little justice or real order anywhere." 
 
 " You are tired, my dear, and if you had bustled 
 about and got some tea ready for us, instead of 
 sitting moping at the window when you came in, 
 you would feel better than you do now. Get up 
 now, and put the kettle on the gas stove, and let me 
 show you how to be useful in the most elementary 
 fashion. You need not be at all cast down, although 
 it is days and weeks before you get anything to do." 
 
 This was rather cold comfort ; but, as the days 
 went by, Joyce proved that Mrs. Hemming knew 
 very well what she was talking about. The enforced 
 idleness, which gave her so much time to brood, 
 became almost intolerable ; although she had never 
 admitted it, even to herself, she felt keenly that her 
 parents had not made the slightest effort to discover 
 her whereabouts. She was, of course, quite unaware
 
 tlbe "Keallts. 223 
 
 that Mrs. Hemming had communicated with them. 
 That good lady, for reasons of her own, had thought 
 it wiser not to enlighten her, and believed that it 
 would do her good to be taught that she was not 
 of such immense importance after all. 
 
 One afternoon, after she had been sitting for an 
 hour with Bobbie Dane, she put on her hat and 
 walked out into the pleasant sunshine. Pursued by 
 an impulse which she could not control, she turned 
 in the direction of her old home, to which she had 
 been so often drawn in thought, although until now 
 she had resisted the desire to revisit that neighbour- 
 hood. As she walked up the wide, pleasant road, 
 under the delicious shade of the spreading trees, she 
 felt sick at heart, and almost longed to return, like 
 the prodigal of old, praying to be forgiven ; but 
 something kept her back, and when she reached the 
 familiar gate she only took one hurried glance at the 
 smooth, green lawns, her eyes so blurred with the 
 mist of tears that they scarcely took in the blaze 
 of the geranium beds, which showed up so ex- 
 quisitely against the soft turf. Before she had 
 passed the little wicket, she saw in the distance a 
 dainty figure in white muslin carrying a white lace 
 parasol which shaded her face so that she was close 
 upon her before she recognised Ursula Meynell. 
 
 " Why, Joyce, is that you ? Have you come
 
 224 TKHgnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 home ? " cried the girl, with a pleased note in her 
 voice ; but at the same time her eyes took in, almost 
 painfully, the change in Joyce's appearance. She 
 had taken a very scanty wardrobe with her to 
 Clerkenwell, and the blue serge coat and skirt being 
 exposed day by day to the dust and the glare of the 
 sun, had lost its freshness. So had Joyce's face. 
 She looked worn and sad, Ursula thought, with a 
 little rush of pity for her. 
 
 " No, I haven't come home," said Joyce awk- 
 wardly ; " I was only taking a walk up this way. I 
 hope you are quite well, Ursula ; you look it" 
 
 " Yes, I am quite well, thank you. Guess where I 
 am going to a garden party at Dr. Ferrars'." 
 
 " That is why you are so smart," said Joyce, 
 feeling the contrast keenly between her own appear- 
 ance and Ursula's. " I did not know that they went 
 in for garden parties." 
 
 " Oh, they don't as a rule, as you know ; but they 
 have a cousin of Jack's staying there just now a 
 Scotch girl and they are making an awful fuss of 
 her. The old doctor wants Jack and her to make 
 a match of it." 
 
 This was purely an experimental speech on 
 Ursula's part, but it did not have much effect upon 
 Joyce. 
 
 " I suppose my father and mother will be there,"
 
 Cbe "Reams. 225 
 
 she said, trying to speak naturally, but failing 
 miserably. 
 
 " Oh, no, they won't. Didn't you know they are 
 out of town ? " cried Ursula, in surprise. 
 
 " No ; where have they gone ? " 
 
 " Well, of course your mother was naturally a bit 
 upset," said Ursula, looking straight before her, as if 
 not at all interested in what she was saying, "and 
 your father has taken her away for a voyage. They 
 have gone to America." 
 
 " America ! " cried Joyce, and her face paled. 
 " Oh, impossible, Ursula ; it cannot be. Mamma 
 has always said she would never cross the Atlantic, 
 although papa so often wished her to go and visit 
 her brother there." 
 
 " Well, they have gone now," said Ursula, with a 
 nod. " They sailed last Saturday." 
 
 " And how long are they to be gone ? " asked 
 Joyce. 
 
 " Three months, Tom said." 
 
 " And where is To ? " 
 
 " Tom is living at the Ferrars', and the servants 
 have all gone on holiday." 
 
 " Oh," said Joyce. " Well, I must go. Good-bye, 
 Ursula." 
 
 " But you are not going like this, Joyce, without
 
 226 TDdfinDbam's 2>au0btet. 
 
 telling me anything about yourself. What are you 
 doing ? " 
 
 " Nothing," answered Joyce. " I have nothing to 
 tell you." 
 
 " Are you doing work of any kind ? Have you 
 got a situation ? I understood your mother to say 
 before she went away that you were going to be- 
 come a schoolmistress, or something of that 
 kind." 
 
 " I want to ; but I haven't found a situation. 
 But it cannot interest you very much, Ursula. You 
 and I walk different ways now," she said. " Excuse 
 me good-bye." And before Ursula could detain 
 her she had walked on quickly, and so evidently 
 wished to be left alone that Ursula could do nothing 
 but proceed on her own way. 
 
 " Three months gone to America for three 
 months!" repeated Joyce to herself; "and without 
 even making one effort, or asking a single question 
 about me. How dared they ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 UNDERCURRENTS. 
 
 URSULA thought about Joyce all the way to the 
 doctor's house. Intimate as she was with the Wynd- 
 hams, she had never heard the complete story of 
 Joyce's escapade, and when confidence was not 
 offered did not like to ask questions. When she 
 arrived at the large, shady garden surrounding the 
 doctor's house, her attention was arrested for several 
 minutes by the brilliant gathering assembled there. 
 The Ferrars were immensely popular in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and as this was the first entertainment 
 they had given since Mrs. Ferrars' death, every invi- 
 tation had been eagerly accepted. Ursula, of course, 
 knew most of those present. Her father had arrived 
 before her, and was sitting under a friendly awning 
 enjoying a cigarette and some iced lemonade. The 
 cousin in whose honour the party was given was 
 receiving the guests beside her uncle on the lawn. 
 She was a bright, fresh-coloured, happy-looking girl, 
 
 who won affection by her simple, unaffected manner 
 
 227
 
 228 TKHgnObam's Baugbtet. 
 
 and bright, cheerful disposition. She was enjoying 
 herself immensely, and showed it without restraint 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Macdougall ? " said Ursula 
 frankly. " What a crowd you have gathered, Dr. 
 Ferrars," she added to the old man. " Why, every- 
 body is here. See what it is to be adored by one's 
 patients." 
 
 " It is very kind of everybody to come, and we are 
 pleased to see them," said the old doctor, with his fine 
 courtesy. " One or two of our oldest friends are 
 absent, however." 
 
 " Yes," said Ursula, with a nod. " Is Tom Wynd- 
 ham here ? Oh, yes ; there he is, making himself 
 agreeable as usual to old Miss Maddison. Now, I call 
 that sweet of him." 
 
 " So do I," answered Elsie Macdougall with a 
 smile. " Isn't she a cross-grained old thing ? she is 
 always finding fault with somebody." 
 
 " Oh, we're used to her, and we don't mind her," 
 said Ursula. " Well, I shall go and relieve him, I 
 think." 
 
 On the way, however, she was met by Jack Ferrars, 
 who carried her off, nothing loth, to have an ice. 
 
 " Just guess who I met outside the gate just now, 
 Jack ? " she asked. 
 
 " Never guessed anything in my life, Ursula, and 
 you know it," he answered lazily.
 
 undercurrents, 229 
 
 " You never tried, you mean. Well, I met 
 Joyce." 
 
 He gave a quick start, and looked at her keenly. 
 
 " Really ? " 
 
 " Really, and she didn't look as if she were con- 
 spicuously enjoying her new career." 
 
 " And didn't you speak to her ? " 
 
 " Why, of course, and told her where I was going. 
 Just imagine, she hadn't the slightest idea that her 
 father and mother had gone to America. I caught 
 her loitering about the gate of Overton looked 
 rather suspicious, didn't it ? " 
 
 " How did she look ? " asked Ferrars, in a low, eager 
 voice, and making no attempt to disguise his lively 
 concern. 
 
 " She looked well, what you would call ' down on 
 her luck/ Jack," answered Ursula, with a little sym- 
 pathetic note in her voice. " She was very shabbily 
 dressed, and looked a bit pale and tired. I felt very 
 sorry for her." 
 
 " Which way did she go ? " inquired Jack, tugging 
 at his moustache. 
 
 " Up towards the station ; probably to go back to 
 the city." 
 
 " I might catch her. Excuse me, won't you, 
 Ursula ? and don't say where I've gone unless Tom 
 happens to ask."
 
 23 tdgnDbam's Baugbter. 
 
 Ursula nodded, and sighed a little as she watched 
 the handsome, manly figure striding across the lawns 
 like a man who has some set purpose in view. How 
 lovable and true he was, how honest and noble in 
 every relation and action of his life. How misguided 
 and foolish was Joyce Wyndham to set so little store 
 by the gifts which might have been hers a happy 
 and luxurious home, an assured position among 
 people who had known and loved her all her life, and, 
 above all, the love of a good and honourable man. 
 Ursula was weary thinking of the mystery of life, and 
 the irony of its conflict. Presently Tom caught sight 
 of her sitting alone under a tree, and made straight 
 for her side. 
 
 " I thought I saw Jack in your train a minute ago," 
 he said, as he took off his straw hat and waved it 
 about in a vain endeavour to raise a little air. 
 
 " So he was, but he has gone out. I told him I met 
 Joyce outside, on Denmark Hill, and I rather think 
 he has gone to see whether he can see her too." 
 
 " You saw Joyce," said Tom incredulously. " What 
 was she doing ? " 
 
 " Looking in at the gate of Overton when I caught 
 sight of her first. I thought it a good sign, Mr. 
 Tom." 
 
 " A sign of what ? " asked Tom rather absently, and 
 on his honest face there dwelt a great shadow.
 
 lUn&etcurrents. 231 
 
 " A sign that her heart is turning home, I thought," 
 said Ursula gently. 
 
 " Perhaps. Do you think Ferrars would see her ? 
 I'd like to go out after him, but it might be noticed." 
 
 " He'll see her if she had to wait for the train at 
 Denmark Hill Station. She was going there." 
 
 "Perhaps I'd better leave it, then," said Tom. 
 " What did she say to you, Ursula ? " 
 
 " Not very much ; she seemed dull and out of sorts, 
 I thought. She has not got anything to do." 
 
 " I'll see what Ferrars says when he comes back. 
 Father said I wasn't to send her any money, and that 
 she must be made to feel the brunt of what she has 
 done ; but, hang it all, a fellow can't bear the idea of 
 his sister being in a tight place, especially when he 
 has plenty himself." 
 
 " I understand just how you feel. I do feel so 
 sorry for you all," said Ursula, in her gentle, sym- 
 pathetic voice. 
 
 " I say, wouldn't it be jolly if I could get her to 
 come back before father and mother come home ? " 
 
 " It would indeed. Why, Tom, there's Hannah 
 Thrale and her father coming in at the gate. Do you 
 think they could be invited ? " 
 
 " Oh, I think so ; in fact, I know they were," said 
 Tom, a bit confusedly. " The doctor thinks no end 
 of the old man. Fine-looking, isn't he ? "
 
 232 TKflBtrtbam's Daughter. 
 
 " Very, and Hannah looks lovely. There is some- 
 thing about her which distinguishes her from every 
 other girl here, and yet I don't suppose her frock cost 
 as much as my parasol, which I paid three guineas for 
 in Bond Street," said Ursula, with a curious, rather 
 bitter glance at the dainty arrangement of white lace 
 and pink chiffon, called by courtesy a parasol. She 
 was not given to bitterness of speech or look, but she 
 had seen the light leap in Tom Wyndham's eyes as 
 they fell on the tall, graceful figure, which was robed 
 in a dove-coloured merino frock and a white muslin 
 fichu with exquisite becomingness, and presently she 
 got up and went over to a bevy of girls she knew, and 
 joined in their gay chatter with all her might. She 
 surprised some of them, who regarded her as rather 
 a sedate person. But nobody read between the 
 lines. 
 
 When she next saw Tom, he was at Hannah's 
 side. About half-an-hour later Jack Ferrars saun- 
 tered into the grounds again, and Ursula and Tom, 
 who both scanned his face eagerly, were not en- 
 couraged by it. He walked directly over to the 
 seat where Tom sat beside Hannah Thrale. 
 
 "How do you do, Miss Thrale?" he said, shaking 
 hands with her with less cordiality than usual. 
 " Tom, I have just parted from your sister." 
 
 "From Joyce?" exclaimed Hannah, and her lips
 
 TUnSercutrenta. 23^ 
 
 parted in eager interest. " She has not been here, 
 has she ? " 
 
 " No," answered Ferrars rather curtly, for the con- 
 trast between this girl, looking so dainty and sweet 
 in her simple, cool gown, and poor Joyce, shabby, 
 hot, and tired, in her dusty blue serge, was painful 
 to him, and he could not forget that it was due, in- 
 directly at least, to Hannah Thrale that she was an 
 exile from her home. Hannah read his face as if it 
 had been an open book. 
 
 " I know what you are thinking, Dr. Ferrars," she 
 said quickly. "Mr. Wyndham will tell you that I 
 did everything in my power to dissuade her from the 
 step she took. I have not known a happy hour 
 since." 
 
 "The fact remains that out of her acquaintance 
 with you arose the restlessness and discontent which 
 has ended so disastrously," he replied calmly; and 
 Hannah's face flushed hotly. She was sensitive to 
 a degree, but she knew that he spoke the truth, and 
 moreover, sympathised with his bitterness to the 
 full. 
 
 "You speak rather strongly. It has not ended 
 disastrously yet. I feel sure that she will yet see the 
 folly of what she is doing." 
 
 "Meanwhile those who love her are tortured by 
 dwelling on the anxieties and privations she may be
 
 's 2>au0bter. 
 
 suffering," he replied, too much hurt and disap- 
 pointed by the result of his interview with Joyce to 
 weigh his words. 
 
 Hannah's grave, beautiful mouth trembled, and 
 when he saw it his conscience smote him a little. 
 For did it mend matters to speak bitterly to Hannah 
 Thrale? nay, it would only make another un- 
 happy. 
 
 " I beg you to forgive me," he said, with a return 
 to his usual grave gentleness of manner. " I have no 
 right to speak so to you ; it is the more unpardon- 
 able that you are my father's guest. But I feel it 
 all so keenly. I don't care who knows that her 
 absence from home and present attitude towards us 
 all is my chief concern in life." 
 
 Hannah's eyes were full of tears, and she was 
 unable to speak. Poor Tom, torn by conflicting 
 feelings, tugged mercilessly at his moustache. 
 
 " What did she say to you, old chap ? " he asked 
 Ferrars. 
 
 " She would say nothing, except that she was 
 quite happy, and did not regret anything. But her 
 face belied her words," replied Ferrars gloomily. 
 " And when I implored her to come back, and tried 
 to tell her how she was missed, she only shook her 
 head. She did tell me, as the train came in, that 
 she had the promise of a situation next week."
 
 TUnDercurrents. 235 
 
 " Mrs. Hemming told me of it. I fear it will not 
 suit her," said Hannah slowly. 
 
 " What kind of a person is this Mrs. Hemming, 
 and why should she heap so much disinterested 
 kindness on a girl who has no claim on her? " asked 
 Ferrars, looking keenly at Hannah. 
 
 Her calm eyes met his fearlessly. 
 
 " She is one of the kindest and best of women," 
 she said quickly. " Whoever says otherwise of 
 Olivia Hemming speaks falsely. She will take care 
 of Joyce." 
 
 At that moment Dr. Ferrars and Elsie Mac- 
 dougall came over, and their serious talk was dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 " We'd better go and talk to the ladies, Tom," 
 suggested Ferrars, and they crossed the lawn 
 together. 
 
 " I say, old chap, what will the old folks say 
 to Hannah Thrale as a daughter-in-law ? " he asked, 
 not banteringly, but with all the simple, earnest 
 concern he felt. 
 
 " I don't know. It'll be a bit rough on them, 
 Jack ; but they'll maybe come round better than we 
 think." 
 
 " Then it is serious ? " said Ferrars, with a low 
 whistle. 
 
 " Yes ; I'm only keeping dark till this worry about
 
 236 'CClBn&bam'a Daugbter. 
 
 Joyce has blown over. You'll stand by me, won't 
 you, old chap ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; she's a fine girl. But do you think 
 she's favourably inclined to you, Tom ? " 
 
 " I I think so," said Tom, reddening furiously, 
 and speaking with that modest hesitation born of 
 a true and honest love. 
 
 " I'm a bit surprised, I confess," said Ferrars. " I 
 shouldn't have thought you a likely couple. But 
 there, life has nothing but surprises for us. I wish 
 this function were over. Isn't Ursula Meynell look- 
 ing well this afternoon ? Why can't you marry her, 
 Tom, and I Elsie Macdougall, and so make every- 
 body pleased and happy all round ? " 
 
 " Don't know ; pure cussedness, I expect," said 
 Tom, with a grin which had very little joy in it. 
 But he felt comforted to feel that Ferrars knew, and 
 that he wished him well.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE REALITY OF LIFE. 
 
 IN the month of October the much-talked-of settle- 
 ment became an accomplished fact. It had long 
 been the idea of Osborne Thrale and a few others 
 that they would be more powerful, and be able to do 
 more good to the class whom they specially wished 
 to benefit, if they were more effectively organised, 
 and they believed that the first step towards that 
 union and fuller brotherhood which they all desired 
 was to live as near as might be to the idea of family 
 life. For this purpose a large, old-fashioned house 
 in the neighbourhood of Westminster Bridge Road 
 was taken, and there in the autumn the experiment 
 was made. 
 
 Hannah was very sorry to give up the little house 
 in Camberwell Road for more reasons than she 
 would have cared to explain, but she never dreamed 
 of demurring. Her father's wish was law to her, 
 and she even anticipated a good deal of interest and 
 
 amusement in watching the working of the experi- 
 
 23?
 
 238 TKlBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 ment Of late she had become very lukewarm 
 indeed towards the cause, although she carefully hid 
 her change of views from her father, whom it would 
 have seriously grieved. In her younger days she 
 had entered enthusiastically into all his ideals and 
 and hopes, however wild ; but of late individual 
 rights and individual happiness had become more 
 important to Hannah than the welfare of humanity 
 at large. Another person who joined the settlement 
 from motives of duty, but who regretted very much 
 leaving the little home he had built up for himself, 
 was Philip Dane. It would be a happy change for 
 Bobbie, for, of course, if the family idea was carried 
 out with any measure of success, he would have 
 fewer lonely hours. The house was divided into 
 suites of rooms, varying in size according to the 
 means of those who were to occupy them. 
 
 Among the first to remove to the new settle- 
 ment were Mrs. Hemming and Joyce Wyndham. 
 October found her still in Mrs. Hemming's care, 
 although she was no longer dependent in any way, 
 having obtained a situation, which, however, was 
 very different from the career of which she had so 
 passionately and vaguely dreamed. Mrs. Hemming 
 had introduced her to a busy man who required 
 some assistance with his letters in the morning, and 
 he afterwards gave her occupation as a copyist at
 
 tlbe "Realitg of lire. 239 
 
 home. For this she received a small salary ; but her 
 needs were few and simple, and the cost of living at 
 the settlement was very low. Since that July day 
 when she had met Ursula Meynell on Denmark Hill, 
 she had avoided the neighbourhood, and had neither 
 seen nor heard anything of her own people. Mrs. 
 Hemming and she shared two rooms together, and 
 Joyce clung to her with a close dependence which 
 had something pathetic in it. Although she had 
 never admitted it even to herself, there was, deep 
 down in her heart, a feeling of bitterness and dis- 
 appointment because her own kith and kin had 
 allowed her to drop out of their lives, apparently 
 without an effort or pang. She did not know, 
 of course, that this complete ignoring of her existence 
 was part of the wholesome cure which her father and 
 mother had decided was necessary, nor that they 
 were kept constantly acquainted with all her move- 
 ments, and knew exactly how she was situated in 
 every relation of her life. Of this Hannah Thrale 
 was also ignorant, and she often wondered, not with- 
 out some feeling of indignation in her heart, that 
 they should have let her go so easily. Mrs. Hem- 
 ming had indeed kept her secret well. 
 
 Joyce was not particularly happy in her daily 
 work ; it was not congenial, and the gentleman for 
 whom she worked was irascible, and not easily
 
 240 "CdBnObam's Daughter. 
 
 pleased ; but so fearful was she of losing her occupa- 
 tion, having proved how difficult it is for the un- 
 trained and unskilful to procure work of any kind, 
 that she bore patiently what in the old days would 
 have almost driven her mad. And this also had 
 not been without its wholesome discipline upon the 
 character of Joyce. 
 
 October was a very wet month in London that 
 year, and before it closed there was not a leaf upon 
 the trees, and the whole city wore a wintry and 
 desolate look. Joyce had two miles to walk to and 
 from her daily occupation, but she seldom rode, 
 even on a homely omnibus. The few pence required 
 for the luxury which she once despised was now a 
 serious consideration to her slender purse. She was 
 coming somewhat wearily across the busy thorough- 
 fare from Victoria Street to Westminster Bridge 
 Road when she suddenly met Philip Dane face 
 to face. They had seen a good deal of each other 
 of late, and all her spare time was spent with Bobbie, 
 who had swerved from his allegiance to Hannah 
 Thrale and bestowed it all on Joyce. It is not too 
 much to say that but for Bobbie Dane's sympathy 
 and never-failing readiness to hear all she had to 
 say, Joyce could not have endured her life ; it was 
 all so different from what she had hoped and 
 dreamed. Philip Dane had watched her for several
 
 Cbe IRealftB of ILife. 241 
 
 minutes before they met, and had noticed a some- 
 what sad and weary look on her face, which made her 
 appear years older than she was. It gave his honest 
 heart a keen pang to see her look thus, and he felt a 
 passionate desire to help her in some substantial 
 way, to free her from all the care and burden of the 
 existence that she had deliberately chosen and was 
 now finding so unsatisfying. She smiled faintly 
 when she saw him, and, raising his cap, he took her 
 bag from her, and asked her whether she was very 
 tired. 
 
 " Not so very tired," she answered, in a low, quiet 
 voice. " But I have just been told that my services 
 are no longer required, so I am once more among 
 the unemployed." 
 
 "Oh, but something else will turn up," he 
 answered bravely. " Everything comes, you know, 
 to those who wait." 
 
 " Yes, so they say ; but while I wait what is to 
 become of me ? " she said, and he saw that she was 
 struggling with her tears. The sight was more than 
 he could bear. 
 
 " Don't give way," he said, his voice thrilling with 
 a dangerous earnestness. " Let us go back and sit 
 for a little in the Abbey; you can spare the time, 
 and so can I." 
 
 He turned without a moment's hesitation, and, 
 
 Q
 
 242 'BClBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 taking her by the arm, he guided her through the 
 throng of the streets. 
 
 " What is the reason for your dismissal ? " he 
 asked, as they walked up the grass-edged pavement 
 to the door. 
 
 " Mr. Pember is going abroad for the winter on 
 account of his wife's health. She has been ordered 
 away quite suddenly, and they leave on Monday. 
 He paid me a month's salary in lieu of notice." 
 
 " You feel it, of course," he said quickly, " because 
 it is your first experience of the kind ; but there 
 will be something else found for you to do, and that 
 speedily." 
 
 " I didn't find this very speedily," she answered, 
 in the same dull, hopeless voice. " Oh, how beautiful 
 it is in here ! How quiet and still always. It makes 
 one forget all the worry of life." 
 
 The afternoon service was over, and most of the 
 stragglers had left the Abbey, so that they were 
 almost alone in the great building. They sat down 
 in a quiet seat not far from the door, and were silent 
 for a moment, each feeling the soothing influence 
 of the place. 
 
 " I really don't know what I am going to do," 
 said Joyce, in a low, perplexed voice. " I feel almost 
 afraid to go home and tell Mrs. Hemming ; she 
 took so much trouble to get me this place before,
 
 "RealitB of OLife. 243 
 
 and of course it was entirely through her influence 
 I got it. How can I remain dependent upon her ? 
 It is impossible." 
 
 " You haven't seen or heard anything of your own 
 people, I suppose, since you left ? " 
 
 " No," answered Joyce. A look of exceeding 
 bitterness crossed her face. " It is almost four 
 months since I left, and they have never made 
 the slightest effort to see me or to persuade me to 
 come back. That shows, does it not, that they can't 
 have been so much attached to me as I once 
 thought." 
 
 Philip Dane was silent a moment. He had never 
 approved much of the step Joyce had taken, and 
 he thought her father and mother had good reason 
 to cherish some slight resentment against her ; but 
 it must be confessed that he also was extremely 
 puzzled over their absolute ignoring of her very 
 existence. He could not reconcile their lack of 
 interest with what he had heard of their former 
 fondness for her. 
 
 " I am afraid," he said gently, " that you have 
 long regretted the step you took." 
 
 " I don't know that I have," answered Joyce. 
 " I am very happy in the settlement, and I have 
 found many kind friends there ; but I think perhaps 
 we do idealise things, and the reality often falls short. "
 
 244 TOlBttobam's Daughter. 
 
 "There is one to whom your presence in the 
 settlement is a source of perpetual joy and gratitude," 
 said Dane warmly, "and that is my poor brother. 
 You have given him more brightness in his life 
 during the last month than he has ever before 
 known. He is always speaking of you ; I wish you 
 could only hear him. It would be some little re- 
 compense to you for all your unselfish kindness 
 to him." 
 
 "Oh, hush!" cried Joyce, and her voice had a 
 ring of pain in it. " No one could be unkind to the 
 poor boy, and he has more than repaid me ; he is 
 so sympathetic, and he understands everything so 
 quickly. I suppose it is the life of isolation that he 
 has led that has made him so keenly observant and 
 so quick to understand, especially when people are 
 sorrowful and sad." 
 
 She leaned back in her seat as she spoke, fixed 
 her eyes on the great window before her, and was 
 silent. Philip Dane was silent, too, but did not 
 take his eyes from her face, and he was struck by 
 the sharpness of its outline. The last three months 
 had robbed Joyce Wyndham's face of its girlish 
 roundness, and had left some lines there of pain 
 and care. A vast pity for her helplessness and 
 loneliness took possession of him, and his face be- 
 came suffused with the intensity of his feeling, of
 
 Philip Dane was silent, too, but did not take his eyes from her face. 
 
 [Page 244.
 
 tlbe IReaUtg of Xife. 245 
 
 which, however, Joyce remained for the moment 
 utterly unconscious. She felt quite at home with 
 Philip Dane, and had altogether lost that conscious 
 feeling which had sometimes troubled her in the 
 early part of their acquaintance. The little halo of 
 romance with which she had invested him in the 
 old days, when she had looked at him from afar, 
 as it were, had disappeared, and in its place there 
 was a sense of comradeship which one might feel 
 towards a brother who is fighting the battle of life 
 daily by one's side. 
 
 " And should you have difficulty in getting an- 
 other situation," he said presently, " what will you 
 do? Do you not think it would be a wise step to 
 go back to your people ? " 
 
 " No," said Joyce quickly ; then she brought her 
 eyes from the window and flashed them somewhat 
 indignantly on his face. "That I shall never do. 
 I can't tell you how fearfully bitter I feel against 
 them for never having taken the slightest trouble 
 to find me. I might be dead for all they care."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 PAST THE RUBICON. 
 
 TRULY as he loved Joyce Wyndham, and much as 
 he sympathised with her, the manifest unjustness of 
 her attitude towards her parents struck Dane some- 
 what painfully. 
 
 " No doubt they still wait to hear from you," he 
 suggested. " You forget that you left them no clue ; 
 they may have been searching they may be search- 
 ing for you even now." 
 
 Joyce curled her lip. 
 
 " I don't think it at all likely. They could find me 
 very easily if they wished ; but I believe they are glad 
 to get rid of me. I was always rather a trouble to 
 them, especially lately." 
 
 The tone of her words, as well as their substance, 
 jarred upon Dane, and Joyce felt intuitively that he 
 did not approve of her attitude. 
 
 " I cannot understand it," she said petulantly. 
 " Everyone seems against me. Hannah and Mrs. 
 
 Hemming, and now you seem to think that I ought 
 
 246
 
 past tbc "Rubicon. 247 
 
 to go back humbly to my father and mother, and 
 beg to be taken back. How could I do it and keep 
 my own self-respect ? " 
 
 " I don't see that it would involve any loss of it," 
 said Dane quietly. " You have simply tried an ex- 
 periment which has failed. Surely everyone is en- 
 titled to change their opinion if circumstances and 
 experience justify it." 
 
 " Why do you say that I have tried an experiment 
 which has failed ? " asked Joyce quickly. " Am I a 
 failure because I have been dismissed from my 
 situation through no fault of my own ? " 
 
 " I was not thinking particularly of your situation," 
 he answered, "but of life generally. Tell me 
 frankly, Miss Wyndham, what have you gained by 
 quitting your father's house and casting in your lot 
 with us ? " 
 
 " Nothing, from a worldly point of view," answered 
 Joyce. " Yet I have gained something which I shall 
 never lose again, an insight into the lives of those 
 who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow, and 
 I have learnt a lesson in independence ; perhaps, 
 too," and here she looked up at him with a sweet, 
 slightly coquettish smile, " I have learned to be con- 
 tent with small things, and to believe in the sincerity 
 and single-mindedness of those who have befriended 
 me."
 
 48 WBn&bam's JDaugbter. 
 
 "Then you haven't the slightest idea what you 
 will do if you should be unsuccessful in finding 
 something else to do ? " repeated Dane, dwelling with 
 a strange persistence on one particular point 
 
 "No, I haven't the slightest idea. No doubt 
 something will turn up. Oh, I am so sick of my 
 life, and why I was born I cannot tell. I am not 
 of the slightest use, and never have been, to any- 
 body. Don't you think it would be the simplest way 
 out of the difficulty, and a substantial relief to my 
 friends, if I were to put an end to it ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " he said sternly ; " that is the worst part 
 of you speaking now, and it is only because you are 
 tired and disheartened that you allow yourself to 
 utter such words, even in jest. You say you have 
 never been of the slightest use to anyone in the 
 world. I wonder if you will believe that you have 
 made it a glorified place for one." 
 
 She looked up at him suddenly, and before his 
 impassioned eyes her own fell quickly. Having said 
 so much, it was impossible for him not to say more, 
 and Joyce listened with a strangely beating heart, 
 not sure whether she felt pleased or vexed with him. 
 She made no response, but sat with her eyes fixed 
 on the ground, the hot colour flaming in her cheeks. 
 
 " I know that I have no right to speak to you so," 
 said Dane, all his hesitation gone, and allowing the
 
 past tbc iRubtcon. 249 
 
 passion of his heart to vibrate through his voice ; 
 " but seeing you as you are, and knowing what life 
 must be in this city for a woman who is alone, I 
 cannot any longer be silent." 
 
 " Oh, I wish you would," cried Joyce, with a note 
 of distress in her voice. " Our friendship has been 
 so pleasant ; why spoil it ? " 
 
 " It need not be spoilt," said Dane bravely ; " but 
 you must have seen and guessed long ago that the 
 feeling I have for you is something more than friend- 
 ship." 
 
 " If I have known it," said Joyce, in a low, sweet 
 voice, " I have tried not to think about it." 
 
 "Then it is quite hopeless for me," he said, 
 something of the eager brightness dying out of 
 his face. " I might have known it would be, because, 
 after all, I am only a common workman, and you 
 are a lady." 
 
 " It is not that," cried Joyce quickly, looking up 
 as if she had been stung; "it is unkind, unjust of 
 you to speak like that, when you know that I regard 
 nothing nobler in the world than work, and that I 
 honour all who do it." 
 
 " But the fact remains," he said, in the same low, 
 quiet voice, " that we are of a different order. Per- 
 haps it is because I have never seen anyone just like 
 you at least, I have not got to know anyone so
 
 2so < WHBn&bam'6 Daughter. 
 
 intimately, and so, of course, there could only be one 
 ending for me. I have dreamed my dreams ; may 
 I tell you what I have seen in my moments of most 
 exalted folly ? " 
 
 Joyce did not say aye or nay ; she simply sat in 
 silence once more, interested beyond measure in what 
 he was saying, and yet having a strange feeling that 
 she stood upon the outside, and that his words did 
 not affect her personally at all, which showed that 
 they did not find any serious or true response in her 
 heart. 
 
 " I have thought lately, when I have seen you so 
 tired and so troubled over petty worries which 
 should not be allowed to come near you, I have 
 thought that it might be possible to build up a little 
 home in the country, far from this horrible, sorrow- 
 laden city, and where, though the things I could 
 give you would necessarily be simple and plain, still 
 they might suffice." 
 
 " Oh, how good of you to think of me in that way 
 at all," cried Joyce, and her eyes grew moist and 
 tender; but still there was something in her words 
 which sent a chill to the heart of the man who 
 listened to them, for the woman who has any love 
 to give in return does not thank the man who pours 
 the treasures of his heart at her feet, but simply 
 accepts, giving her own in return.
 
 past tbe iRubtcon. 251 
 
 " I suppose," he said, " it was a mad dream, and I 
 may bury it for ever ? " 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," cried Joyce wearily; "it is 
 so difficult to know what is right, and even to know 
 what one wants, I think, in this world. Life seems 
 to grow more complicated every day, and I almost 
 feel now that I should be glad to give myself and 
 my future into the hands of one who would decide 
 for me in everything. It would be such a relief." 
 
 At another time Philip Dane might have smiled 
 at these words. Four little months, that was all it 
 had taken to convince Joyce that the struggle for 
 existence is hard, and that the problems of life are 
 not so easily solved as she had dreamed. Freedom 
 has its uses and its advantages, no doubt ; but it has 
 also its thorns. Although Dane felt somewhat re- 
 pelled by her words, she had not altogether dis- 
 couraged him, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the 
 face which had grown dearer to him than any earthly 
 thing, he ventured to speak still further of the hope 
 which he had cherished so long. 
 
 "That you should listen to me so gently, and 
 not tell me at once that I presume, gives me some 
 courage to go on. Do you think that I may dare 
 to hope that perhaps in some far-off time you might 
 grow accustomed to the idea ? I should devote my 
 life to you in trying to make you happy."
 
 252 TKlBn&bam's 2>au0bter. 
 
 " No, you could not do that," she said quickly ; 
 " remember the cause and how you are pledged to 
 it." 
 
 The colour mounted high in his cheek, and he 
 made a slight gesture of impatience. 
 
 "The cause does not forbid the forging of other 
 ties. The chances are that if I should ever be so 
 incomparably blessed, I might, nay, I should 
 certainly be, a better servant to the cause of 
 humanity, because my own happiness would make 
 me very tender and compassionate to all others less 
 blessed than I." 
 
 His eloquence touched her inexpressibly. Her 
 eyes, as they met his, were full of tears. 
 
 " Almost you persuade me," she said unsteadily ; 
 " but I am not fit to marry anyone. I have always 
 said that I should never marry. You have no idea 
 how selfish I am, and how little I know that would 
 be useful to me in such an estate. I am sure that, 
 were I to take you at your word, you would regret 
 it." 
 
 " Never," he said huskily. " 1 myself thought that 
 I should never marry, and I had never seen a woman 
 who made me think of marriage until I met you. 
 Do you remember the first night we met at the 
 Thrales' in Camberwell Road ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do," answered Joyce ; " and now, when I
 
 past tbe TRuLMcon. 253 
 
 come to think of it, I believe that it was what you 
 said in your speech that night which decided me to 
 seek something nobler than living selfishly at ease 
 in my father's house. What I can't understand is 
 why you and Hannah and Mrs. Hemming, and 
 everyone who ought to have rejoiced over my seces- 
 sion to your ranks, should have disapproved so much 
 of the step I took." 
 
 " It is consideration for you," he answered readily. 
 " We know what the struggle for existence is, and 
 there seemed no reason why you should enter upon 
 it when there was no need." 
 
 " That is not a very high view to take of the case," 
 said Joyce. "You teach in your public utterances 
 that self-sacrifice and self-denial is demanded from 
 all who would fulfil their highest destiny here, and 
 yet when it comes to my individual case you are 
 horrified that I should practise even in such a small 
 degree the very doctrine you preach." 
 
 Philip Dane smiled, a little struck by the shrewd- 
 ness of her argument. 
 
 " It is only out of consideration for you," he re- 
 peated ; " the motive is all right, but there was a 
 question of expediency to be considered. But you 
 have led me clearly away from the point," he said, 
 bringing his earnest eyes to bear fully upon her face. 
 " What is it to be between us ? Friendship only,
 
 254 TKHgnObam's JDaugbter. 
 
 or something more ? I don't care how long I may 
 have to wait if only I may keep before me the vision 
 which I have told you." 
 
 " I cannot answer just yet," she said, rising ; " it 
 has come rather suddenly upon me, but I will think 
 of it. Now we had better go home."
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 
 
 THAT night there was a meeting in another part of 
 London to which most of the dwellers in the settle- 
 ment went. Osborne Thrale, however, suffering 
 from a feverish cold, was obliged to remain at home, 
 and Hannah, for whom the meetings of the brother- 
 hood had less and less charm, remained with him, 
 pleading as an excuse that he was too ill to be 
 left. 
 
 About eight o'clock, after she had given him his 
 early supper and left him in the hope that he would 
 fall into a refreshing sleep, there came an unexpected 
 knock at her door. She felt much annoyed and 
 almost inclined to leave it unanswered. She had 
 looked forward to having this quiet evening, al- 
 though she had no very clear idea what she intended 
 to do with it. What was her astonishment when 
 she opened the door, with no very cordial look on 
 her face, to behold on the threshold the tall figure 
 
 of Tom Wyndham. She was glad of the dim light 
 
 255
 
 256 IKUBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 in the little hall, and tjiat the hot flush which sprang 
 unbidden to her face was unobserved. 
 
 "Mr. Wyndham !" she exclaimed, in astonishment, 
 " what are you doing here, and how did you find us 
 out ? " 
 
 "I have had some difficulty, I assure you, but I 
 got the address from my mother, as it happened, by 
 the merest accident." 
 
 " Your father and mother have returned, then, from 
 America?" she said, with her usual bright, frank 
 manner. " I suppose now you have come you had 
 better come in. I am sorry to tell you my father is 
 ill in bed, and I have been rather anxious about him 
 all day." 
 
 " Oh, I am sorry to hear that," said Tom, walking 
 in without the slightest embarrassment or hesitation ; 
 indeed, there was about his whole attitude and bear- 
 ing that quiet, singular decision which seemed to 
 indicate that he was in no manner of doubt about his 
 own purpose. The little sitting-room in the settle- 
 ment was neither so large nor so pleasant as the old 
 room in Camberwell Road. Hannah had done her 
 best, however, to make it dainty and pretty, and as 
 the window only looked out upon a little narrow 
 court shut in by tall tenements of brick, she had 
 draped it so artistically that the dreariness of the 
 outlook was forgotten.
 
 Bit 'dnejpecte& Dfsitor. 257 
 
 " I have no fire," she said apologetically, as she 
 turned up the gas, " because I have been sitting with 
 father a good part of the day, and there is the 
 kitchen, of course. Perhaps you would like to come 
 into the kitchen ; it is warmer. We have no servant 
 now ; it is one of the rules of the settlement that 
 the work must be done by all the members them- 
 selves." 
 
 " Isn't it rather hard on you ? " asked Tom, but the 
 words fell from his lips carelessly, and without much 
 thought; his whole interest and attention were ab- 
 sorbed by the sight of the sweet face of the woman 
 he loved, which seemed to his eager vision to have 
 grown more sad and careworn than when he saw 
 it last. 
 
 " Oh, we help each other," she answered brightly, 
 finding it well to avoid his gaze. " Are you coming 
 into the kitchen, then, or shall we stay here? I don't 
 think it is very cold ; do you ? " 
 
 " It is rather bleak outside ; it rains, you see. It 
 is all right here, if you won't feel it. Yes, my father 
 and mother have been home about three weeks. 
 They hear regularly from your friend with the odd 
 name, Mrs. Hemming. How is Joyce getting on ? " 
 
 " Oh, all right, I think," answered Hannah, who 
 was as yet unaware of what had happened to Joyce 
 
 that day. " She is still acting as secretary to that 
 
 R
 
 258 TKHgnDbam's 2>augbter, 
 
 Mr. Pember in Pont Street. I don't think she likes 
 it particularly ; still she knows, as a working woman, 
 that she must not quarrel with her bread and 
 butter." 
 
 Tom gave a little whistle. 
 
 " Fancy Joyce a working woman ! I say, Miss 
 Thrale, what do you honestly think of it all ? Don't 
 you think it is unutterably stupid of Joyce to be 
 digging on here when she might be so comfortable at 
 home ? What does she mean by it ? " 
 
 Hannah shook her head. 
 
 " I know which I should choose if I had the 
 choice ; but I think that your parents are acting very 
 wisely." 
 
 " Do you see any sign of relenting in Joyce, 
 then ? " he asked eagerly. 
 
 "I can't say that she ever admitted as much to 
 me," Hannah answered truthfully, " and Mrs. Hem- 
 ming certainly says that she has no intention of 
 giving up as yet, anyhow. Really, in answer to your 
 question, Mr. Tom, I don't see what she can find in 
 her present life to satisfy her." 
 
 "Does she do any work outside? Any of that 
 sort of charitable work, you know, about which she 
 was always talking? Service for humanity she used 
 to call it," said Tom vaguely. 
 
 " Well," said Hannah blankly, " she does go out a
 
 Bn TUneipecteD Visitor. 259 
 
 good deal, I think. She is a kind, sweet soul, Mr. 
 Tom, and so unselfish; you have no idea of the 
 hours she spends with that poor Bobbie Dane. You 
 don't know him, of course ; he is a cripple boy who 
 lives in the settlement, and he is never able to get off 
 his back. Perhaps you have heard her speak of 
 his brother, Philip Dane, who is a very clever fellow, 
 and one of our leaders in fact, he is father's right- 
 hand man." 
 
 " No, I don't think I have ever heard the name," 
 said Tom, without much interest. " I am glad to 
 hear you say that Joyce is unselfish, because, upon 
 my word, though it seems horrible for a man to 
 speak so of his sister, I used to think that she was 
 awfully selfish at home, especially with my mother, 
 you know. She might have helped in lots of things, 
 but either she was too lazy or didn't think it good 
 enough. Isn't it queer how people will do all sorts 
 of things for outside people, when they grudge a 
 little service at home ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is queer," answered Hannah. " I am very 
 hopeful that in a month or two, perhaps, Joyce will 
 think differently, and see things in another light. If 
 she goes home then, I don't think that your mother 
 will have any reason to complain about her being 
 selfish or idle. I really think myself that she is 
 coming to it."
 
 260 TlBlgn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 " Well, I am sure we shall be awfully glad. She 
 is not in to-night, I suppose ? Only, even if she were 
 in, I must not see her, because I promised father and 
 mother that I would not try to see her. They are 
 going to leave her entirely alone for six months, and 
 I expect that at the end of that time they will either 
 come to see her or at least communicate with her." 
 
 " I think it is very brave as well as very wise of 
 them to take that course," said Hannah, " and I am 
 sure that, looking at it from that point of view, it is 
 the very best they could possibly take. But don't 
 they feel it very much ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course they do ; there is a kind of 
 shadow on the house, if you understand. It isn't like 
 the place it was, and I know my mother is getting to 
 look old. She has a kind of sad expression in her 
 eyes which I don't like to see upon my word I 
 don't, and it makes me feel just a little bit bitter 
 against Joyce, you know. I hope you understand ? " 
 
 " Oh, indeed I do," answered Hannah fervently, 
 more touched than she cared to own by the genuine 
 feeling which the honest-hearted fellow made no 
 effort to hide. He was not ashamed of it, and 
 Hannah honoured him as she listened more than he 
 dreamed. There was a moment's rather strained 
 silence between them, which Hannah made haste to 
 break. She felt that it was not well that they should
 
 an IHncjpecte?) IDtsftor, 261 
 
 be silent, that there was more safety in the con- 
 tinuance of speech. 
 
 " What do you suppose I came here for to-night ? " 
 he asked suddenly. 
 
 " How should I tell ? " she made answer, with a 
 nearer approach to coquetry than he had ever before 
 seen in her. " I haven't the key to your inner 
 self." 
 
 " I am not so sure about that," he answered, 
 quickly enough. " Well, I have come to see you, 
 and you know what for." 
 
 She got up from the chair on which she had 
 been sitting, and took a quick, nervous turn across 
 the room. 
 
 " Oh, I hope you won't say any more," she said, 
 in tones of such genuine distress that he looked at 
 her slightly alarmed. 
 
 " But I am going to say something more," he 
 said, with that quiet decisiveness which had char- 
 acterised him when he first entered the house. " I 
 have given myself three months, Hannah, and I 
 have thought of jolly little else but you all that 
 time, so I thought it was time to come and tell you 
 so." 
 
 " Well, but think," she said, pausing at the table 
 and leaning slightly upon it ; " it is through me 
 all this trouble and vexation have come upon your
 
 262 t&Bn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 father and mother. I must not, I dare not bring 
 any more upon them ; it would simply break their 
 hearts, and you know it." 
 
 " No, I don't," he answered bravely. " They both 
 like and respect you very much." 
 
 " Oh, yes," she answered quickly, " I know all 
 about that. At a safe distance I am very well, 
 but you know as well as I do that if they thought 
 that you were thinking seriously of me for a moment 
 in the way you mean, it would be quite as bad a 
 grief to them as Joyce has been." 
 
 " I don't think so ; but even granting that it would 
 be a disappointment to them, I suppose you will 
 allow that a man of five-and-twenty may be sup- 
 posed to have some little choice in a matter like 
 this." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " I have thought about it a good deal," she owned 
 frankly, "since that night long ago in the summer 
 when you said a few words at parting which I 
 couldn't forget. I know that you didn't speak those 
 words lightly, and I have considered them well, and 
 I was glad to think that circumstances had separated 
 us so far that we need not be constantly meeting as 
 we used to. It was better, at least for me." 
 
 She uttered these words, which so plainly 
 indicated her own feelings, without the slightest
 
 an TUnejpecteJ) Wsttor. 263 
 
 hesitation. True to her own high and loyal woman- 
 hood, she would not trifle with the most serious 
 crisis in her life. Neither did she seek to hide from 
 the man she loved that his words had found some 
 echo in her heart ; but she saw in a moment that she 
 had made a mistake, for the light which sprang into 
 Tom Wyndham's eyes and the look upon his face 
 plainly said that, having heard such an admission 
 from her, he would never let her go. 
 
 " Do you think," he said, with a swift, significant 
 smile, " that when you have said so much I will let 
 you go until you say a great deal more ? I have 
 never cared for anybody on earth but you, Hannah 
 and I never will. Perhaps I am not a very religious 
 fellow, but there are some things I believe in with a 
 faith that is unassailable, and I know that you are 
 the one that God has given to me, and as I stand 
 here, I declare that no man or woman will take you 
 from me."
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 NOT WELCOME. 
 
 " IT is unfortunate," said Hannah, in a low voice, 
 and keeping her eyes averted from his face so that 
 he might not see the light in them, " it is unfortunate 
 that we should ever have met." 
 
 " I don't think so," answered Tom promptly. 
 " The only thing that I am troubled about is whether 
 I am good enough." 
 
 " Good enough for what ? " asked Hannah, looking 
 up at him with simple, questioning eyes. 
 
 " For you," he answered. " You see you are so 
 different from other women, and I am only a very 
 plain chap, not clever, you know, and that sort of 
 thing." 
 
 Hannah did not for the moment reply. She was 
 indeed thinking of all the men she knew, and draw- 
 ing comparisons between them and this honest, 
 true-hearted fellow who stood before her so humbly, 
 
 and yet in such manly fashion, affecting nothing, 
 
 264
 
 Wot THaelcome. 265 
 
 and only concerned lest he should not be worthy of 
 her. 
 
 " I wish," she said, with a little difficult note in her 
 voice, " that there were more like you ; the world 
 would be a happier and a better place." 
 
 Tom's face flushed at her praise, given so lightly, 
 and meaning to him so much. 
 
 " I try to do what is right so far as I know how," 
 he said. " I think a fellow owes it to himself to live 
 as straight as possible ; and as for my father and 
 mother, it is easy to do my duty to them ; they are 
 so good themselves, and I owe them so much. I 
 suppose it is that we get more sense as we grow 
 older ; at least, my feeling now is that I shall never 
 be able to do enough for them in return for all they 
 have done for me." 
 
 " How strange that you and Joyce should look at 
 things so differently," said Hannah musingly. " I 
 can't but think that yours is the right attitude." 
 
 " It is the only one possible to me, anyhow," said 
 Tom. " Still, we are wandering away from the point 
 again. What I want to know is when I can see your 
 father ? " 
 
 Again Hannah shook her head. 
 
 " I don't think that you could see him yet, any- 
 how. Have your father and mother the slightest 
 idea of this ? "
 
 266 TKHsn&bani's 5>augbter. 
 
 " No, they have not," answered Tom frankly. 
 " You see I am not a chap that talks much about 
 my own feelings, and they have been so taken up 
 with Joyce, they haven't had much time to pay much 
 attention to me of late. They don't trouble them- 
 themselves about me at any time." 
 
 " That is because you have never occasioned them 
 any anxiety," said Hannah quickly. " I have heard 
 your mother say so." 
 
 " Well, that is one reason why I think that they 
 ought to be quite pleased now, and I am sure they 
 will be when I tell them about you. I am going to 
 tell them this very night But I must have some- 
 thing definite to say to them. You will have me, 
 won't you, Hannah ? " 
 
 She could have laughed aloud at the direct sim- 
 plicity of this question, but that it so touched her ; 
 it was a matter of serious moment to her, and she 
 could have wished the outlook brighter. She was 
 not at all hopeful that Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham 
 would look favourably upon her, and she only 
 realised now what it would be to her if she should 
 have to give up Tom Wyndham. 
 
 " The way doesn't seem very clear," she said, with 
 a sigh ; " but perhaps it will come all right in the 
 end." 
 
 "Why, of course it will," said Tom cheerfully.
 
 Wot TJdelcome. 267 
 
 " There is no reason why it should not. I shall 
 speak to my father and mother this very night." 
 
 Then their talk became more lover-like, and the 
 time sped on wings of gold. It was late when Tom 
 left the house, and jumping into the first hansom, he 
 drove rapidly home. He found that his mother had 
 gone to bed, and his father was smoking his last 
 evening pipe by the comfortable fire in the dining- 
 room. 
 
 " Rather chilly out, isn't it ? " said the old man, 
 looking up as his son entered. 
 
 It never occurred to him to question Tom as to 
 where he had been. Alfred Wyndham had the most 
 absolute confidence in his son, and never sought to 
 dictate to him or to restrain his outgoings and in- 
 comings in any way. 
 
 " Yes, it is a bit chilly. I came home in a hansom. 
 I have been over Westminster Bridge way." 
 
 "Have you?" said the old man, looking up with 
 quick interest. " Not seen Joyce, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No, I didn't see Joyce, but I have been at her 
 place. I have been to see Hannah Thrale, dad." 
 
 It was Tom's way to blurt out the whole thing in 
 the most blunt way. The old man took his pipe 
 from his mouth, and regarded his son steadily for a 
 minute in silence. 
 
 " Oh," he said at length " you have been to see
 
 268 TKflBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 Hannah Thrale, have you, and what for, may I 
 ask ? " 
 
 " I thought you would guess," observed Tom. " I 
 daresay you can if you try." 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you are in love with 
 her?" said Alfred Wyndham, with a somewhat dis- 
 mayed look. 
 
 " I suppose I am," answered Tom, with a kind of 
 subdued cheerfulness ; " at least, I have asked her to 
 be my wife. She has promised, though con- 
 ditionally." 
 
 Wyndham laid his pipe on the mantelpiece ; its 
 flavour was gone. 
 
 " This is rather serious, Tom, and unexpected as 
 well," he said gravely. " When did all this happen ? 
 I didn't know that you knew her so intimately. 
 Have you been coming and going to this place at 
 Westminster ? " 
 
 " No, I have not ; I have only seen her once since 
 they left Camberwell ; but I suppose these things do 
 happen suddenly, don't they, as a rule ? Anyhow, 
 I have asked her, and if I can't have her I sha'n't 
 have any other woman. I hope you won't throw any 
 obstacle in the way, dad." 
 
 " Oh, no, I have no serious objection to the girl ; 
 in fact, I like her, and always have done," said Alfred 
 Wyndham, though without cordiality. " It is the
 
 Wot Welcome. 269 
 
 complication with Joyce that I am thinking of. I 
 don't suppose that your mother will ever countenance 
 it for a moment." 
 
 Tom Wyndham sat down in a chair directly in 
 front of his father, and looked at him with a very 
 earnest, pleading look, which touched his father 
 inexpressibly. 
 
 " But surely she won't visit Joyce's iniquities upon 
 me. I don't see what objection she can possibly 
 take to Hannah ; everyone must admit that she is a 
 perfect lady, and you know yourself that she is as far 
 superior to the ordinary run of girls as she is to 
 me." 
 
 " You are very humble, my boy, and I don't dislike 
 to see it in you. An honest love always makes a 
 man humble ; but it will be a fearful disappointment 
 to your mother." 
 
 " Why ? " said Tom, shifting somewhat uneasily 
 on his seat. " I am sure I have heard her say dozens 
 of times how much she likes Hannah Thrale." 
 
 " Oh, yes, but at a safe and respectable distance ; 
 not as a likely wife for her son. You know as well 
 as I do in what direction her hopes lie for you." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know she would have liked me to 
 marry Ursula Meynell at one time; but I told her 
 quite plainly once that that was out of the question. 
 I shall be very sorry, of course, if it is such a dis-
 
 's Baugbter. 
 
 appointment ; but, after all, a man may be allowed to 
 choose his own wife. You did that, didn't you, 
 dad ? " 
 
 "Yes, I did, and I have not regretted it. Your 
 argument is very good, Tom, and I don't see really 
 that we can throw any serious objection in your 
 way. But I am rather sorry things have happened 
 so ; it seems as if we were to be disappointed all 
 round where our children are concerned. Did you 
 hear anything about Joyce ? " 
 
 " Not much, only that she is happy and contented 
 enough. She was out at a meeting, so that I had no 
 chance of seeing her." 
 
 " And did Miss Thrale say whether she thought 
 Joyce was likely to come to her senses soon ? " 
 
 " I think she did say that she thought she was 
 getting a little weary of her way of life. She is not 
 particularly happy in her present occupation ; but we 
 did not speak very much about Joyce to-night, 
 naturally." 
 
 " No, I suppose not," answered Wyndham drily. 
 " Well, upon my word, Tom, I feel rather upset, and 
 I don't know how I am to tell your mother." 
 
 " Oh, I will tell her," said Tom. " I am not at all 
 ashamed of my choice, but proud of it. She is a 
 girl anyone might be proud of, and she has been the 
 most devoted, dutiful daughter to her father. I am
 
 Mot Welcome, 271 
 
 sure her behaviour to him might be an example to 
 Joyce, or to anybody." 
 
 " I am a good deal puzzled to understand what 
 attraction she has found in you," said Wyndham 
 presently ; " not that I don't think that you are 
 attractive, mind you, Tom. You are a very good- 
 looking fellow, and a good fellow as well, but I 
 should not have thought you were the kind of man 
 to please a girl like Hannah Thrale. I should have 
 thought she would have been all for one of these 
 talking, long-haired fellows who are always preaching 
 about ideals and such like." 
 Tom laughed, not ill-pleased. 
 
 " She is not like that, father, when you get to know 
 her. She is as jolly and as sensible as possible, far 
 more so than Joyce ever was. Poor Joyce, I felt 
 sorry for her when I saw that great, dreary brick 
 tenement where she lives and moves and has her 
 being at present. I should think that in about two 
 months the cure will be complete." 
 
 " Did you see Miss Thrale's father and speak to 
 him ? " asked Wyndham. 
 
 " No, he was ill, unfortunately, so I had no oppor- 
 tunity. But Hannah wished me to consult you first. 
 She has told me quite frankly and decidedly that she 
 will never marry me unless with your and my 
 mother's full consent and approbation."
 
 272 TKIlEn&bam's Daughter, 
 
 " Mine you have, and my blessing with it," said 
 the old man heartily. " It matters very little to me 
 how or where you choose your wife, so long as she is 
 a good woman whom we can respect ; but I rather 
 fear, Tom, that your mother's approval is a very 
 different matter, and will be extremely difficult to 
 win." 
 
 " I hope she won't withhold it altogether," said 
 Tom anxiously, " because Hannah is very proud. 
 She won't enter a family where she is unwelcome. 
 You will help me, dad, won't you ? You will plead 
 my cause with my mother if she should be as hard to 
 win as you think ? " 
 
 " I will do my best, my lad ; but women are very 
 set in their ideas. Sometimes it is extremely diffi- 
 cult to get them to change their point of view. I 
 wish you had waited a little until this trouble about 
 Joyce had blown over, which I earnestly hope it will. 
 I earnestly hope it will," he repeated. " I am getting 
 very anxious about her, I confess; perhaps we are 
 pursuing the wisest course, but there are times when 
 I doubt it." 
 
 Tom saw for the first time revealed to him the 
 real depth and intensity of his father's feelings re- 
 garding Joyce. His face looked more careworn and 
 more sad than he had seen it for a long time. He 
 wished he knew how to comfort him and while he
 
 Welcome. 273 
 
 was searching for words to express what was in his 
 heart, his father continued : 
 
 " I sometimes think that if we had exercised a 
 little parental authority, and insisted upon her 
 coming home, she might have given in ; but we acted 
 for the best. I hope it will turn out for the best. 
 She didn't say very much about Joyce, did she ? " 
 
 " Not much ; but I don't think there is anything 
 to worry over or alarm yourself about, father, because 
 I am sure if there were Hannah would let us know 
 immediately. It is not as if she were living all alone, 
 you know, and without anybody to observe or be 
 interested in her." 
 
 " No, that is quite right," said Wyndham, trying to 
 be comforted. " We have felt it a good deal, Tom, 
 more than you have any idea of. You will under- 
 stand it, perhaps, when you have children of your 
 own, and not till then. Well, good-night, my boy. 
 God bless you. You have been a good son to me 
 and to your mother, and if we can do anything to 
 further your happiness at this crisis in your life, why, 
 then, I think we ought to do it cheerfully." 
 
 Tom clasped the hand extended to him, but was 
 unable to speak. Alfred Wyndham went up to his 
 room, but not to sleep. He had got new material 
 for thought, and somehow felt, he could not tell why, as 
 if an added burden had been laid upon his shoulders.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 NEAR THE UNSEEN. 
 
 OSBORNE THRALE'S illness the next day assumed a 
 more serious turn, and the physician attending him 
 apprehended the gravest issue. Hannah was con- 
 stant and unremitting in her attendance upon him, 
 night and day. For the moment everything was 
 swallowed up in her fearful and consuming anxiety 
 concerning the father she adored. Joyce came out 
 and in of the rooms, helping where she could, as she 
 had leisure on her hands ; but she was not a success 
 in a sick-room. She lacked that indescribable sym- 
 pathetic quality which is essential to the perfect 
 nurse, and while Hannah was then glad of her 
 assistance in her small household affairs, she pre- 
 ferred to do everything for her father with her own 
 hands. He was mostly unconscious, and suffering a 
 good deal of uneasiness and restlessness, if not actual 
 pain. Hannah's keen eye saw him gradually sinking 
 and her heart was almost at the breaking point, for, 
 
 bereft of her only friend on earth, she would be 
 
 274
 
 Rear tbe "dnseen. 275 
 
 desolate indeed. On the morning of the second day 
 after Tom Wyndham's visit, she was sitting by her 
 father, who had fallen into a light sleep, when Joyce 
 brought a letter to her. 
 
 "That is Tom's writing, Hannah," she said 
 significantly. 
 
 Hannah nodded, but the colour did not rise in the 
 cheek, nor did she betray the embarrassment which 
 might have been expected from her. 
 
 " He was here, Joyce, the night before last, and I 
 have been expecting to hear from him," she 
 whispered. 
 
 Joyce looked intensely surprised. 
 
 "What did he want? To see me, I suppose. 
 Why did no one tell me ? Oh, I should so like to 
 have seen him." 
 
 " No, he came to see me," answered Hannah, in a 
 low, quiet voice. " There is no secret about it. I 
 may as well tell you, Joyce ; he came to ask me to 
 be his wife." 
 
 " Tom ! he asked you to be his wife ! " repeated 
 Joyce, in the most absolute wonderment. " Oh, 
 Hannah, surely it is impossible." 
 
 " No, it is quite true," Hannah answered. 
 
 "And you, what did you say? Refused him, of 
 course. Oh, poor Tom, I am so sorry for him." 
 
 " I don't think I refused him," answered Hannah,
 
 276 TKHBitJ>bam's 2>augbter. 
 
 with a grave, sweet smile. " I rather think I accepted 
 him conditionally as far as I can remember, although 
 this has driven everything out of my head." 
 
 " You accepted him ! " repeated Joyce. " But 
 why ? I don't understand it." 
 
 " You don't ? Why does a woman usually accept 
 a man who asks her to marry him ? " 
 
 " Well, I suppose," said Joyce, rather confusedly, 
 " mostly because she cares something for him ; but it 
 is impossible you can care for Tom." 
 
 " Why ? " asked Hannah, looking at her with large 
 rather indignant eyes. " Why do you think it im- 
 possible that anybody should care for him ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't think it impossible that anybody could 
 care for him ; but you are so different. I should not 
 have thought that Tom would interest you in the 
 least ; he is so ordinary." 
 
 A little curious smile played about Hannah's 
 mouth, giving to it a strange sweetness. 
 
 " Ordinary, is he ? I only wish a few more of us 
 were ordinary in the same way, if to be ordinary is 
 to be good." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you you care for him, 
 then ? " asked Joyce bluntly. 
 
 All the answer Hannah made was to place the 
 letter she held in her hand against her lips. Then 
 Joyce, wondering much, and on the point of tears,
 
 Wear tbe Iflnscen. 277 
 
 she could not tell why, hurried out of the 
 room. 
 
 Hannah laid her head down on the pillow for a 
 moment, still keeping the letter near her lips. She 
 was afraid to open it, she could not tell why, cling- 
 ing perhaps to the uncertainty which had in it so 
 much of hope hope which perhaps the written words 
 within might destroy. At length, however, she 
 broke the seal, and these were the words she read : 
 
 " DEAREST," it began " you will have expected 
 to have heard from me yesterday, but I was waiting, 
 hoping that I might have the best of good news to 
 write. I spoke to my father whenever I got home, 
 and he was well, what he always is good and kind 
 and considerate, God bless him ! My mother feels it 
 a good deal. I think it right to tell you quite frankly, 
 because I know that nothing else will satisfy you. 
 She did not say much, nor will she speak about it as 
 I should like her to do, because sometimes when 
 a thing is talked over the way is made clear. But 
 she was not so bitter as I expected ; she really likes 
 you, as everyone must and does. It is only the idea 
 of the connection, and, of course, the complications 
 arising through Joyce. I trust, my darling, that in a 
 short time these obstacles will all be cleared away. 
 Meanwhile, I hold you to your promise ; the words
 
 278 TKHgnDbam's Daugbtcr. 
 
 that you spoke to me the other night have bound 
 you to me for all time. Having heard you speak 
 those words, I feel as if nothing could vex or trouble 
 me very much. I shall come and see you soon ; 
 meanwhile, I respect your wish that until everything 
 is made clear I will not come too much. I am, 
 
 " Always your devoted 
 " TOM WYNDHAM." 
 
 When she had finished the letter, she sat with her 
 hands folded on her lap, her eyes shining, her face 
 suffused with tenderness. She felt at the moment 
 that nothing greatly mattered, that she was even 
 in a sense independent of the future for the time 
 being ; loving and knowing herself beloved, she was 
 supremely content. Presently her father stirred un- 
 easily, and, turning his head on the pillow, opened 
 his eyes. 
 
 " Are you there, my child ? " 
 
 Before he spoke she was on the alert, bending over 
 him, reproaching herself even for her momentary 
 forgetfulness of him. 
 
 " Do you feel better, father ? " she asked, laying 
 her cool, soft hand on his brow. 
 
 " No, I am not better," he answered, with dignity. 
 " I am very ill, Hannah, and something tells me that 
 this is the last struggle."
 
 Hear tbc TUnseen, 279 
 
 "Oh, hush ! " she cried, in a voice sharp with 
 anguish; "you must not say that. There is no 
 reason why you should say it ; you will be spared to 
 me for many years yet. God will never be so 
 cruel." 
 
 " It is only the leaving of you, my little one," he 
 said, recurring to the caressing name by which he 
 had been wont to call her in her earlier days. " With- 
 out me you will no doubt be much alone. I have 
 sometimes, nay often, selfishly dreaded lest you 
 should some day, for love of another, seek to leave 
 me. I could wish, Hannah, now to leave you in 
 another's care; it would make death easier, only a 
 falling asleep." 
 
 She hesitated a moment, her heart beating, and her 
 hand, which grasped the precious letter, trembled. 
 Perhaps it would make him happier to know that 
 there was someone whose heart's desire was to take 
 her life into his keeping, and yet she hesitated for 
 two reasons because her secret was new and sweet, 
 and also because she feared that the suddenness of 
 the announcement might agitate the old man too 
 much. His eyes, which were so soon to behold the 
 unseen, were sharpened as he approached the slender 
 veil which parts us from that we do not know. He 
 saw something in her face which he had not before 
 noticed there, and was quick to ask its meaning.
 
 2>augbter. 
 
 " Have you something to tell me, my child ? Your 
 face seems to. me to shine with some inner light. If 
 you have any joy which I can share, tell me quickly, 
 for the time is short." 
 
 Then the girl fell down upon her knees by the side 
 of the bed, and, laying her hot cheek on her father's 
 cold, thin hand, told him in such words as she could 
 command of what was in her heart. Osborne Thrale 
 listened, wondering much, and as he noticed the un- 
 mistakable meaning in his daughter's face and voice, 
 a deep content supplanted the restlessness in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " I don't know him except by repute, but I am 
 well assured that to have won your heart, my child, 
 he must be worthy," he said, laying his hand on her 
 head with a fond, caressing touch. " I would speak 
 with him before the end, if he will. Surely he will 
 permit me to look upon his face, so that I may read 
 in his true eyes the promise of my child's future 
 weal." 
 
 " Oh, I think he will come gladly, daddy," Hannah 
 answered. "He wished he could have spoken to 
 you last night ; but surely you are not so weak as 
 you say. I can't, I will not believe that you are 
 going to leave me." 
 
 "There is something within which tells me that 
 the summons is at hand," said Osborne Thrale, " and
 
 Wear tbe TUnseen. 281 
 
 but for you, as I said, I should not be sad, but glad 
 the conflict is over, and soon I shall enter into the 
 fuller light for which we crave." 
 
 But though he spoke with so much conviction, 
 Hannah did not believe that the end was at hand. 
 The physician, who had seen him in the morning, 
 though he had taken a grave view of the case, had 
 not left her without hope, nor did she think that he 
 looked worse, but rather better. 
 
 "You will send for him, then, Hannah, quickly; 
 there is no time to lose. I think perhaps I shall go 
 to-night, or in the early morning at latest." 
 
 " Oh, father, how can you speak so calmly about 
 leaving me ? I can't, I will not believe it," she re- 
 peated, and her eyes grew dark with pain. " I can't 
 do without you ; other people have so much and so 
 many, I have only you ; surely you will ask God to 
 spare you to me just a little longer." 
 
 Osborne Thrale shook his head. 
 
 " I am worn out, child, and to the weary rest is 
 sweet. I have of late lost my hold very much upon 
 the interests of this life, and have yearned more and 
 more for the unseen. It is an astonishing thing how 
 at eventide there should be light. Many things 
 which have seemed dark and meaningless to me are 
 now clear as noonday, and the faith which the sorrow 
 and the stress of life have sometimes shaken is again
 
 282 IKflsnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 burning clear in my soul. Are you listening to me, 
 Hannah ? It is the testimony of a dying man which 
 is falling upon your ears, and I would that you 
 would hear and understand." 
 
 " I am listening, daddy," she answered, and in her 
 voice there was a breaking sob. 
 
 "There are many false doctrines taught in these 
 times, my child," said Osborne Thrale, in the solemn, 
 earnest tones of a prophet, and it seemed as if a 
 new and great strength had come to him. His very 
 voice took a more jubilant note. " But there is only 
 one true gospel, only one God who is strong to save 
 when the last day is come. I have tried to know 
 His mind and will, and to do them, and though I 
 may have fallen far short, yet I am not afraid." 
 
 " Oh, you need not be, father," cried Hannah ; 
 " there are none so good as you. Look what you 
 have done for others, spending yourself in their 
 service all your life. Surely, if it be true that there 
 are crowns of glory in heaven, yours will be among 
 the brightest." 
 
 " Nay, I have done but little ; a man's life-work 
 is dwarfed before the vision of eternity, but such as 
 it is I lay it at His feet. Promise me, Hannah, that 
 whatever be your lot in life, whatever you may be 
 called upon to endure, you will hold fast to the faith 
 which I have tried to teach you, and which will
 
 Wear tbe ^Unseen. 283 
 
 be to you a sure haven of safety from every 
 storm.'' 
 
 Having said so much, he closed his eyes, as if the 
 strength which had suddenly come to him had as 
 suddenly gone. 
 
 " The Lord is good and of tender mercy," Hannah 
 heard him whisper under his breath. They were 
 the last words he spoke. That night he fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 "IT MUST BE STOPPED." 
 
 OSBORNE THRALE was universally mourned, and at 
 his death there was a great gathering of all sorts and 
 conditions of men. There was only one relative 
 present besides his daughter his cousin, Hubert 
 Thrale, who was a Q.C., living in good style with his 
 large family in one of the most fashionable parts of 
 Kensington. He was a little, shrewd, clever man, 
 with an abrupt yet not altogether unkindly manner, 
 and he felt sincerely sorry for the desolate girl who 
 sat beside him in the mourning carriage, and who was 
 so utterly self-possessed, making none of the fuss 
 which girls usually make in such sad circumstances. 
 He said nothing at all to her as they drove to the 
 cemetery, and it was only when they were nearing 
 the settlement on the way home that he ventured to 
 put a question to her. 
 
 " What do you propose to do, my dear ? I think 
 
 the best thing in the meantime will be for you to 
 
 284
 
 "3t must be Stopped," 285 
 
 come home with me to Queen's Gate. I can wait a 
 little until you gather a few things together." 
 
 " Oh, I should not think of it, thank you," answered 
 Hannah quietly. 
 
 " Why not ? Your aunt will be quite pleased. She 
 said as much to me before I left, and anyhow, even if 
 she had not, I should take this upon myself. I had a 
 great respect for your father ; he was a very able and 
 good man, although he held such curious ideas. I 
 think you had better come." 
 
 " No, thank you, Uncle Hubert, I would rather not. 
 I will stay here in the meantime." 
 
 " But how can you stay here ? You are entirely 
 alone ; it would not be proper, suppose we take 
 account of nothing else." 
 
 Hannah faintly smiled. 
 
 "We are not bound by such conventionalities in 
 Westminster Bridge Road ; besides, I am among 
 friends, the only friends I have in the world. We are 
 as one family ; they will take care of me, uncle, I 
 assure you, and you need have no anxiety about me." 
 
 " Well, but how are you going to live ? There 
 can't be anything left." 
 
 " No, there will be no money, but you forget that I 
 have been earning my living for some time. I 
 shall resume my teaching on Monday, and go on as 
 before."
 
 286 'GGlBn&bam's Daugbter. 
 
 The Q.C. looked troubled, and yet he secretly 
 admired the calm, self-reliant manner in which she 
 spoke ; thinking of his own daughters, and how 
 absolutely helpless they would be if left in such a 
 situation, his heart grew very soft towards the girl by 
 his side, and he felt a fatherly impulse to take her in 
 his arms. 
 
 " It is very brave of you, my dear," he said, and his 
 voice was a little husky. " I suppose I must not press 
 it in the meantime, but I cannot bear the idea of 
 leaving you like this ; it seems almost inhuman. It 
 was all very well so long as you had your father and 
 he had you ; no one had any right to interfere or find 
 any fault with your mode of life ; but it is different 
 now. You will allow your aunt and me to come and 
 see you to-morrow, perhaps, and talk things over ; I 
 am sure you would be very happy among your 
 cousins, and one more or less, of course, in a house- 
 hold like ours makes no difference." 
 
 " It is very kind of you to put it in that way," said 
 Hannah, looking gratefully at him, and wondering at 
 the depth of kindly feeling for which she had never 
 hitherto given him credit. " But I doubt very much 
 if I should be happy, or succeed in making others so. 
 Believe me, I know what I am talking about. I am 
 better where I am. But all the same I shall cherish 
 a very sweet memory of your kindness to me to-
 
 "3t must be Stopped" 287 
 
 day, Uncle Hubert. It has helped me very 
 much." 
 
 From this decision, although he brought forward a 
 few more arguments, he did not succeed in turning 
 her, and he was obliged to leave her in the little 
 dreary rooms. The memory of her white, sad face 
 haunted him all that day and spoilt his dinner. 
 
 Hannah was glad to be left alone, and to be able to 
 shut the door and give way to the intolerable sense of 
 loneliness which oppressed her. Her heart was 
 aching both for the dead and for the living. She had 
 sent a little note to Tom acquainting him of her 
 father's sudden death ; but it had elicited no response. 
 This unlooked-for silence seemed to increase her 
 loneliness, and accentuated her grief. She was sitting 
 with her head in her hands, listening to the steady 
 drip, drip of the rain upon the panes, when there came 
 a quick, low tap to the door, which she recognised as 
 Joyce's request to enter. Reluctant to be disturbed, 
 and yet not liking to send her away, she unlocked the 
 door and bade her come in. 
 
 " I knew you would be all alone here, Hannah, and 
 I know you don't want me very much to come in," 
 Joyce said quickly, " but I must come ; we dare not 
 leave you sitting here all by yourself, and your fire 
 out, too. Won't you come up beside Mrs. Hemming 
 and me for a little ? "
 
 288 'OdgnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 " No, thank you, Joyce," said Hannah quickly, but 
 not ungratefully. " I want to be alone just a little, 
 and I don't mind the cold." 
 
 " Then would you rather I left you ? " said Joyce 
 hesitatingly, and with a wistfulness of look and tone 
 which caused Hannah to relent 
 
 " Perhaps I am selfish ; I know I ought not to sit 
 and brood ; it can do no good. Come in, dear, and 
 shut the door. I don't mind you, but I think that 
 Mrs. Hemming would talk rather more than I 
 could stand just at this moment. I think I am 
 glad to see you ; the loneliness of this place is 
 awful." 
 
 " I knew it would be," said Joyce quickly. " Sit 
 down, dear, and let me take off those wet boots. 
 Now I shall light your fire, and get you a cup of tea 
 that will revive you. Oh, Hannah, how cold you are ! 
 It makes me quite sad to see you like this." The 
 pressing need of another roused all that was best 
 and most helpful in Joyce Wyndham, and Hannah, 
 looking on gratefully, was amazed at the quick 
 energy of her movements, and the joy she seemed 
 to take in trying to create some sense of comfort 
 and homeliness in the desolate room. Very shortly 
 a cheerful fire burnt in the little grate, the kettle 
 was singing on the hob, and Joyce, whom necessity 
 had taught, had set out the small meal which she
 
 "3t must be Stopped." 289 
 
 knew would do something towards cheering the 
 sad heart of her friend. 
 
 " How good you are," said Hannah gratefully, 
 as she drew her chair to the blazing fire, and held 
 out her hands readily to the ruddy glow. " I 
 really think, Joyce, that you are developing splen- 
 didly. I only wish your mother could see you 
 now." 
 
 Joyce turned away her face quickly, so that 
 the bitterness in her eyes might not be seen. 
 
 " You haven't got anything to do yet, I sup- 
 pose ? " said Hannah presently, when no response 
 came. " I have been so engrossed with my own 
 sorrow, I have been thinking too little of others, 
 and it is time I woke up again. I hope you have 
 been successful." 
 
 "No," answered Joyce, in that low voice which 
 had in it the dull, hopeless ring Hannah had too 
 often heard in the human voice. "There doesn't 
 seem to be room anywhere in the world for me, 
 Hannah, and I don't know what is to become of 
 me now." 
 
 "There is always the one alternative, dear," 
 answered Hannah quickly, " the one door 
 open." 
 
 " It is not open," answered Joyce shortly ; " it is 
 
 T
 
 290 IdgnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 closed against me. They have shut me out for 
 ever." 
 
 " Hush, Joyce," answered Hannah ; " you talk of 
 what you do not know." 
 
 " I talk of what I do know," she made answer. 
 " They have never made the slightest effort to see 
 me, thus showing that they have cast me off. If 
 they had missed me even one tithe as much as you 
 have often said they do, I should have been home by 
 now. But I am not going to beg and pray for their 
 charity like a beggar at their gates." 
 
 Hannah listened to these words with a troubled 
 look. They had no uncertain sound about them, 
 and indicated that the heart of Joyce Wyndham was 
 still hard, and that she did not realise as yet her lack 
 of duty, to say nothing of loving-kindness, towards 
 her parents. 
 
 " I cannot sympathise with you to-night as you 
 would like me to do, Joyce, although I am very 
 sorry for you. You see my heart is all for fathers 
 and mothers, because I feel at this moment as 
 if there could be nothing on earth so pre- 
 cious." 
 
 Joyce felt rebuked, and her face softened. 
 
 " When you have drunk this tea, Hannah, I want 
 to speak to you quite seriously. I have a great
 
 "3-t must be Stopped." 291 
 
 thing to tell you. I don't know how you will receive 
 it." 
 
 Hearing this, it was not astonishing that Hannah 
 should drink her tea with considerable haste. 
 
 " Now I am ready. What is it you are going to 
 do, or have done ? " 
 
 " I wonder what you will say to it, Hannah ? I 
 am going to marry Philip Dane." 
 
 For a moment Hannah could not speak ; she 
 was absolutely astounded. She was not a girl who 
 ever allowed her mind to dwell much upon lovers or 
 marriage, and the thing which had been patent to 
 more than one in the settlement had passed quite 
 unnoticed by her. 
 
 "Marry Philip Dane!" she repeated. "Oh, 
 nonsense. I don't think I understand what you are 
 saying, Joyce." 
 
 " I thought I put it plain enough, and I thought, 
 perhaps, you would be pleased ; but it seems im- 
 possible in this world ever to please anybody. I am 
 going to marry him sure enough, just as soon as 
 everything can be settled." 
 
 " And why are you going to marry him ? " 
 asked Hannah. " Do you care for him in that 
 way ? " 
 
 " I don't think I do particularly. I admire him
 
 292 TKflBn&bam'0 Baugbter. 
 
 and respect him ; he is a true man," answered Joyce. 
 " I don't think it is in me to care passionately for 
 anybody. I can at least make a home for him and 
 for Bobbie. They both believe in me, more especi- 
 ally Bobbie." 
 
 Hannah sat up suddenly, and her face was stern 
 and grave. 
 
 " It is wicked of you to talk like that, Joyce ; and 
 you don't know what you are doing. It is an awful 
 thing to marry except for one thing only. It is it 
 must be the worst martyrdom on earth, unless you 
 have in your heart that love which will do or bear 
 anything such love as I have for your brother." 
 
 She uttered those words without the slightest 
 hesitation. It was a moment when perfect candour 
 might be the only thing that would save Joyce from 
 making more awful shipwreck of her life than she 
 had yet done. 
 
 " Love of that kind is not possible for me," said 
 Joyce coolly. " I am not denying its existence. 
 I only say it does not exist for me ; and I think we 
 shall get along all right. We are going right down 
 into the country, where we can live simply and 
 economically. We shall be poor, but perhaps we 
 shall be content with such things as we have." 
 
 " Perhaps," reiterated Hannah. " Joyce, it is my
 
 "3t must be Stopped." 293 
 
 duty to put a stop to this, and I am going ,to do 
 it." 
 
 " How can you ? " asked Joyce. " I am a free 
 agent, and I am of age. No one can prevent my 
 marrying the crossing-sweeper at the corner of the 
 street, if I am so minded ; and I am going to marry 
 Philip Dane." 
 
 " Will you listen to me just for one moment, 
 Joyce ? I yield to none in my respect and esteem 
 for Philip ; he is a splendid fellow. But unless the 
 woman who marries him also loves him, he will 
 be more miserable than most. He is very peculiar, 
 and it is only love which can glorify, or at least 
 endure, such marked idiosyncrasies. Besides, there 
 is another thing. I grant that he is one of nature's 
 noblemen ; but he has been reared differently from 
 you, and when you come to live with him from day 
 to day, he will jar upon you in a thousand painful 
 ways. I must point out these things to you frankly, 
 and I know what I am talking about. Oh, Joyce, be 
 warned in time ! Don't ruin your life and his." 
 
 " He does not think I shall ruin it," said Joyce 
 with a triumphant note in her voice. 
 
 " No, because he is in love with you, and men like 
 him are not sane when they are in love ; but sanity 
 will come quickly when the inevitable step is taken.
 
 294 TKflBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 You will never be happy together, Joyce ; and I 
 must say that I think he has taken rather a mean 
 advantage of your present circumstances." 
 
 " He didn't," cried Joyce, flaming up indignantly. 
 " I knew he cared for me, because he told me ever 
 so long ago, and I said I would think about it. 
 I told him to-day that I had thought about it, and 
 that I would marry him just as soon as he 
 liked." 
 
 " And will you do this without consulting your 
 parents, or telling them anything about it ? " asked 
 Hannah. 
 
 " Why should I consult them ? " cried Joyce 
 rebelliously. "They have cast me off; they don't 
 care what becomes of me, whether I live or 
 die." 
 
 " Then if you don't tell them, somebody else must, 
 and I shall."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 NO EASY TASK. 
 
 HANNAH sat still a long time after Joyce left her, 
 much troubled in mind, her thoughts lifted com- 
 pletely, for the time being, beyond her own personal 
 sorrow. This was a matter which wanted talking 
 over, and she felt exceedingly anxious to know what 
 were Mrs. Hemming's views regarding it ; but 
 it was, of course, useless seeking a private word with 
 Mrs. Hemming so long as Joyce was in her rooms. 
 She was surprised, however, as she was preparing 
 to go to bed, to hear the familiar rat-tat at her door, 
 and when she made haste to open it, Mrs. Hemming 
 came in eagerly, and with a look of extreme concern 
 on her face. 
 
 " My dear, Joyce has this minute gone to bed, 
 and I felt I must come down and see you, not to 
 try and console you, you poor dear, because I know 
 
 that there is no consolation for the sorrow in your 
 
 295
 
 296 TIClBn&bam's Daugbter. 
 
 heart to-night. I want to speak to you about Joyce. 
 I rather think she has told you." 
 
 "Yes, she has," answered Hannah seriously. 
 " Come in and sit down for a few minutes. I am 
 so glad to see you. I wanted to talk to you about 
 it, but I thought it was no use coming up, of course, 
 as Joyce might not like it." 
 
 " Well, then, what do you think is to be done ? " 
 asked Mrs. Hemming. " Do you agree with me 
 that it should not be allowed to go on ? " 
 
 " Most certainly I do, and I am relieved to hear 
 you speak so decidedly," answered Hannah. " It 
 would never do ; they would never be happy. 
 I don't know of anything worse that could possibly 
 happen." 
 
 "That is the worst of social life like this," said 
 Mrs. Hemming, with a groan ; " it is too rich in 
 opportunities. Whom are you inclined to blame 
 most ? " 
 
 "Well, I think I rather blame Joyce," said 
 Hannah, " because she is contemplating marrying 
 a man she does not care a fig for. That is where 
 the seriousness of the whole matter comes in. If 
 she cared for him as he cares for her, there would 
 be a chance of happiness for them ; as it is, there is 
 none,"
 
 flo Bass tTasfc. 2 97 
 
 " What are you going to do, then ? " asked Mrs. 
 Hemming quickly. " They are talking of an early 
 marriage, special licenses, and all that sort of thing. 
 I suppose I had better go and see Mr. and Mrs. 
 Wyndham." 
 
 " I think," said Hannah, in a low voice, " if you 
 don't mind, I will go. I feel myself in a measure 
 responsible for all that has happened, although I 
 must say I never contemplated a catastrophe like 
 this. I shall go over to-morrow morning to Den- 
 mark Hill." 
 
 " I am very glad to be relieved of the task, I can 
 tell you," said Mrs. Hemming. " I find Joyce bad 
 enough. I have seldom met anyone more obstinate ; 
 and what I am afraid of is that opposition will 
 simply act as a spur. Do you think it would be any 
 use speaking to Philip ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't like to do so," said Hannah ; " be- 
 sides, we could not ask the man to go back from 
 his word. It must be stopped from Joyce's side 
 of the house. I think the best thing would be for 
 her father to come and take her away, forcibly 
 or otherwise." 
 
 " That is easier said than done," said Mrs. Hem- 
 ming significantly. "I am just afraid that Joyce 
 will not listen to any reason, especially coming from
 
 298 "CClgnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 her father and mother. She is feeling a great 
 deal more bitter against them now than she did 
 when she left them. Of course, she resents very 
 much having been so completely ignored, which, I 
 am sure was the best possible treatment they could 
 have decided upon. But that, of course, was before 
 any such terrible complication as this arose." 
 
 " You agree with me, then, that there would not 
 be much chance of happiness for them ? " said 
 Hannah anxiously " and that it is more out of pique 
 than anything else that Joyce is willing to marry 
 Philip Dane ? " 
 
 "That is it," said Mrs. Hemming, with a sigh. 
 " Dear, dear, how foolish people are when they 
 don't know where they are well off. I hope, my 
 dear, that you will be wise enough to eschew matri- 
 mony. I can tell you that I feel I must have been 
 very remiss in my teaching of Joyce during the last 
 three months. I have never failed to impress upon 
 her, in season and out of season, that, however badly 
 off she may be now, it is certain that in matrimony 
 she would probably find herself worse. Apparently 
 my words have made not the slightest impression 
 upon her." 
 
 " One woman's experience of matrimony is 
 absolutely valueless to another,'' said Hannah, with
 
 fto Basg Gasfc. 299 
 
 a slight smile. " She always thinks that her own 
 special venture will be a complete success." 
 
 " I suppose so," said Mrs. Hemming ; " but it 
 is a bit discouraging to find one's immediate pupils, 
 as it were, acting exactly contrary to everything 
 they have been taught. Well, I must not keep you 
 out of bed, you poor child ; you look quite worn 
 out. Will you go and see the poor father and 
 mother to-morrow morning, then, and tell them 
 of this additional worry ? " 
 
 " Yes, I shall go quite early in the day ; and 
 please do not say anything to Joyce about 
 it." 
 
 Next day Hannah did not leave her own rooms 
 until she was dressed to proceed to Denmark 
 Hill, and therefore had no opportunity of meeting 
 Joyce, which was exactly what she desired. It 
 was about noon when she walked up the familiar 
 road, past the roomy old houses standing in 
 their spacious gardens, which were now sealed 
 with the desolation of winter. The last storm 
 of wind and rain had stripped every bough, and 
 the leaves lay wet and sodden under foot, robbing 
 the usually trim lawns of their smooth greenness. 
 As she approached the gate of the Wyndhams 
 house she saw a brougham standing there, which
 
 300 "OQlBn&bam'a Daughter. 
 
 she recognised as belonging to Dr. Ferrars, and 
 just within the gate she met the young doctor 
 on the carriage-way, hastening out from his morn- 
 ing visit. He looked profoundly surprised to see 
 her. 
 
 " Good - morning, Miss Thrale," he said, lifting 
 his hat, and shaking hands with her, with a look of 
 cordial sympathy in his eyes. " I need not say 
 how grieved my father and I were to hear of your 
 sad loss, and had we known, we should have 
 been glad to have paid the last tribute of respect 
 to one whom we esteemed so much." 
 
 At these unexpected words Hannah's eyes filled 
 with tears, and she was for the moment unable 
 to speak. 
 
 "Thank you," she said at length, quite simply 
 and naturally, and Jack Ferrars was struck by 
 a new beauty in her face a gentle, subdued ex- 
 pression, which enhanced its sweetness without 
 robbing it of its strength. " I hope no one is 
 ill here," she said, anxious to change the sub- 
 ject, the wound being too new to bear much 
 probing. 
 
 " Mrs. Wyndham is not at all well," he replied. 
 " She has never been well, indeed, since her 
 daughter left her; and the American trip has
 
 flo jeasg aasft. 301 
 
 not done her the good we hoped and expected. 
 Someone ought to tell Joyce how very urgently 
 she is required here." 
 
 " I shall tell her ; I have come to speak about 
 it this morning. Dr. Ferrars, a terrible thing has 
 happened. I do not know whether I ought to 
 tell you or not; but it is a relief to speak to 
 someone. Joyce threatens, and, indeed, has pro- 
 mised, to marry one of the men at our settlement. 
 A fine fellow he is, but, of course, quite unsuited 
 to Joyce in every way. Perhaps you know, or at 
 least have heard of, him his name is Philip 
 Dane." 
 
 " God forbid ! " he said, with more passion than 
 the occasion seemed to demand. " That must 
 be prevented at any cost." 
 
 "I know it must, and that is why I am here 
 to-day," said Hannah, in a low, dreary voice. 
 " Oh, Dr. Ferrars, if you only knew what all this 
 has cost me. I feel myself in a measure to blame ; 
 and yet I don't see how I could have averted it. 
 Certainly I might have discouraged her in the 
 early stage of our acquaintance, when she began 
 to interest herself so much in social things ; but 
 how was I to know that they would take such a 
 hold upon her ? "
 
 Daughter. 
 
 Ferrars answered nothing. There was a good deal 
 of truth in what she said, and he felt for her ; and 
 yet there was such an awful bitterness in his heart 
 that he could not speak the comforting words his 
 kindlier nature prompted. 
 
 "A common fellow, is he?" he said between his 
 set teeth. " Someone who has taken advantage of 
 her ignorance of life, and who no doubt thinks it 
 would be a fine thing to have a wife like her. It 
 must be stopped, as you say, at any cost; but 
 how?" 
 
 " It is not quite so bad as that," said Hannah. 
 " Philip Dane is a gentleman as we speak of nature's 
 gentlemen, you will understand and, I think, had 
 Joyce seriously cared for him as he cares for her, I 
 should not have troubled very much about it ; but, as 
 matters are, she is simply marrying him, so far as I 
 can see, for two very slight and insufficient reasons. 
 One is to get out of her present unemployed position ; 
 and the other I hate to say it, but I am afraid it is 
 true to show her father and mother how complete 
 is the breach she has made. She resents very much 
 that they have taken no steps as yet to persuade her 
 to come home. They thought they were acting for 
 the best, and so did we all. Perhaps some stronger 
 measures will be necessary now."
 
 tto Bass trash. 303 
 
 " You are going to see Mrs. Wyndham now to tell 
 her this ? " said Ferrars doubtfully. 
 
 "Yes, if you give me permission. If she is ill, as 
 you say, perhaps it will be hurtful to her, and yet 
 someone must be told." 
 
 " Oh, I don't think it would do her any special 
 hurt ; she is not so ill as that, and I know that 
 you will speak judiciously. I shall make a point 
 of coming in as I return from my rounds to see 
 what effect your information has had upon her. 
 I suppose that it has been easy for you to guess 
 that this is a matter of very serious moment to 
 me also ? " 
 
 " I have thought as much during the last minute 
 or two, Dr. Ferrars," said Hannah, and her beauti- 
 ful eyes, eloquent with understanding sympathy, 
 were uplifted to his face. " Oh, I wish with all 
 my heart I could make matters right. It is so 
 hard to see things going wrong, and to be unable 
 to help. I am afraid you feel very bitter against 
 me." 
 
 " I have felt bitter more than once," he acknow- 
 ledged frankly; "but I have done you an injustice 
 for which I beg you to forgive me." He extended 
 his hand, and with a close clasp and another 
 understanding look, they parted, and Hannah
 
 304 TIClBn&bam's Baugbter. 
 
 went on slowly towards the house. She was so 
 uplifted beyond all personal feeling, so completely 
 concerned with this new development of affairs, 
 that she did not trouble herself in the least about 
 her own reception from the mother of the man 
 she loved. She simply gave her name, and asked 
 Ada to say to Mrs. Wyndham that she wished to 
 see her on important business. 
 
 " I have just met the doctor, and he gave me 
 permission to see Mrs. Wyndham," she said, seeing 
 the doubtful look on the girl's face. 
 
 " Oh, then I shall tell her ; but he was very 
 particular to say that she must be kept quiet, 
 and not to see too many people who would talk 
 to her, miss," answered Ada. " I daresay the 
 missus will be very glad to see you." 
 
 Hannah smiled very drearily, and sat down 
 to wait the result of her request.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 TOM'S MOTHER. 
 
 " MISSUS will see you now," said Ada, coming 
 back after a very brief absence, and Hannah 
 silently followed her up the softly-carpeted stair- 
 case, and into the pleasant dressing-room where 
 Mrs. Wyndham had been obliged during the last 
 week or two to spend so much of her time. She 
 was sitting in an easy-chair before the cheerful fire, 
 and she waited until the maid had shut the door 
 before she looked round or made the slightest 
 remark. Hannah was much struck by the change 
 in her ; consuming anxiety and the heart-sickness 
 of hope deferred had robbed her of much of the 
 winsome comeliness which had been so becoming 
 to her. Her face had lost its ruddy bloom and its 
 rounded outline, and her ample morning-gown 
 clung loosely about her figure, indicating that it 
 was less substantial than of yore. 
 
 She pushed her chair round a little at the shut- 
 305 u
 
 2>au0bter. 
 
 ting of the door, and turned her eyes full on the 
 girl's face. She was quite at a loss to understand 
 the motive of this visit, and naturally attributed it 
 in some way to Tom. A little rush of pity welled 
 in her motherly heart as she noticed the girl's 
 deep mourning, and the stamp of grief upon her 
 face. 
 
 " Good-morning, my dear," she said, in the gentlest 
 tones. " I am pleased to see you. Come and sit 
 down and tell me what you have to say." 
 
 Hannah took a step forward, and being moved 
 by a sudden impulse, bent over the hand extended 
 to her and kissed it. That little graceful act, so 
 naturally performed, touched Tom's mother as 
 nothing else could have done, and though she 
 said nothing, she looked with increased kindliness 
 upon the girl against whom she had lately felt a 
 good deal of bitterness, pleased to note the striking 
 grace of her figure, and the rare beauty of her 
 face. After all, she would be a very presentable 
 daughter-in-law, she thought; there was nothing 
 common or commonplace about her. 
 
 "And what have you come to say to me, my 
 dear ? " she said, quite gently, still prepared to 
 capitulate at any moment, and yet anxious to 
 hear what the girl had to say.
 
 dBotber. 307 
 
 " I am almost afraid to tell you," said Hannah 
 frankly, "and nothing but desperation would have 
 brought me. It is Joyce I have come about ; she 
 must be taken away." 
 
 " Taken away ! " said Mrs. Wyndham, sitting up, 
 the liveliest alarm spreading over her face. " What 
 do you mean ? What has happened to her? " 
 
 " Nothing has happened to her, fortunately, and 
 she is quite well, only something may happen 
 unless you and Mr. Wyndham intervene, and that 
 in a most peremptory fashion. She has promised 
 to marry Philip Dane." 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham grew quite white, and Hannah 
 feared for the moment that she was about to faint 
 She, however, recovered herself immediately, and 
 was alive and alert to hear the worst, and to plan 
 what was best to be done. In a few brief words, 
 Hannah laid the matter before her, explaining it 
 as best she could, and as she listened a very 
 determined look came on Mrs. Wyndham's 
 face. 
 
 " Yes, as you say, it must be prevented. I 
 scarcely contemplated anything quite so bad as 
 this, although I must say I have had my doubts 
 as to the advisability of so many of you living to- 
 gether in one house. Joyce's motive is quite clear
 
 Daughter. 
 
 to me, since you assure me that her affections are 
 not much, if in any way, involved." 
 
 " I am sure they are not," said Hannah promptly, 
 " and that is what makes me feel and say that 
 it must be stopped at any price. I am a great 
 deal more sorry for him than for her, Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham ; and whatever you do, I hope you will 
 spare him as much as possible, because he will 
 feel everything acutely, and he worships the very 
 ground upon which she treads." 
 
 " I am sorry for him, and it is wicked of Joyce 
 to play with an honest man's feelings in this 
 fashion, and merely to gratify a selfish desire for 
 revenge, for I cannot call it by any higher name," 
 said Mrs. Wyndham. " Prompt action will be 
 necessary. You see that I am tied hand and 
 foot here. Can I rely upon you to help me ? " 
 
 " Yes, you can," answered Hannah. " I told 
 Joyce last night that I would do my utmost to 
 prevent such a marriage, and I daresay she sus- 
 pects that I have come here to-day." 
 
 " Well, what I want you to do for me is to go 
 straight down to the shop. You know where it is, I 
 suppose, and will not require any directions from 
 me? And tell Mr. Wyndham and Tom what you 
 have just told me. If Mr. Wyndham likes he can
 
 flBotber. 309 
 
 come up here first ; but if he decides upon more 
 prompt action, we need not wait for that. I shall 
 know that all is right." 
 
 "You would like me to go now, then?" said 
 Hannah, rising at once. 
 
 " Yes ; I am very much obliged to you, my dear, 
 for the unselfish interest you have taken in this 
 matter. You might very well have repaid me in 
 different coin, and I should not have felt that I had 
 very much cause for complaint." 
 
 Again Hannah's eyes filled with tears, which 
 seemed to come more readily than of yore. She 
 could not help contrasting her own desolate con- 
 dition with that of Joyce Wyndham, who had such 
 a home, and such parents, and yet who would not 
 accept the good gifts which God had lavished upon 
 her. 
 
 " Dr. Ferrars told me of your sad loss, Miss Thrale, 
 and I felt for you I did indeed. I should have 
 written I wished to do so ; but I have not allowed 
 myself. I think you will understand it has been 
 hard for me to have all my hopes crushed at once." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," the girl answered, with difficulty; 
 " but I had hoped you understood that I was mak- 
 ing a firm stand. I have even seriously thought 
 of leaving the country if that would be any good.
 
 Daughter. 
 
 I know how much you have had to bear, and how 
 your heart has been vexed, dear Mrs. Wyndham. 
 I will not vex it." 
 
 A pleased look came on Mrs. Wyndham's some- 
 what troubled face. 
 
 " Ah, but the matter is not quite in your hands, 
 Hannah," she made answer. " There is someone 
 else to reckon with in the background, and though 
 Tom has not said much, I can see quite well that 
 his decision will not be easily set aside." 
 
 Hannah was silent, not knowing how to reply 
 to such a remark, knowing as she did its absolute 
 truth. 
 
 "But I am not at all sure that I want it set 
 aside," said Mrs. Wyndham presently. "The past 
 months have taught me a good deal, and to-day 
 my heart seems to go out to you somehow. Per- 
 haps God has sent you to be a daughter to me 
 in Joyce's place." 
 
 Hannah crossed the room quickly, and, kneel- 
 ing by her side, looked up into her face, her own 
 exquisite with tender feeling. 
 
 "Not to take Joyce's place," she cried. "Oh, 
 I should not like to do that; I hope Joyce will 
 come back soon, and be to you the daughter she 
 ought to be. If you will take me, too, and give
 
 Corn's flbotber. 31 i 
 
 me a little corner in your heart for oh, I am so 
 lonely, and I feel the need, more than I have 
 ever done, of a mother's loving care." 
 
 Then Mrs. Wyndham passed her hand softly 
 over the bright head, and stooping, kissed her as 
 fondly as if she had been a daughter of her own. 
 
 " I will be your mother, my dear, if you will 
 let me," and as she spoke these words a strange 
 sense of sweetness and peace stole into her heart, 
 and she felt that she had done well. 
 
 " I had no expectation of this," cried Hannah, 
 when she rose by and by. " It is always the un- 
 expected which happens, is it not? but I must 
 not waste time. I shall go straight down to the 
 shop now, and tell Mr. Wyndham. That is what 
 you wish me to do, is it not ? " 
 
 "Yes, tell him all you have told me, and if you 
 see Tom," she added, " you may give him a message 
 from me if you like." 
 
 " And what is that ? " asked Hannah shyly. 
 
 " Tell him I accept the daughter he will give 
 me, and that his choice has made me very happy." 
 
 So out of what had seemed so very evil some 
 good arose, and Hannah Thrale left the house 
 she had entered with such a sad heart, feeling the 
 gloom somewhat lightened. Still she was not less
 
 312 "CdgnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 anxious about Joyce, and felt that some decisive 
 and active step should be taken to prevent the 
 catastrophe which might happen any day. There 
 was no doubt at all in Hannah's mind but that 
 it was a catastrophe. She had a singular and shrewd 
 discrimination for her years, and Joyce's motive in 
 agreeing to marry Philip Dane was as clear as 
 day to her. Had Joyce been moved by a great 
 passion which considers the sacrifice of self and 
 selfish prospects no hardship, she would not have 
 felt justified in interfering. It was as much of 
 Philip Dane she thought as of Joyce, and in what 
 she had done she knew that to a man of his deep 
 feelings, a present disappointment, though sharp, 
 would be easier to bear than a lifelong remorse 
 and regret. 
 
 Hannah had never been within the great ware- 
 house of Wyndham & Co., although she knew it 
 well by sight. It was one of those huge emporiums 
 to be found in every district in London, having so 
 many departments that it seemed to have a monopoly 
 of every branch of its trade. There were some who 
 entirely disapproved the system of business, on the 
 plea that it destroyed the humbler efforts of the 
 small tradesman ; but Mr. Wyndham had never been 
 able to see it in that light, and continued his business
 
 Corn's fllbotber. 313 
 
 with honourable success, believing in the system of 
 small profits and quick returns. When Hannah 
 asked the shop-walker for Mr. Wyndham senior, and 
 asked that she might see him at once, her business 
 being important, the man, impressed by a certain 
 quiet and commanding dignity in her manner, obeyed 
 her without the slightest hesitation or demur, and she 
 was immediately conducted to the principal's private 
 room. He was very much astonished to see her, but 
 received her kindly and courteously, and with an ex- 
 pression of sincere sympathy over her very recent 
 bereavement. 
 
 " It is about Joyce I have come, Mr. Wyndham," 
 Hannah began, without preamble. " I have just 
 been to Overton, and had a long talk with Mrs. 
 Wyndham. She has sent me here. She says the 
 matter is very urgent, and indeed I think it is, and 
 some action must be taken at once." 
 
 Then in a few brief words she explained the situa- 
 tion, Alfred Wyndham receiving the information 
 with evident anxiety and alarm. 
 
 " I shall not wait even to go home and see Mrs. 
 Wyndham," he said, rising at once. " I shall just 
 go back with you and fetch Joyce away. I can tell 
 her with perfect truth that her mother is seriously ill, 
 and that she must come home at once ; if that does
 
 3M "Qdgn&bam's Baugbter, 
 
 not do, well, then, stronger measures must be 
 tried." 
 
 Hannah had never seen the gentle-mannered and 
 sweet-tempered Alfred Wyndham in this determined 
 mood, and it was a relief to her to feel that he was 
 bent upon instant action. She waited until he had 
 given one or two orders to his subordinates, and then 
 followed him out to the door, where he hailed a pass- 
 ing hansom, and, helping her in, directed the man to 
 drive instantly to Westminster Bridge Road.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 "COME HOME!" 
 
 JOYCE had been out all the morning calling at 
 various agencies in search of some new occupation, 
 and had just returned weary and disheartened to the 
 settlement in time for early dinner, when there came 
 a loud, imperative knock at her door. When she 
 opened it, great was her surprise and consternation to 
 behold her father, who walked into the room without 
 giving her greeting of any kind, and, shutting the 
 door, turned to her with a grave, stern, yet somewhat 
 sad look on his fine face. 
 
 " What is it, papa ? " she faltered, not for the 
 moment mistress of herself. To see him thus so un- 
 expectedly, and to feel in her heart such a rush of 
 yearning love towards him, disconcerted her greatly ; 
 she had hoped and believed herself to be completely 
 estranged from them, and she wished to forget and 
 grow cold to them, and lo, one look at her father's 
 face was sufficient to banish all her resolves, and she
 
 316 TJClBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 felt a mad impulse to throw herself at his feet and 
 beg his forgiveness and love. 
 
 "I have come here this morning for two reasons, 
 Joyce," he began, in abrupt, business-like tones, keep- 
 ing down his own feelings, though they were stirred 
 in no ordinary fashion by the sight of the great, sad 
 change in the girl. She looked years older than 
 when he had last seen her, and, being tired at that 
 moment, perhaps her face wore a sadder and more 
 pathetic look. " I have come," he repeated, " to take 
 you back to your mother. She is very seriously ill ; 
 indeed, I have no hesitation in saying that the 
 primary cause of her illness is your conduct. Are 
 you prepared to come back with me now, and see 
 her?" 
 
 " Yes, father," Joyce replied steadily. " I will 
 come now and see her, if you and she wish it, 
 but" 
 
 " But what?" 
 
 " I can only come on one condition that you will 
 not interfere too much with my personal liberty, or 
 seek to keep me longer than I wish to stay." 
 
 " It is a very odd position we find ourselves in to- 
 day, my child," said Alfred Wyndham, keeping down 
 with difficulty the strange medley of emotions which 
 were like to overpower him. " It would appear as if
 
 " Come Dome !" 317 
 
 our positions were reversed you command, I obey. 
 You shall not be interfered with if you will come 
 now, and undertake, for a time at least, the daughterly 
 duty which you ought never to have neglected." 
 
 These were sharp words ; Joyce winced under 
 them, but kept calm. 
 
 " I acted as my conscience directed, father," she 
 said quickly, " and it has not been all sunshine and 
 ease for me ; nay, I have had the hardest of it, and I 
 think that you have shown very little interest indeed 
 in me or in my fate. It is more than four months 
 since I left home, and not one has taken the slightest 
 trouble to find out my whereabouts, or to inquire 
 whether I were dead or alive." 
 
 " We need not stop to discuss that question now, 
 Joyce," said Alfred Wyndham quietly. "There will 
 be plenty of time at home to go over all the pros 
 and cons of the situation. Will you gather your 
 things together ? You cannot have very much 
 luggage, for, if I remember rightly, you took very 
 little away with you, and your mother has been 
 exercised a good many times as to your personal 
 comfort." 
 
 " I have very little, but perhaps I need not take it 
 now. I shall be coming back here again, perhaps to- 
 night."
 
 3*8 TlClEn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 " Oh, in that case you may as well leave it," 
 observed her father tranquilly, and gave no sign that 
 he had any intention of frustrating her return should 
 she desire it. So Joyce, with a hasty glance round 
 the little room where she had spent many sad hours 
 and few glad ones, went quietly downstairs behind 
 her father, reproaching herself because her heart beat 
 with something which was very like joyous excite- 
 ment. She tried to call up some feeling of friendly 
 regret at leaving the place which had given her 
 shelter, but somehow it would not come at her 
 bidding. She was only conscious of a strong feeling 
 of relief, not unmixed with joyous anticipation, at the 
 prospect of returning to her old home. 
 
 " I hope mamma is not so very ill," she said, as 
 they drove away, and her voice had a meeker note in 
 it, indicating a softer mood. 
 
 " She is quite ill enough to make us all very 
 anxious, and, seeing that it was out of your escapade 
 that her trouble first arose, it is just possible that the 
 sight of you may do a little towards getting her 
 well." 
 
 Joyce felt the reproach keenly, but she dared not 
 resent it, because her conscience told her that it was 
 not unmerited. 
 
 " I am sorry, father, although you may not believe
 
 " Come tt>ome ! " 319 
 
 it," she said, in a low voice, " but I did not think it 
 mattered very much." 
 
 " What did not matter ? " asked Alfred Wyndham, 
 looking straight before him. 
 
 " Well, whether I went away or not" 
 
 " You have a very feeble conception of a parent's 
 feelings, Joyce. Perhaps you will know better one 
 day," he replied. " I trust that you will show some 
 little consideration for your mother to-day, and not 
 needlessly vex her." 
 
 At this Joyce's eyes filled. She was feeling in- 
 tensely miserable, and seemed now to realise in a 
 moment the sin as well as the folly of her conduct ; 
 and when she thought of what was in the back- 
 ground, and remembered that she had pledged herself 
 to marry Philip Dane, her heart grew faint within her, 
 for it would certainly be her mother's death-blow. 
 Alfred Wyndham wisely made no allusion to what 
 Hannah Thrale had told him. Joyce therefore re- 
 mained in ignorance of his knowledge. As the 
 hansom drove rapidly through the streets and 
 presently came into the suburban quietness of 
 Denmark Hill, a sense of unspeakable rest and satis- 
 faction came upon Joyce. There was not the faintest 
 regret at having been carried away so suddenly and 
 unexpectedly from the settlement, nothing but glad-
 
 320 TJClgn&bam's S>augbter. 
 
 ness at the thought that she was going home. If 
 only she had turned to her father then and told him 
 frankly what was passing in her heart, how happy it 
 would have made him ! But she sat sedately silent. 
 Conversation did not flourish between them, and 
 each was conscious of an indefinable and some- 
 what painful barrier between them, which contrasted 
 strangely with the old-time confidence and happy 
 familiarity. 
 
 " You had better wait here, Joyce," said her father 
 when they entered the house, "while I go up and 
 prepare your mother for seeing you. She does not 
 know that I am bringing you home, and it is as well 
 she should not be too suddenly shocked." 
 
 Alfred Wyndham felt a trifle guilty as he de- 
 livered this judicious speech. His real object in 
 leaving Joyce downstairs was that he might tell his 
 wife he thought it would be as well if she did not 
 mention to Joyce just at present the name of Philip 
 Dane. He found her, as he expected, a good deal 
 distressed. 
 
 " I thought you would come up, Alfred, only it 
 seems a good while since Hannah left. Is not this a 
 dreadful thing which has happened ? " 
 
 " It has not happened yet, Letitia," he answered 
 cheerfully, "and we have got to do our best to
 
 " Come fjome ! " 321 
 
 prevent it happening. I think we will manage it. I 
 have got Joyce here." 
 
 " Here ! " cried Mrs. Wyndham, with visible ex- 
 citement. " Where is she ? " 
 
 " Downstairs ; she came away quite willingly, and 
 we must try to keep her here, Letitia. I think a 
 little diplomacy will be required, and I must get the 
 doctor to help me. One thing I should like to 
 impress upon you, and that is that you do not men- 
 tion the fellow's name to her. She does not know, 
 you see, that we suspect anything, and I have got her 
 here solely on your account. She thinks you are a 
 good deal worse than you really are ; but, upon my 
 word, my girl, when I look at you now I feel more 
 anxious than I have yet been. This shock has not 
 done you any good." 
 
 " It is just as well to know the worst, dear, is it 
 not ? " she asked, looking up into his face with grati- 
 tude and wifely trust. " I felt sure you would know 
 exactly what to do, and how to do it I will not be 
 impatient or unreasonable, Alfred, but oh, I should 
 like to see Joyce. Remember it is four months 
 nearly, and I am her mother." 
 
 Alfred Wyndham turned suddenly away, for his 
 eyes were dim, and he knew that he could not trust 
 his voice.
 
 322 < GdBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 " You shall see her, my dear ; she is waiting to 
 come up. You have been sorely tried, and I see that 
 it has laid hold of you even more than I knew. But 
 perhaps God has heard our prayers at last." 
 
 Joyce meanwhile sat in the familiar dining-room 
 below with a strange, unreal feeling at her heart. 
 She felt like a stranger or a guest, and yet, as her 
 eyes roamed round the room with which her early, 
 indeed her only memories, were associated, she felt, 
 with a great rush of tenderness, that this was her 
 home. Her eyes dwelt with affectionate interest on 
 every homely detail, noting even one or two little 
 changes in the arrangement of the room since last 
 she had seen it. A great sense of her own unworthi- 
 ness, a new appreciation of all the blessings with 
 which she had been so lavishly surrounded, seemed 
 to crush her to the dust. When she heard her 
 father's step on the stairs she rose hurriedly, trem- 
 bling from head to foot. When he entered the 
 room he saw that she was moved, and a new hope 
 stirred in his heart. 
 
 " Your mother is ready to see you, my dear," he 
 said, more gently than he had wished or intended to 
 speak. " Promise me before you go up that you will 
 not vex or hurt her ; she has had a great deal to 
 bear, but her heart is full of love for you, as mine is,
 
 "Come 1bome!" 323 
 
 my girl as mine is." Had he waited a moment, 
 Joyce must have thrown herself on his breast, but 
 feeling self-control rapidly leaving him, he turned 
 hastily from the room, and left Joyce to find her way 
 as best she could upstairs. She went slowly, and 
 with feet which hesitated on every step. She knew 
 that before she could take her place again as the 
 daughter of the house, which indeed seemed to her 
 at that moment the highest good she could crave, 
 she must try to explain all her past waywardness 
 and beg forgiveness for it. She paused on the land- 
 ing, and even sat down for a moment in the low seat 
 which ran round all the quaint landing window. 
 Everything seemed so unreal to her ; she could not 
 believe that she was the same Joyce who had 
 awakened that morning in her dingy little room at 
 the settlement, cherishing nothing but hard, bitter 
 thoughts against this same home and its dear in- 
 mates ; and lo ! she had come back, and her whole 
 heart was crying out with passionate longing to be 
 restored to the place of which her own wayward 
 hands had robbed her. She got up at length, and 
 crossing the wide landing with limbs which trembled 
 greatly, entered her mother's room through the 
 half-open door. There was a great change on Mrs. 
 Wyndham's face, and many who knew and loved
 
 324 OdgnDbam's 2>augbter, 
 
 her were concerned because she had become so 
 frail, and looked as if her hold on life was slender 
 indeed. 
 
 When Joyce went within the door, and saw the 
 sweet, kind face, lit by the gentle eyes in which 
 dwelt the mother's heart-hunger, she forgot all her 
 fine resolves, all the little set and eloquent speeches 
 by which she had thought it possible to smooth 
 the way, and with a loud cry she sped across the 
 floor, and threw herself at her mother's knee. 
 
 " Mother, mother darling ! " was all she could 
 say and that brokenly again and again. 
 
 There is no bitterness in a mother's heart proof 
 against that cry. When she saw the girl's bright 
 head upon her knee, she forgot and forgave every- 
 thing, and thought of her only as the little child 
 God had sent to her years ago, when she had 
 prayed that her boy might be given a little sister 
 to save him from the loneliness of being an only 
 child. So she clasped her close, and pressed her 
 cheek to hers, crooning over her, as she had been 
 wont to croon over her in her babyhood. 
 
 Then the knowledge came to Joyce the know- 
 ledge she had gone out into the wilderness to seek 
 that in all the world, whatever else it may hold 
 for us, we have only one mother. And in her heart.
 
 " Come 1bome ! " 325 
 
 above all other emotions, though there were many, 
 welled a deep spring of thankfulness because the 
 knowledge had not come too late.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE UNPALATABLE TRUTH. 
 
 BOBBIE DANE had had a particularly long and 
 weary day. For the first time for weeks not a 
 single person had come to relieve his solitude, or to 
 sit with him a little while in order to make the time 
 pass more quickly. At four o'clock in the afternoon 
 he was feeling particularly discontented and out of 
 sorts, wondering what had become of Joyce and of 
 Hannah. It was seldom a whole day passed without 
 one or other looking in, if only to utter a word to 
 cheer him in his loneliness. The morning had been 
 fine and dry, but at noon the miserable rain began to 
 fall again in that depressing and steady manner 
 peculiar to autumn rains. The boy, tired with his 
 thoughts, listened to the dreary drip, drip on the 
 panes, and began to count the minutes before his 
 brother should return. The dull, dark days had 
 their compensation for Bobbie, since they brought 
 
 his brother home to him sometimes an hour earlier 
 
 326
 
 tlbe Unpalatable ttrutb. 327 
 
 than when the days were bright. Shortly after 
 four Hannah's bright face peeped round the 
 door. 
 
 " Hallo, Bobbie, all alone, and no light yet. Shall 
 I light up for you ? " she asked cheerily. 
 
 " I wish you would, and I wish you would come 
 and sit by me for a little ; it has been such a long 
 day," said the boy dolefully. " Where have you 
 all been all day? I have never seen a creature 
 since I had my dinner brought to me." 
 
 " I have been out all day, Bobbie. Where do 
 you think I have been this afternoon? Seeing my 
 grand relations," said Hannah, as she took the 
 matches down from the mantelpiece and lit the 
 lamp on the table. 
 
 " Oh, have you ? " asked Bobbie, with interest. 
 " The grand lawyer relation that lives at Queen's 
 Gate, and wears a wig ? " 
 
 " The very same," answered Hannah. " What 
 do you think ? They want me to go and live with 
 them always." 
 
 " But you aren't going, are you ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think so ; not in the meantime, at 
 least. But they were very kind." 
 
 " I am very glad ; it is nice when people are 
 kind, and everybody ought to be kind to you now>
 
 328 TOlgn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 Hannah," said the boy, with a world of sympathetic 
 meaning in his eyes. " Where is Joyce to-day ? 
 I can't think what has come to her; she always 
 used to sit such a long time with me, and she said 
 she should not go out to-day at all." 
 
 Hannah busied herself for a few minutes about 
 the lamp before she answered. She was seeking 
 for some judicious words wherewith to convey the 
 news to Bobbie, words which should in their turn 
 be repeated to Philip Dane. 
 
 "Joyce was called away this morning in a great 
 hurry, Bobbie ; so suddenly that she had not even 
 time to say good-bye to any of us. Her father came 
 and fetched her away." 
 
 "Her father?" repeated the boy, his eyes growing 
 wide with wonder ; " why, I thought she had given 
 them all up for good, and that she belonged to us 
 now ; Philip told me so." 
 
 " Well, but you see one's father and mother have 
 a prior claim, haven't they, Bobbie ? " Hannah sug- 
 gested. "And poor Mrs. Wyndham is very ill. 
 Just think how hard it must have been to her to 
 have no daughter all this time, and she not well 
 at all. Don't you think it was Joyce's duty to go 
 back?" 
 
 " Well, I suppose it was," said the boy, but there
 
 ^Unpalatable {Truth. 329 
 
 was a little inflection in his voice, "and duty is 
 hardly ever pleasant ; Philly says so. Now 1 guess 
 Joyce will come back the very moment she can 
 get. I can't think why she didn't come to say 
 good-bye to me. I think it was mean of her." 
 
 " Well, I rather think she was fetched in a great 
 hurry ; in fact, I know she was, Bobbie, because I 
 saw her drive away with her father in a hansom. 
 I daresay she will be back to see you one of these 
 days." 
 
 " I wonder what Philly will say ; I shouldn't 
 think he will be pleased," said Bobbie significantly. 
 " I think I will tell you a great, great secret, Hannah, 
 because I know you don't tell things like most 
 women do. It is true that we are going to have 
 that little cottage in the country Philly and me> 
 I mean and Joyce will be there. She is going to 
 keep house for us ; Philly says so." 
 
 "That will be very nice if it comes to pass, 
 Bobbie," said Hannah gently ; " but of course 
 Joyce must stay with her poor mother until she is 
 well first." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," said Bobbie, with a sigh. 
 " I don't think I like it all ; somehow it makes me 
 feel bad. Do you think she will be sure to come 
 back ? "
 
 33 TXUBn&bam's 2>augbter. 
 
 " We can't be sure of anything in this world, 
 dear," answered Hannah, obliged to put him off 
 with a somewhat trite remark, because she dared 
 not yet tell him that the prospects of Joyce's return 
 were very faint. " I think I am a little jealous of 
 Joyce. Do you know, Bobbie, long ago you used to 
 like me next best to Philip, and now it is nothing 
 but Joyce." 
 
 " Well, you see, she is so awfully good, and she 
 knows such a lot of stories. She never tires telling 
 them ; and what I like about Joyce's stories is, that 
 suppose she tells you the same one over and over, it 
 is always exactly the same, so you know that it is 
 not lies." 
 
 " I think I must try and write you a story, Bobbie. 
 But why don't you try and write one yourself? 
 That is a bright idea," said Hannah. " If I fetch 
 you in a beautiful note-book with red edges and blue 
 lines, and a nice pencil, won't you try and write a 
 story?" 
 
 " I might," said the boy; but there was a some- 
 what doubtful ring in his voice. "At least, I 
 could write down the ones Joyce has told me. 
 How long do you think it will be before she 
 comes back ? " 
 
 " I don't know, Bobbie ; her mother has been ill
 
 TUnpalatable Grutb. 331 
 
 for a long time, and of course she cannot get better 
 all at once." 
 
 " No, I suppose not ; but surely she will come and 
 see us just for half an hour or so. Do you think she 
 will soon ? " 
 
 " I should think so. Now I have made up your 
 fire nicely, and put on the kettle, and I must go and 
 see how the fire is in Mrs. Hemming's room. Your 
 brother will be here immediately ; it will soon be 
 five." 
 
 " He will be awfully disappointed, don't you 
 think, when he hears that Joyce has gone away ? 
 But of course he cannot feel it so bad as I do, 
 because he does not need to lie still and have 
 people read to him. I do hope she won't stop away 
 very long. If she does I shall get Philly to go and 
 fetch her back in a hansom." 
 
 Hannah smiled at this suggestion, and made 
 what haste she could with the little simple services 
 she often rendered to that womanless household, 
 She was particularly anxious to get downstairs 
 before Philip Dane should return, not being at all 
 sure how he would regard the action she had taken 
 that day. She was, however, quite prepared to de- 
 fend herself. She had cause to do so before the 
 evening was over.
 
 332 TIClBnJJbam's Daughter. 
 
 About seven o'clock, as she was sitting alone 
 trying to fix her attention on a book, although her 
 thoughts were very far astray, she heard his quick, 
 impatient knock, which seemed to indicate very 
 clearly his state of mind. Ordinarily the most 
 courteous of men, Philip Dane seemed to have for- 
 gotten his usual punctiliousness, and walking straight 
 into the little sitting-room, he confronted Hannah 
 with a very ominous expression on his face. 
 
 " So they have taken her away ? " he began at 
 once, without the slightest greeting or preliminary 
 of any kind. " I suppose you know all about it. 
 What does it mean ? " 
 
 " It means, I hope," answered Hannah steadily, 
 "that she has gone home for good. It will be 
 the best that could happen for her, and for us 
 all." 
 
 " I suppose you mean that you would re- 
 gard her marriage with me as a catastrophe?" he 
 said, with keen bitterness. " Are you at the bottom 
 of this, Hannah? Somehow I feel as if you 
 were." 
 
 "Yes, I am," answered Hannah, with perfect 
 frankness ; " and I know what I am doing, too, 
 Philip. The looker-on sees most ; and I am very 
 sure that the day will come when you as well
 
 TUnpalatable Srutb. 333 
 
 as Joyce will thank me for what I have done 
 to-day." 
 
 " What did you do ? " he asked, without any 
 lightening of the gloom on his face. 
 
 " I simply went and told her father and mother, 
 and left it to them to act. Her father came over 
 here in the middle of the day and took her away. 
 Oh, I assure you there was no unnecessary force 
 used. He simply said what was perfectly true 
 that her mother was very seriously ill through her 
 conduct, and that it was important that she should 
 go home and see her at once." 
 
 " She left no message for me, then ? It seems 
 most extraordinary." 
 
 " Oh, I don't think that she regards her departure 
 as at all final. She has left all her things in Mrs. 
 Hemming's rooms; but I hope she won't come 
 back. Oh, Philip, can't you see for yourself 
 what a fearful fiasco the thing has been all along? 
 Where has your usual clearness of vision 
 gone ? " 
 
 " You call it a fiasco because she has not suc- 
 ceeded, poor girl, quite so well as others, perhaps ; 
 but she herself, although a little discouraged, as is 
 natural, has no desire to turn her back upon the 
 friends whose fidelity she has proved. I am sure
 
 334 TlBlBn&bam's Daughter. 
 
 she will come back if no undue influence is brought 
 to bear upon her." 
 
 Hannah regarded him for the moment with a 
 great compassion in her eyes. She felt towards 
 him as she might have done towards a dear brother. 
 She saw that the matter was one of the most serious 
 moment to him, and that there could be no doubt 
 whatever about his absolute and entire devotion to 
 Joyce Wyndham. 
 
 " Philip," she said, and her voice, by reason of the 
 compassion in her soul, became very gentle and 
 sweet, " I wish you would sit down and let us talk 
 this thing over as we have been accustomed to talk 
 things over during the last five years. Don't you 
 think it would be a mistake ? I am sure there would 
 be no happiness in such a marriage for you or her or 
 anybody." 
 
 " Why not ? " he asked fiercely. " If we love each 
 other, that is the main thing." 
 
 " But do you ? " asked Hannah. " I know that 
 there is no doubt about your love ; but what about 
 Joyce ? " 
 
 " It will come," he said, but she noticed that he 
 winced under her words. " She has confessed that 
 she feels more interested in me than in anyone else 
 at least, there is no one else."
 
 "dnpalatable arutb. 335 
 
 " Interest is not love," said Hannah sadly. " I 
 hate to wound you, and I only wish with all my 
 heart that there could be some happy issue out of 
 this affair ; but truly as I love Joyce, and long as I 
 have known her, I don't believe she is capable of an 
 unselfish devotion which would be any fair return for 
 what you lavish on her." 
 
 " I don't want any return," he answered, stung 
 to the quick. " All I want is to care for and protect 
 her, and give her a home. No doubt her parents 
 consider themselves aggrieved, but I think that they 
 have acted in a most selfish and heartless manner 
 towards her." 
 
 Hannah faintly smiled, and the smile spoke 
 volumes. 
 
 " Your wiser self, if you would allow it to speak, 
 would admit that they have acted with great wisdom 
 and self-restraint," she said. " But let us look at 
 it for a moment, Philip, from the most matter-of- 
 fact point of view. Suppose you did marry, you 
 know what your income is. You haven't found that 
 it has afforded you and Bobbie too many luxuries 
 how will it stretch to include another, and to give 
 her anything at all like what she has been accustomed 
 to?" 
 
 " She is not afraid," he answered. " She knows
 
 336 'QQlBn&bam's Daugbter. 
 
 that the life I could give her would be simple and 
 plain, but she says it would suffice." 
 
 " She does not know what she is talking about," 
 said Hannah sadly. " She has been brought up, as 
 you know, in a home where there is every luxury 
 and comfort. She knows nothing, either about the 
 earning of money or the spending of it. I don't 
 even suppose she could cook a potato or bake a 
 loaf of bread if her life depended on it." 
 
 " I think you underrate her abilities," said Philip 
 Dane drily. " She would not be the first woman 
 who has risen to the emergency when it came. 
 But we are far away from the point. I believe 
 that you acted from the best motives. I haven't 
 known you for years for nothing, Hannah; but I 
 have only to tell you that I won't give her up 
 until she herself tells me that she has made a 
 mistake, and if I am left in suspense too long, I 
 will seek her in her father's house with all the confi- 
 dence which love has earned."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 CLEARING UP. 
 
 AFTER dinner that night Jack Ferrars walked round 
 to Overton. Mrs. Wyndham was not so ill as to 
 require an evening visit, but he was naturally 
 curious to know what had transpired during the 
 day, and consumed with anxiety to hear something 
 about Joyce. There was a significant look on Ada's 
 face when she opened the door to him, and it 
 broadened into a smile as she returned his good- 
 evening. 
 
 " Miss Joyce has come back, sir," she said, in a 
 cheerful tone, which seemed to indicate that things 
 were righting themselves in the house. There was 
 no sort of ambiguity about the views in the kitchen 
 regarding Miss Wyndham's escapade, and she would 
 have been considerably astonished, and probably 
 disgusted, could she have heard the candid remarks 
 
 passed upon her behaviour. 
 
 337 Y
 
 338 'CdgnDbam's Daugbter. 
 
 " When did she come, Ada ? " asked Ferrars, as he 
 hung up his hat. 
 
 " In the morning. Master fetched her before 
 lunch. I think it is all right ; but she do look 
 bad." 
 
 " That is all right," said Ferrars, and just then, 
 hearing the voice, Mr. Wyndham appeared at the 
 dining-room door. 
 
 "Good-evening, Jack. I suppose Ada has been 
 telling you we have got the truant home ? '' 
 
 " Yes. How did you manage it ? " he asked, 
 stepping aside into the room with an eagerness he 
 did not seek to hide. 
 
 " I simply went and fetched her. I have not said 
 a word to her about anything, except that her 
 mother was ill and needed her, and therefore she 
 is upstairs now, and I think it is all right. Poor 
 thing, you would be sorry for her if you saw her. 
 Upon my word, I haven't the heart to reproach her, 
 and yet what a fool she has been." 
 
 " Do you think it likely that she will stay now ? 
 Does she realise what a mistake she has made all 
 along?" 
 
 " I think she does," said Mr. Wyndham, with a 
 nod. " I think the sight of her mother's face did it. 
 It is the mothers who have the power and the
 
 Clearing TUp. 339 
 
 whip hand of us all, if they only know how to use 
 it." 
 
 " You will be going up, I suppose, presently ? " 
 said Ferrars. " I met Miss Thrale this morning as 
 she was coming up here, and she told me what was 
 in the wind. I hope it has not gone too far to be 
 remedied ? " 
 
 " Upon my word I have not spoken about it ; I 
 dare not, you know," said Alfred Wyndham, his 
 face flushing rather painfully. " Mind you, it is not 
 that I would object to Joyce marrying a poor man ; 
 in fact, I think it might do her a lot of good to 
 feel the pinch just for a little ; but if it is true what 
 Hannah told me, that she does not care about him 
 at all, and was driven to it, as it were, by the stress 
 of circumstances, I will put my foot down, and that 
 very strongly, if need be. But, somehow, I think 
 the mother will manage it. We have made a little 
 compact, Jack, not to mention the matter at all to 
 her for a few days, anyhow, till we see how matters go." 
 
 " In that I think you are very wise," said Ferrars. 
 " Well, I will go up now, if I may, and see Mrs. 
 Wyndham. You can depend upon me not to betray 
 myself in any way to Joyce. I will simply express 
 my pleasure, of course, at seeing her here, and treat 
 it as a matter of course."
 
 340 THflBttDbam's 2>au0bter. 
 
 This was the course Ferrars had mapped out 
 for himself, but it was carried out with some 
 difficulty ; for when he saw Joyce sitting in a low 
 basket chair before her mother's bed, the great 
 change in her almost unmanned him. She sprang 
 up, colouring painfully at his unexpected en- 
 trance. 
 
 " How do you do, Joyce ? I am glad you have 
 come back," he said, trying to speak as naturally as 
 possible, and giving her hand a warm, brotherly 
 grip, which accentuated his words. " Well, Mrs. 
 Wyndham, I suppose I can make this my P.P.C. 
 visit ; this is better than all the medicines in the 
 world, is not it?" He bent over the bed as he 
 spoke, and when he saw the satisfied look on the 
 mother's face, and the grateful expression which 
 trembled in her eyes, his own became suddenly 
 dim. 
 
 " Yes ; I think I shall be all right now I have got 
 my little girl back. But you must not talk about 
 P.P.C. visits ; we cannot do without you here." 
 
 "That is very flattering. I hope you have not 
 been talking too much to your mother, Joyce. I 
 know it is a temptation ; but you must remember 
 how weak she is. We have had a good bit of 
 anxiety about her here."
 
 He saw Joyce sitting in a low basket chair. [Page 340.
 
 Clearing "dp. 341 
 
 " Yes," "answered Joyce, " but you see I did 
 not know." 
 
 Her voice was very meek, and somehow Ferrars, 
 although he had so heartily disapproved of her 
 action, did not like to see her so subdued. 
 
 " Oh, she will be all right now you have 
 come back," he said cheerily. " We will all perk 
 up now. My father will be round to see you in 
 the morning, and, if he should tease you a bit, 
 you must not mind it." 
 
 " Tell him not to be too hard on me," she said, 
 in a low voice. " I can't bear very much just 
 yet." 
 
 " He sha'n't say a word to you, then, if you 
 don't like it," he answered, all in the kindest and 
 most matter-of-fact way. 
 
 Then he took his patient's temperature and 
 pulse, gave the customary directions, and, giving 
 Joyce a pleasant good-evening, took his way down- 
 stairs again. Joyce wished rather that he had 
 not been quite so matter-of-fact. Remembering 
 the last interview she had had with him, she would 
 have preferred some little consciousness of it in 
 his look and tone. He appeared very quickly to 
 have got over any disappointment he had felt on 
 that occasion, and she wondered why her own
 
 342 TOlBn&bam's Daughter, 
 
 heart should ache a little as she listened to his 
 retreating footsteps. He had shown her very 
 plainly that he had forgotten that episode, and 
 was quite pleased to be on the footing of an 
 ordinary acquaintance. His attitude ought to 
 have pleased her, but it did not. 
 
 " What are you thinking of, Joyce ? " asked her 
 mother, seeing the shadow on her face. 
 
 " Nothing much, mother ; only that it must be 
 very pleasant when one is ill to have Jack coming 
 out and in. He has such a bright and kind 
 manner." 
 
 " You are right, my dear ; he brings the sun- 
 shine with him, and leaves it behind. That is 
 the secret of his success. You are looking very 
 tired, Joyce. I think you ought to go to bed, 
 dear." 
 
 " May I sleep in this room, mother ? " asked 
 Joyce, as she came to the side of the bed and 
 laid her head down on the pillow. "Do you 
 think father would mind just for one night? I 
 have been away so long." 
 
 " He would not mind at all ; he would only 
 be too glad. Oh, my dear, my dear, I do think 
 that we understand each other at last." 
 
 " Anybody can understand you, mother. You
 
 Clearing Tap. 343 
 
 are just love, and nothing more," said Joyce in 
 a low voice. " It is I who am so wicked and so 
 hard to fathom, and yet I am so shallow and 
 selfish. I see it all now, and oh, how ashamed I 
 am." 
 
 " Hush, dear, we will not talk about it It is 
 all past and gone, and you are our own dear little 
 girl again for all time now, are you not ? " 
 
 " Oh, I hope so. Do you think father will ever 
 look at me again as he used to ? I think I am 
 a little afraid of him, and I never used to be in 
 the old days. He looks at me so sternly." 
 
 " My darling, there is no sternness in your father's 
 heart towards you. You nearly broke it when 
 you left him ; you will go down by and by, after 
 Tom has gone to bed, and have a little talk with 
 him. He is waiting, I think, till he can have 
 you all to himself. I hope that after to-night 
 there will be no need to say anything more." 
 
 Joyce's answer was a muffled sob, which seemed 
 to be wrung from the very depths of her heart. 
 She was thinking of the chain which bound her 
 to the life she had quitted, of the vow which she 
 had given, and which seemed to lie on her heart 
 like lead. What would they say when they knew 
 how far she had gone in wickedness ; and how
 
 344 TlCiBn&bam's H>augbter. 
 
 was the crooked path ever to be made straight 
 again ? 
 
 Knowing the order and habit of the house, she 
 found her father smoking as usual by the dining- 
 room fire before he came up to bed. Although 
 bidden by her mother, she entered the room some- 
 what hesitatingly, as if fearing that her presence 
 might not be altogether welcome. Her father 
 looked round at the opening of the door, and the 
 sight warmed his heart. How he had missed 
 her coming out and in the rooms during the past 
 four miserable months was known only to him- 
 self. 
 
 " Has your mother gone to sleep ? " he asked, 
 and his voice had lost the hard, stern tone which 
 had so wounded the girl's heart. 
 
 " No, father ; but she wished me to come down, 
 and I wished to come myself to talk to you. 
 Will you let me stay in mother's room to-night ? " 
 
 " Why, certainly, if you wish it, and I am glad 
 that you do wish it, my dear," he answered. " You 
 see for yourself, then, that she is not at all 
 well?" 
 
 "Yes, I see," Joyce answered, and she stood by 
 the table, with a little doubtful air, which had 
 something pleading in it. Her attitude and look
 
 Clearing "dp. 345 
 
 troubled Alfred Wyndham, although it pleased 
 him, too. 
 
 " Well, what is it you wish to say, Joyce ? " he 
 asked. " We are happy and thankful to have 
 you here again. I trust that you may yet see 
 it your duty to remain." 
 
 " You would allow me, then ? " said Joyce, with 
 a somewhat eager look in her eyes. 
 
 " It isn't a question of allowing," he answered, 
 slightly nettled, he could not tell why, by her 
 words. " You know that we did not send you 
 away ; you went of your own free will, nor have 
 the doors of the house ever been closed against 
 you. I think you have not treated us quite fairly, 
 my dear." 
 
 " Oh, I know, and there is something else, a 
 great deal more than you know of. Perhaps when 
 you do know you will not allow me to stay. I 
 feel that I cannot sleep in the house to-night 
 until I have told you." 
 
 "I am ready to hear," said Alfred Wyndham, 
 with a great gentleness, which smote the girl's 
 sensitive heart with a new pain. It was so sweet 
 to hear the old caressing tones of which she had 
 been wont to think so little, and yet to fear that 
 perhaps soon she would hear them no more.
 
 346 THHBttDbam's 2>augbter. 
 
 " What I have to tell you will hurt and grieve 
 you very much, father. I have taken a more seri- 
 ous step even than leaving home. I have promised 
 to marry a man of whom you could not possibly 
 approve. I am afraid that this will make you 
 send me away for ever." 
 
 " I would approve of any honest man who was 
 not ashamed to work, if you cared for him, Joyce ; 
 only he must be honest and straight, a man whom 
 I can respect." 
 
 " Oh, he is all that," cried Joyce, an immense 
 relief visible in her face, and yet she wondered 
 why her heart continued to sink. " He is one 
 of the best of men, although he wears a work- 
 man's garb and is very poor. He is noble and 
 good." 
 
 " And you wish to marry this man ? " said Alfred 
 Wyndham slowly, and, taking his pipe from his 
 mouth, he laid it down. 
 
 " I have promised to marry him," said Joyce, 
 with a slight falter in her voice. " I don't know 
 that I wish it." 
 
 " Do you care for him ? " asked her father. 
 " Do you feel that you can spend your life with 
 him, and encounter all its vicissitudes and be 
 happy ? "
 
 Clearing *Glp. 347 
 
 " I don't know that I do," answered Joyce. " I 
 have made a fearful mistake, I am afraid. I have 
 given my promise, you see." 
 
 " You say a promise, given under what circum- 
 stances ? " 
 
 "Well, I was feeling depressed and miserable 
 because I had nothing to do, and the future seemed 
 so dark. I was glad of a little sympathy. And 
 he he cares so much ; he said he would be 
 content with anything I could give him." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said Alfred Wyndham, and the 
 expression on his face was even more eloquent than 
 his words. "You have brought sorrow to very 
 many hearts, Joyce, thoughtlessly. I hope that it 
 will be a lesson to you." 
 
 " It seems useless and shallow to say that I am 
 sorry," cried Joyce. " I feel humbled to the dust ; 
 I see now that what I thought was self-sacrifice 
 and heroism was nothing but the purest selfishness. 
 How can I repair all I have done? Oh, daddy, 
 don't look at me with those sad, serious eyes, which 
 seem to keep me so far away. Remember that I 
 was once your little girl who used to come to 
 you in every trouble ; won't you help me 
 now ? " 
 
 Alfred Wyndham covered his eyes with his hand,
 
 348 'CdBn&bam's 2>augbter. 
 
 and Joyce, encouraged by his silence, took a step 
 nearer. When he looked up at last, she threw 
 herself sobbing on his breast.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 WHAT IT COST. 
 
 THE days passed but drearily for the inmates of 
 the settlement in Westminster Bridge Road after 
 Joyce had gone away. She was missed by many, 
 for out of her own anxious sadness and perplexity 
 had arisen a new sympathy and helpfulness towards 
 others, which was repaid by the love and devotion 
 of those to whom she had rendered many a little 
 service. Most of all she was missed, perhaps, in 
 the little upstairs room where Bobbie Dane spent 
 so many weary hours. He lived in daily expecta- 
 tion of seeing Joyce come back, but there was 
 something in the whole occurrence which mystified 
 and perplexed as well as saddened him. Philip 
 would not allow him to speak her name, and that 
 in itself was at once a trial and a perplexity to 
 
 Bobbie, who saw that the shadow of some great 
 
 349
 
 35 TRUgn&bam's 2>augbtet. 
 
 trouble lay heavy on his brother's soul a trouble 
 with which Joyce had to deal ; but still the boy 
 kept his faith to her loyally, and never for a moment 
 believed that she had actually gone away from them 
 for ever. 
 
 He was lying all alone in the flickering firelight 
 one afternoon, counting the minutes till Philip 
 should come in, when someone knocked at his door. 
 It was not a familiar knock, but rather a peremptory 
 summons, which caused him to start up in be- 
 wildered interest. 
 
 " Come in," he called out cheerily ; and then the 
 door was opened, and a gentleman entered a tall, 
 stout, imposing-looking person in a frock coat, and 
 carrying in his hand a very shiny silk hat. His 
 hair was grey, and his ruddy face wore such a 
 pleasant look that Bobbie beamed upon him quite 
 cordially. 
 
 " Perhaps you want to see my brother Philip ? " 
 he said, with dignity. " He is not in ; but he will 
 be home quite soon." 
 
 " Yes, my boy, it is your brother I have come to 
 see. You are Bobbie, I think ; I have heard your 
 name." 
 
 "Yes, I am Bobbie. Who are you? You remind 
 me of somebody ; I can't think who it is."
 
 fldbat ft cost. 351 
 
 " My name is Wyndham." 
 
 " Oh," cried Bobbie, with a great light on his face, 
 " are you Joyce's father ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am Joyce's father." 
 
 " Why, I thought you were quite different stern, 
 and all that, you know." 
 
 " Indeed," said Alfred Wyndham, with a smile of 
 interest ; " suppose you tell me what you think 
 now." 
 
 " Oh, I shouldn't like to," said the boy, with a 
 confidential twinkle in his eye, feeling amazingly at 
 home with his new friend. " I hope you have come 
 to tell Philip that Joyce is coming back, because he 
 feels it awfully. You have no idea how quiet he is ; 
 he will sit hours and hours by himself, and never say 
 a word." 
 
 A shadow crossed the pleasant face of Alfred 
 Wyndham. The consequences of Joyce's self-will 
 were, perhaps, a little more serious than any of 
 them deemed. 
 
 " I am afraid she will not be coming back just 
 yet, anyhow," he said, unable to tell the whole 
 truth to the boy with the poor white face, and the 
 big, pleading eyes. " Do you think your brother 
 will be in soon ? I want very particularly to see 
 him."
 
 352 WBttObam's 2>augbter. 
 
 " He should be in by now ; but sometimes if 
 it is fine he walks from his work. Is it fine this 
 afternoon ? " 
 
 " Yes, clear and frosty ; the air is delightful out. 
 I suppose you do not get out very much ? " 
 
 " I am never out," answered Bobbie cheerfully. 
 " I have not been out for ever so long, not since 
 we had a demonstration in Hyde Park one Sunday 
 afternoon. Joyce was there that was a day! Oh, 
 it was splendid ! " 
 
 A lump rose in Alfred Wyndham's throat. His 
 fatherly heart yearned over the poor, helpless lad who 
 spent his solitary hours on his back, and yet who 
 seemed to cultivate a wonderfully bright, brave spirit 
 to help him through. 
 
 " You are a very brave little fellow, I think," he 
 said, "to be so contented. Many would grumble 
 most of the time." 
 
 " Where is the good ? " asked Bobbie philosophi- 
 cally. "It would not make me any better, and it 
 would only vex Philip ; but it will be better by 
 and by, when we go into the country. Joyce is 
 going with us, you know," he said, with an arch 
 and joyful smile. 
 
 At that moment, somewhat to the relief of 
 Alfred Wyndham, the door was briskly opened,
 
 it Cost. 353 
 
 and someone walked in. It was natural that Wynd- 
 ham should look very keenly at Philip Dane; the 
 man who had known Joyce sufficiently well to ask 
 her to be his wife could not but be an object of 
 interest to him. 
 
 " My name is Wyndham," he said, with a slight 
 bow, which Philip returned quite as slightly. The 
 information was superfluous. Dane knew Alfred 
 Wyndham very well indeed by sight and repute. 
 
 " Could I have a few minutes' talk with you, sir ? " 
 Wyndham said. " I have just been making the 
 acquaintance of your brother ; he is a fine little 
 fellow. His brave, contented spirit would teach 
 some of us a lesson." 
 
 Philip's hard, set face somewhat softened at these 
 words, which were uttered in a genuine tone there 
 is no mistaking. 
 
 " Yes, Bobbie is wonderfully patient," he answered. 
 "If you will step into the next room, Mr. Wynd- 
 ham, I am at your service." 
 
 He was in his working garb, his clothes stained 
 with the dust of his daily toil ; but he carried him- 
 self with a certain proud dignity which was not lost 
 on Alfred Wyndham, and he saw that he had 
 before him a person with whom it might be some- 
 what difficult to deal. Dane took a match from
 
 354 TlDlBn&bam's 2>au0bter. 
 
 his pocket and lit the gas in the little sitting-room, 
 then turned to Alfred Wyndham with a slightly 
 inquiring air. 
 
 " I am at your service, sir. I may say that I 
 have been expecting to hear from Miss Wyndham 
 for some days." 
 
 " She has wished to write, Mr. Dane, but has not 
 known how to express herself. She does not know 
 I am here to-day, but I thought I had better come. 
 There are some things which are better said than 
 written." 
 
 " That is so," said Dane politely, and waited for 
 what was to come. 
 
 " I heard that my daughter had engaged herself 
 to marry you, Mr. Dane, and not knowing you or 
 any of the circumstances which led to what seemed 
 to me an extraordinary and preposterous idea, I 
 came at a moment's notice and fetched her away. 
 I did not tell her that I knew anything about you; 
 I took her home on the plea of her mother's illness, 
 which was, however, a perfectly just and reason- 
 able one. She was, and is still, very seriously ill 
 indeed, through over-anxiety and worry about her 
 daughter. You follow me ? " 
 
 " I do follow you," answered Dane bravely. 
 
 " Since she came home, I am glad to say that
 
 Wbat it Cost 355 
 
 confidence has been restored between us as a family. 
 Joyce has given her mother and me her entire con- 
 fidence respecting all that had transpired here. All 
 the kindness that has been shown to her in this 
 place we shall never be able to acknowledge or 
 repay." 
 
 At the word repay, Dane perceptibly winced, but 
 Wyndham allowed it to pass. 
 
 " It has touched us inexpressibly ; Joyce herself 
 will never forget it, I feel sure, to her dying day. 
 This experience, so very bitter to us, has been 
 useful to her. My daughter has told me that in pro- 
 mising to marry you, she told you quite frankly that 
 she did not care for you as a woman is supposed to 
 care for the man whose wife she is willing to be- 
 come. She is of the same mind still, but willing 
 to fulfil her promise if you require it of her." 
 
 Dane's face darkly flushed, and Wyndham saw 
 him involuntarily clench his hands. 
 
 "Sir," he said, looking him straight in the face, 
 " I love your daughter as my own soul, but I would 
 not have her sacrifice herself to me ; that is not 
 my idea of love." 
 
 Wyndham heard these words deeply moved, and 
 he made no effort to hide his emotion. It was 
 well, perhaps, that he did not, for Philip Dane
 
 356 TKngnObam's Baugbter. 
 
 observed it, and it helped to soften the awful 
 bitterness of the moment to him. 
 
 " I say to you, Philip Dane, what I said to Joyce, 
 that if she could look me in the face and say frankly 
 that she loved you as I loved her mother, I should 
 be here to-day on a different errand. You are a 
 man whom I could have welcomed as a son ; but, 
 as matters stand, I should be afraid to give Joyce 
 to you, afraid for your sake as well as for hers. 
 I am an older man than you, and I have seen 
 more misery arise from loveless and ill-assorted 
 unions than from any other cause on earth." 
 
 " Can I see Joyce ? " asked Philip Dane slowly. 
 " I think I could better take my dismissal from 
 her lips." 
 
 " You can certainly. I should be the last man 
 to oppose such a reasonable wish. Will you come 
 out to my house this evening ? I shall be at home 
 after seven o'clock, and I shall see that you have 
 speech with Joyce alone." 
 
 " I shall be there," answered Dane mechani- 
 cally. 
 
 " About eight o'clock, then. I need not stay now ; 
 I have something else to do before I go home. 
 Good-bye ; I believe you understand, in a measure 
 at least, what I feel. I am deeply sorry for you,
 
 "CClbat it Cost 357 
 
 and it will be a lifelong regret to me that a child 
 of mine should have inflicted so much pain on the 
 heart of an honest man." 
 
 Then the two men clasped hands in silence, and 
 Wyndham hurried away, strangely and deeply moved ; 
 and as he drove rapidly through the streets, his 
 thought was all of the carelessness of youth, which 
 takes no heed of consequences, but will have its 
 full measure of self-will at any cost. He had 
 given the order to the coachman to drive him to 
 Queen's Gate, and the brougham drew up at the 
 door of the eminent Q.C. The door was opened 
 by a manservant in livery, who, in response to 
 Wyndham's question, said that Miss Hannah Thrale 
 was within, and would he step in. He was ushered 
 into a particularly comfortable and luxuriously 
 furnished library, where, after a few minutes, Hannah 
 came to him. She was dressed for the evening 
 in a gown of some soft black material, cut low 
 enough to show the stately outlines and dazzling 
 whiteness of her throat. Alfred Wyndham thought, 
 as she came swiftly towards him, that she was 
 one of the most beautiful women he had ever 
 seen. 
 
 " How are you this afternoon, my dear ? " he 
 said, advancing to her with both hands outstretched.
 
 358 WsnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 / 
 
 " My hands are very full at present with the affairs 
 of my daughters. I understand that I may call 
 you my daughter, too." 
 
 Hannah's face flushed the deepest crimson, and 
 her beautiful eyes shone. 
 
 "Dear Mr. Wyndham, did you come out all 
 this way to say that to me? How kind of you. 
 How are they all at Overton ? " 
 
 " We shall speak of that by and by ; it is of 
 yourself I want to speak just at this moment. 
 When is Tom to be allowed to come here? I am 
 not at all sure that we dare to presume to be your 
 future relatives when I find you in such a place ; 
 we had no idea that you belonged to such grand 
 folks, Hannah." 
 
 " Oh, I don't belong to them at all," said Hannah. 
 "Uncle is very kind, and I came here because he 
 insisted so much upon it, and because well, I 
 was really glad to get away from the settlement 
 just for a day or two. But they are too fine for 
 me ; they live in a different world. I shall be 
 going back, I expect, on Monday." 
 
 " I have come from the settlement just now, 
 Hannah, and I have seen and had a talk with 
 Philip Dane."
 
 "Cabal it Cost. 359 
 
 "Oh, have you?" asked Hannah, with the 
 most intense interest. "What do you think of 
 him ? " 
 
 "A great deal. I wish I did not think quite 
 so much," answered Wyndham, in his blunt fashion. 
 " I felt almost tempted as I talked with him to- 
 day to wish that Joyce had cared about him ; then 
 there would have been something true and satis- 
 fying to redeem the whole thing from its pettiness. 
 It has accomplished no good that I can see, but 
 harm all round." 
 
 " Perhaps not quite," said Hannah softly. " I 
 think perhaps it may have done Joyce a little 
 good. Is she not more contented with her home 
 now ? " 
 
 " It is just a little early to speak," answered 
 Wyndham. " Certainly her devotion to us, and 
 her anxiety to atone for all the worry she has 
 been to us, is very touching. I only hope it will 
 last." 
 
 " And is the affair with Philip to go on ? " 
 
 Wyndham shook his head. 
 
 " It cannot, my dear. I might have allowed the 
 marriage had she loved him as he too evidently 
 loves her ; but as it is, it would be merely mad-
 
 Daughter. 
 
 ness, and make shipwreck, probably, of both his 
 life and hers." 
 
 " I think you are right," said Hannah quietly, 
 and there was a kind of sad look on her face 
 which Wyndham did not like to see. 
 
 " What are you thinking now ? " 
 
 "Why, what I am always thinking, that I have 
 been to blame all along. It was I who first sowed 
 the seed of discontent in Joyce's mind. I shall 
 never forgive myself, and I don't deserve that you 
 should all be so kind to me." 
 
 " Hush, my dear ; be kind to our boy, and that 
 will repay us. Now I must go ; I came really from 
 my wife to tell you that she and Joyce are going 
 off to the Riviera next week if Dr. Ferrars thinks 
 she is able for the journey. She would like very 
 much to see you before she goes, and so would 
 Tom. I think he has been very patient, considering 
 all things. Will you come on Saturday and stay 
 over Sunday with us ? " 
 
 "Yes," answered Hannah, "I shall come 
 gladly." 
 
 "You belong to us now, you know," said the 
 old man, thinking of her lonely and desolate con- 
 dition, "and you must not keep Tom waiting too
 
 "Cdbat it Cost. 361 
 
 long. I am sure your father, where he is to-day, 
 wishes to see his child happy." 
 
 Hannah only answered with her tears.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 PHILIP DANE'S FAREWELL. 
 
 BEFORE eight o'clock that night Philip Dane walked 
 up the avenue to Overton, and rang the front 
 door bell. He had made no special preparation 
 in the way of dress, but wore the tweed suit which 
 he usually substituted in the evenings for his work- 
 ing garb, and a soft, slouch hat well drawn over 
 his eyes. He had left Bobbie at home, sorely ex- 
 ercised over the woeful change in him. The cheery 
 whistle had not brightened the little home for 
 many days, and the poor lad, so dependent on 
 such little things for his daily happiness, endured 
 many sad hours. We are all more or less selfish 
 in our sorrow. Philip Dane was no exception to 
 the rule. He walked up to the door of Alfred 
 Wyndham's house as if he had some legitimate 
 
 business, and when it was opened to him, he asked 
 
 362
 
 ipbtlfp Dane's ffarewell. 363 
 
 for Miss Wyndham. He appeared to be expected, 
 and was at once admitted to the drawing-room, 
 where he was left waiting a few minutes. He 
 glanced round the beautiful room with a keen, 
 almost painful interest, and his brief inspection did 
 not tend to raise his spirits. For how could one 
 who had been reared amid such luxurious surround- 
 ings ever suffer the simple and bare existence which 
 was all he had, or would ever have, in his power 
 to give her? He was not more miserable at the 
 moment than the shame-faced and hesitating girl 
 who came reluctantly downstairs to see him for 
 the last time. She entered softly, and he turned 
 to her with a look of grave tenderness which was 
 touched already by renunciation. He knew all 
 was over before he came ; he knew now that it 
 would have been better for both had he accepted 
 the inevitable, and remained away. 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you for allowing me 
 to see you again, Joyce," he said, trying to speak in 
 a calm and matter-of-fact manner. " But perhaps it 
 was a mistake. I felt that I should like at least to 
 bid you good-bye face to face." 
 
 Joyce came forward and stood before him in 
 silence for a moment. She was very pale, and 
 there was a look on her face he could not
 
 364 TlClBn&bam's Daugbter. 
 
 understand, because he had never before seen it 
 there. 
 
 " I am very much ashamed, Philip," she said 
 at length. " Every day seems to bring home to 
 me morejproof of my own selfish folly." 
 
 " Hush ; it is no use to blame yourself too much," 
 he answered, touched by her words, but still more 
 by her look. " It was a mistake, that was all ; and 
 it was foolish of me to think such a thing might ever 
 be." 
 
 " Did my father give you my message ? " she 
 asked, speaking with difficulty. " I am not fit to be 
 wife to any man, much less one so good as you ; but 
 I would still keep my promise. I " 
 
 He interrupted her by a slight uplifting of the 
 hand, and a faint smile, which was at once bitter and 
 sad. 
 
 "That would be the greatest mistake of all, 
 Joyce," he said, with a great gentleness, yet 
 decisively. " I have only come to say good-bye, 
 and to tell you that, though we now pass out of 
 your life for ever, Bobbie and I will never forget 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, I feel so small, and mean, and wretched," 
 she cried, in a great burst of self-reproach. " I have 
 made so many suffer, I deserve untold punishment.
 
 pbtlfp Dane's ffarewell. 365 
 
 If only people would not be so meek and gentle with 
 me. Why don't you reproach me, Philip, with all 
 my abominable selfishness ? " 
 
 He passed his hand across his brow, and she saw 
 his strong mouth quiver. 
 
 " It is not easy to reproach when one loves," he 
 replied simply. " But there, I did not come to say 
 such things, but simply to bid you good-bye, so I 
 had better go." 
 
 " Oh, not yet. I want to ask you a lot of 
 questions," cried Joyce desperately. " What are you 
 going to do ? Will you stay still in the settlement, 
 and shall I be allowed to come sometimes and see 
 Bobbie ? " 
 
 " It will be better not," he answered firmly. " You 
 must see for yourself it will be better that we should 
 be as if we had never met. I am a strong man, 
 and I can face most things, Joyce ; but to meet you 
 believe me, it is impossible." 
 
 Joyce remained silent, awed, as she had never 
 yet been by the subdued passion in his voice. 
 
 " Oh, will you ever forgive me ? " she said 
 brokenly at length. " I shall never forgive my- 
 self." 
 
 " There is nothing to forgive," he answered. " You 
 did not deceive me, but were quite frank with me
 
 366 TIGlBn&bam's Daugbter. 
 
 from the first. Believe me, I do not blame you, 
 nor shall I in my thoughts of you bear malice or 
 reproach. Now we may leave this subject, painful 
 to us both. May I say before I go how glad I am 
 that everything is right with you here ? You believe 
 now, I think, that this is your proper sphere, which 
 you ought never to have left." 
 
 " Yes, I do believe it," was all she could say. 
 
 " Your father said something about your going 
 abroad. Do you go soon ? " 
 
 " Next week, I believe. Hannah is going, too, and 
 she and Tom are to be married when we return 
 in the spring." 
 
 " I am glad to hear that. Life seems fair and 
 happy to you all now, Joyce ; and I earnestly hope 
 your future will be bright and glad and soul-satis- 
 fying. Good-bye." He held out his hand to her, 
 and Joyce laid hers in it a moment. 
 
 " Don't think too hardly of me, nor forget me 
 quite, Philip," she cried brokenly, moved beyond 
 endurance or control. 
 
 " That is a promise easily given, Joyce. It might 
 be a happier thing for me were forgetfulness 
 possible," and, before she could say a word in 
 reply, he had passed out of the room. As he went 
 through the hall, the front door was open, and Ada
 
 pbilip Dane's ffarewell. 367 
 
 admitted young Dr. Ferrars for his evening visit. 
 As they passed, the two men looked keenly at each 
 other. There was a peculiar searching look in Jack's 
 eyes, for he guessed who he was and what his errand. 
 So passed Philip Dane out of Joyce Wyndham's 
 life for ever. In spite of his brave words, she had 
 inflicted a scar on his heart, which time was slow to 
 heal. Bobbie never heard the outs and ins of the 
 story, and retained his loyal faith in Joyce, believing 
 absolutely that she was prevented by her relatives 
 from coming to see them as of yore. Of this belief 
 Philip did not seek to rob him, but he never 
 encouraged him to talk much of Joyce, or of the 
 bright, brief time she had blessed them by her 
 presence. To outward seeming he was quite 
 unchanged, only he devoted himself with new 
 enthusiasm to the cause of the brotherhood, and 
 became a leader such as Osborne Thrale had never 
 been, even in his best days. Also he remained 
 unmarried till his death. 
 
 The Wyndhams remained at Nice till the end 
 of March, and then journeyed, a happy party, back 
 to England. 
 
 When Alfred Wyndham watched Joyce on the
 
 368 "OdgnDbam's Daughter. 
 
 night of their home-coming, a great thankfulness 
 welled in his heart. The past year had told upon 
 the girl, and her girlhood had gone, never to come 
 back. But in its place there was the sweet gentle- 
 ness of womanhood, marked by a thoughtfulness and 
 tender consideration for others which surprised and 
 touched him. His wife's letters had, in a manner, 
 prepared him for the change, yet it was more 
 complete than he had dreamed. Sweet and lovable 
 as was the new Joyce, there were moments that 
 happy night when the father's heart hungered for a 
 gleam of the old self-will ; for he knew that the 
 shadow in her sweet eyes indicated that memory had 
 its sting. She came to him as he sat over his pipe 
 late that night, and, slipping down on the hearthrug, 
 laid her hand on his knee ; and for several minutes 
 there was nothing said. 
 
 " You are glad to be home again, little girl ? " 
 Wyndham said at length, not liking the strain of 
 her long silence. 
 
 " Yes, daddy," she answered after a while, " very 
 glad, but it has made me sad, too." 
 
 " I see that ; but you must not brood, dear. No 
 good can come of it. The past is over and done 
 with. Let it be."
 
 frbtltp Bane's jfarewell. 369 
 
 " I can't, daddy. It all comes back. I don't 
 think I shall ever feel quite the same again." 
 
 "But, Joyce, it grieves me to hear you say that. 
 Surely you believe that your old dad bears no 
 malice?" 
 
 She laid her lips with lingering tenderness to the 
 hand on which her cheek had been laid. 
 
 " I know he doesn't. God has been good, sparing 
 mother and allowing me the chance to atone for all 
 I made you and her suffer. But the others oh, 
 daddy, I can't forget. Have you ever seen Philip 
 Dane since we left ? " 
 
 "Only once, dear. I went to see him. He was 
 a man I could wish to call my friend. He was very 
 courteous and very kind, but " 
 
 " But what ? " she asked eagerly, with quickly 
 coming breath. 
 
 " He showed me plainly told me, indeed, that it 
 would be better that there should be no comings 
 and goings between us. His reasons were good 
 and decisive. I was bound to respect them, Joyce." 
 
 Joyce answered nothing, but laid her head down 
 again, and he felt her tears on his hand. 
 
 "There is something else I should like to speak 
 of, dear," Wyndham said. "Jack has asked my 
 permission to speak to you again." 
 
 2 A
 
 370 tKHgnDbam's Daugbter. 
 
 He felt her give a little start, but could not see 
 her face. 
 
 " What shall I say to him ? " 
 
 " Tell him," said Joyce, after a long silence, " tell 
 him that both he and I must wait." 
 
 " How long ? " Wyndham asked. 
 
 " Until I have proved myself. I am not fit to be 
 any man's wife. Besides, there is you and mother. 
 My life's devotion would be too little." 
 
 " Hush, child. We do not ask that. To see you 
 Jack Ferrars' wife would take the sting completely 
 from all that has been." 
 
 Joyce rose slowly to her feet. 
 
 "I thought he had forgotten at least, that he 
 thought no more of me in that way." 
 
 " Men of Jack's stamp do not put off and on their 
 love so easily," said Wyndham, with a slight smile 
 which was reflected on Joyce's lips as she stooped to 
 bid him good-night 
 
 " I am not wo/thy," she said, under her breath, 
 as she slipped away. Kneeling by her window, 
 looking out upon the trees shimmering in the sweet 
 spring moonlight, that sense of unworthiness weighed 
 heavily upon her soul. Folding her hands on the 
 sill, she bowed her head upon them, and prayed in 
 broken words, which a child might have used :
 
 pbilip 2>ane's farewell. 371 
 
 " Our Father, help me to be good, for Jesus' sake." 
 It was the turning of a contrite human heart to its 
 God, the cry of a soul conscious of its own helpless- 
 ness and need, the cry which is above all others 
 welcome in Heaven, and is never left unheeded or 
 despised. It became the litany of Joyce Wyndham's 
 life, and in the fulness of time bore its rich and 
 precious harvest, which blessed her own soul, and 
 shed much light upon the pathway of others. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by Cowan & Co., Limited, Perth.
 
 34. PATERNOSTEK Raw LONDON. 
 
 MESSRS. HUTCHINSON & CO.'S 
 
 PRELIMINARY LIST OF 
 
 ANNOUNCEMENTS 
 For the Spring of 1898. 
 
 EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, BY THE 
 COUNTESS OF WARWICK. 
 
 JOSEPH ARCH: 
 
 The Story of His Life Told by Himself, 
 
 In demy Svo, cloth gilt ', with Photogravure Portrait, I2S. 
 
 This book gains largely in interest by being autobiographical. 
 Joseph Arch has told the story of his life in his own way, thus 
 giving a faithful portrait of a strong and rugged personality, who 
 not only organised and led one of the most remarkable move- 
 ments of the Victorian Era, but fought his way up by his own 
 exertions from the plough-tail to a seat in Parliament. As Lady 
 Warwick says in her Preface : " Joseph Arch is a Warwickshire 
 man, and his people have been connected with Warwick Castle 
 for generations. It seemed to me a pity that the story of his 
 life work should remain untold, and I am glad to have been of 
 help to him in the telling of it. I have judged it best that 
 he should speak for himself, and express his opinions quite 
 frankly in his own way. Arch was no firebrand, but rather a 
 'village Hampden,' who put the welfare of the cause he had 
 espoused before any personal ambition. In my opinion he was 
 the man of the moment, the indispensable man."
 
 2 PRELIMINARY LIST OF ANNOUNCEMENTS 
 
 A LIFE OF PETER THE GREAT at a Popular Price. 
 
 BY OSCAR BROWNING, M.A. 
 
 PETER THE GREAT. 
 
 With Full-page Illustrations. In doth gift, 5*. 
 " Will well deserve the crowd of readers it is likely to attract." Globe. 
 
 NEW NOVEL BY EMMA BROOKE. 
 
 THE CONFESSION OF STEPHEN 
 WHAPSHARE. 
 
 By the Author of " A Superfluous Woman." 
 In cloth gilt, 6s. 
 
 FIRST REVIEW. 
 
 " ' The Confession of Stephen Whapshare is admirably written throughout ; 
 when we say that some of its passages are beautifully written, we shall not be 
 saying a word too much. Its psychology is delicate and acute, the tragedy of 
 it poignant and sustained, all the characters are clearly conceived, and drawn 
 with firmness and precision. Mary is a masterpiece of portraiture. The best 
 reward of the artist is to produce a work of art. That Miss Brooke has done." 
 Daily Chronicle. 
 
 SECOND REVIEW. 
 
 " If we begin to read ' The Confession of Stephen Whapshare,' the chances 
 are that we shall not lay down the book before the closing page. Miss Brooke 
 has composed a clever, strong, and original tale. She will ' go far,' doubtless, 
 for amongst other gifts she possesses a grave and cultured style." Daily 
 Telegraph. 
 
 A NEW NOVEL BY JOSEPH HATTON. 
 
 THE VICAR. 
 
 By the Author of " The Dagger and the Cross," " When Greek 
 
 meets Greek," " By Order of the Czar," etc. 
 
 In crown &vo, doth gilt, 6s. 
 
 A NEW NOVEL BY ADELINE SERGEANT. 
 
 THE LADY CHARLOTTE. 
 
 By the Author of " The Mistress of Quest," " Roger Vanbrugh's 
 
 Wife," " The Idol-Maker," etc. 
 
 In crown 8vo, doth gilt, 6s. 
 
 A NEW NOVEL BY M. E. MANN. 
 
 THE CEDAR STAR. 
 
 By the Author of " Susannah," etc. 
 In crown 8vo, doth gilt, 6s.
 
 FOR THE SPRING OF 1S9S. 
 
 A NEW NOVEL BY MARY ANGELA DICKENS. 
 
 AGAINST THE TIDE. 
 
 In crown &vo, cloth gilt, 6s. 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "SCARLET AND STEEL." 
 
 DEARER THAN HONOUR. 
 
 By E. LIVINGSTON PRESCOTT. 
 In crown 8v0, cloth gilt, 6s. 
 
 A NEW NOVEL BY EMERIC HULME-BEAMAN. 
 
 THE PRINCE'S DIAMOND. 
 
 By the Author of " Ozmar the Mystic." 
 In crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. 
 
 A NEW NOVEL BY ANNIE S. SWAN. 
 
 WYNDHAM'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 By the Author of " A Bitter Debt," "A Victory Won," etc. 
 In crown Svo, cloth gilt, 6s. 
 
 A NEW NOVEL BY ARABELLA KENEALY. 
 
 WOMAN AND THE SHADOW. 
 
 In croivn 8v0, cloth gilt, 6s. 
 A NEW NOVEL BY THE AUTHOR OF "A WELSH SINGER." 
 
 TORN SAILS. 
 
 By ALLEN RAINE. 
 In crown Sve, cloth gilt, 6s.
 
 4 PRELIMINARY LIST OF ANNOUNCEMENTS 
 
 "'At the Cross-Roads' is the finest work of fiction published this year 
 (1897). Miss Montresor's previous books, 'Into the Highways and Hedges' 
 and 'The One who Looked On,' have stamped her a novelist of the first order, 
 and this work will enhance her reputation. For solid excellence we believe 
 no writer since George Eliot has been her equal. The studies of life and 
 character are masterly. Almost every page glitters with sage sayings and 
 epigrams which reveal not merely high art, but wonderful insight into human 
 nature." 
 
 FIFTH LARGE EDITION OF F. F. MONTRESOR'S NEW NOVEL. 
 
 AT THE CROSS-ROADS. 
 
 In doth gilt, 6s. 
 
 "Miss Montresor has the skill in writing of Olive Schreiner and Miss 
 Harraden, added to the fulness of knowledge of life, which is a chief factor 
 in the success of George Eliot and Mrs. Humphrey Ward. She has the 
 instinct of a great writer. There is as much strength in ' At the Cross- Roads ' 
 as in a dozen ordinary successful novels." Literary World. 
 
 NEW NOVEL BY THE AUTHOR OF " TATTERLEY." 
 
 A PRINCE OF MISCHANCE. 
 
 By TOM GALLON. 
 In cloth gilt, 6s. 
 
 "As fascinating a story as we have read for a long time." Pall Mall 
 Gazette. 
 
 1 All the characters are traced with a masterly hand." St. James's Gazette. 
 
 ' This excellent novel . . . is original." Daily Telegraph. 
 
 ' This is a clever and suggestive book." Atken&um. 
 
 'One of the best stories that have lately appeared." Westminster Gazette. 
 
 ' It has indeed remarkable merit." World. [Second Large Edition. 
 
 THIRD LARGE EDITION OF "RITA'S" NEW NOVEL. 
 
 THE SINNER. 
 
 In cloth gilt, 6s. 
 
 " ' The Sinner ' is the cleverest and most successful of ' Rita's ' novels. 
 Every one who reads this book once will be tempted to read it a second 
 time ; indeed, one feels from the first chapter that it is a story well worth 
 buying." British Weekly.
 
 FOR THE SPRING OF 189S. 
 
 " Every woman who loves children will find this story 
 a most enthralling one. "LADY. 
 
 WITH 50 ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY IDA LOWERING. 
 
 A LONELY LITTLE LADY. 
 
 By DOLF WYLLARDE. 
 In square Svo cloth, handsomely bound and fully gilt, price 55. 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS. 
 
 "It is a book by itself. Beautifully got up. Remarkably clever in its 
 surface and its depths, and it is also more. It is a beautiful conception both 
 of incident and character. We do not believe that anybody will read this book 
 without emotion or without laughter. The drawings are full of grace, spirit, 
 and expression." World. 
 
 "It is a delicate and beautiful analysis of child-life, and is illustrated very 
 beautifully by IDA LOVERING." Methodist Recorder. 
 
 " Children are sure to find infinite charm in the study of this exceptional, but 
 slill natural, child-character, while grown-up readers will recognise that here 
 is real life and feeling interpreted by a cultured imagination. The literary 
 style is delicate and finished, and is tinged with exquisite tenderness. The 
 illustrations are as delicately pretty as the story itself, and they form a most 
 attractive addition to the charm of the book." Sheffield Independent, 
 
 "A pretty book, both to look at and to read. It is a pathetic story, 
 charmingly written." Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 "This charming story of Child-Life, which readers of 'LITTLE LORD 
 FAUNTLEROY ' are sure to delight in. ... The book is one that we can 
 recommend, feeling sure that no reader will be disappointed who cares for 
 such simple, yet true, studies of childhood." Gentlewoman. 
 
 "The tale has a strong interest of sentiment. It is well illustrated by 
 Miss IDA LOVERING." Scotsman. 
 
 "This very charming study of child-life. The book is notable throughout 
 for delicate workmanship and restrained power; there is o false note any- 
 where, and the conclusion is an artistic masterpiece." Sheffield Daily 
 Telegraph. 
 
 " Little people and grown-up readers will be delighted with the Story of 
 'A LONELY LITTLE LADY.' There are many beautiful pictures by 
 IDA LOVERING." Dundee Advertiser.
 
 6 PRELIMINARY LIST OF ANNOUNCEMENTS 
 
 WITH NEARLY 100 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PICTURESQUE DUBLIN. 
 Old and New. 
 
 By FRANCES GERARD. 
 
 With a. large number of Original Illustrations by ROSE BARTON. 
 In handsome &vo, cloth gilt and gilt top, izs. 
 
 " A delightful volume, thoroughly enjoyable from cover to cover." Glasgow 
 Herald. 
 
 " Full of historical charm." Leeds Mercury. 
 
 "Miss Rose Barton's drawings are full of charm." Times. 
 
 SECOND LARGE EDITION AT PRESS. 
 In one handsome Svo vol., i6s. 
 
 KINGS OF THE TURF. 
 
 Memoirs and Anecdotes of Distinguished Owners, Backers, 
 
 Trainers, and Jockeys, who have figured on the British 
 
 Turf, with Record Notes of Classic Events and 
 
 Achievements of Famous Horses* 
 
 By THORMANBY, 
 
 Author of " Records of the Racecourse," etc. 
 With 32 full-page Portraits printed on plate paper. 
 
 " It will be read, and all is well worth it." Sportsman. 
 
 " We doubt if any Englishman could read this book without a secret interest 
 and delight. The portraits in the book are certainly admirable." Daily 
 Chronicle. 
 
 " Decidedly entertaining, the work is one that calls or commendation ; 
 it is presented in an attractive form." Morning Post. 
 
 " So wfdl-written and interesting a book as ' Kings of the Turf.' A volume 
 of extreme interest . . . there is not a dull page in this stout volume. We 
 can recommend THORMANBY'S book to all readers as a lively, picturesque, and 
 singularly well-written treatment of its subject." Glasgow Herald. 
 
 "Space forbids us to do more than hint at the good things which may be 
 found in THORMANBY'S enthralling pages. The book may be heartily 
 recommended to all lovers of racing, and is good enough to appeal to a far 
 larger public." .SV. fames' Gazette.
 
 FOR THE SPRING OF 1898. 
 
 THE HOUSEHOLD ORACLE. 
 
 Edited by ALFRED H. MILES. 
 
 In large crown 8v0, 6oo//., cloth gilt, with numerous illustrations, 
 price 3^. 6d. 
 
 A Popular Referee on all subjects of Household Enquiry, 
 including among many others : 
 
 House Building and Buying. Soils, Aspects, Plans, Drainage, 
 Warming and Ventilation, Decorations, etc. , etc., etc. 
 
 W. H. WOOD, ESQ., M.R.I.B.A. 
 
 Household Law. Landlord and Tenant, Master and Servant; 
 Rates and Taxes, Wills and Bequests, Matrimonial Cases, etc., etc., etc. 
 R. J. GRIFFITHS, M.A., LL.D. 
 L. D. POWLES, ESQ., Barrister-at-Law. 
 
 Household Medicine. Food and Feeding, the Bath and Bathing, 
 Infants and Children, Nursing the Sick, Common Ailments, Common 
 Injuries, Accidents, etc., etc. 
 
 H. CAMERON GILLIES, M.D. 
 
 The Home Farm. The Care and Treatment of Fowls, Ducks, 
 Geese,, Turkeys, Pigs, etc., etc., etc., and household pets, Cats, Dogs, and 
 Birds. 
 
 GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N. 
 
 The Garden. A Calendar of Work to be done for the Year in 
 the Flower Garden, the Kitchen Garden, and the Orchard. 
 
 W. E. EARLY, of the Gardeners' Chronicle. 
 
 Household Cookery, with hundreds of Recipes for Soups, Fish, 
 Entrees, Joints, Game, Sweets, Vegetables, and Vegetarian Cookery, by 
 various Writers, including 
 
 A. G. PAYNE, Author of " Commonsense Cooking." 
 
 Our English Tongue: treating of the Rules of Speech, Grammar, 
 Spelling, Common Errors of Conversation, Origin and Derivation of 
 Words. 
 
 Household Subjects, too numerous to epitomise, including 
 "Etiquette," "Household Amusements," "Family Life," "The Calen- 
 dar," " Table of Weights and Measures," ' Tables of Interest," " Ready 
 Reckoner," etc., etc., etc. 
 
 House Furnishing: Dealing with Furnishing and Decoration, 
 room by room, with Prices of all important articles, and numerous 
 Illustrations. 
 
 Plain and Fancy Needlework, with Instructions for Cutting 
 Out, and numerous Illustrations of Patterns, Stitches, etc., etc. 
 
 Housekeeping, including Household Accounts, the Duties of 
 Servants, the Storing of Provisions, the Direction of the Food Supply, 
 etc., etc., etc.
 
 8 PRELIMINARY LIST OF ANNOUNCEMENTS 
 
 FRANKFORT MOORE'S NOVELS. 
 
 Each in crown Sv0, cloth gilt, 6s. 
 
 THE JESSAMY BRIDE. 
 
 FOURTH EDITION. 
 
 '"The Jessamy Bride' is so fine a conception that it seems cold criticism 
 to describe it as Mr. Frankfort Moore's best literary feat, although this story 
 claims such acknowledgment." World. 
 
 I FORBID THE BANNS. 
 
 NINTH EDITION. 
 
 "A very remarkable novel. It is daring in conception, brilliant in execution, 
 and altogether fascinating in treatment. There is not an ill-drawn character 
 in the book." Daily Telegraph. 
 
 " A novel which does not contain a dull page." Academy. 
 
 A GRAY EYE OR SO. 
 
 NINTH EDITION. 
 
 " One of the most amusing and taking of contemporary modern novels. The 
 book is packed with vivacious cleverness of speech, sparkle of wit, and shrewd- 
 ness of observation ; it overflows with good tilings. There are, besides, 
 passages that have charm, real charm, in spite of the very whimsical and 
 biting irony." AtJienceum, 
 
 ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 
 
 FOURTH EDITION. 
 
 " The plot is the cleverest Mr. Moore has yet conceived . . . told with great 
 cleverness." Literary World, 
 
 PHYLLIS OF PHILISTIA. 
 
 FIFTH EDITION. 
 
 " For a reviewer to confess that he has read a book twice through, as I have 
 Mr. Frankfort Moore's ' Phyllis of Philistia,' is equivalent to saying that the 
 work is a production of extraordinary merit." Literary World. 
 
 THEY CALL IT LOVE. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 " The charm and passion breathing through the love scenes betray a master 
 hand at work. Lily is a charming heroine." Daily News* 
 
 DAIREEN. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 " Remarkably original and well constructed." 'Daireen'is indeed a fine 
 story, full of strength and manliness of spirit and style." Morning 2'osl.
 
 FOR THE SPRING OF 1898. 
 
 Hutchinson's Select Novels. 
 
 Each in crown Svo, handsome cloth gilt, $s. 6d. 
 
 The Mighty Atom. By MARIE CORELLI. 
 
 The Banishment of Jessop Blythe. By JOSEPH HATTON. 
 
 The Mistress of Quest. By ADELINE SERGEANT. 
 
 The Vengeance of James Vansittart. By MRS. j. H. 
 
 NEEDELL. 
 
 The Story of an African Farm. By OLIVE SCHREINER. 
 
 The Cuckoo in the Nest. By MRS. OLIPHANT. 
 
 A House in Bloomsbury. By MRS. OLIPHANT. 
 
 A Marriage Ceremony. By ADA CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Fidelis. By ADA CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 The Tragedy of Ida Noble. By w. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 
 The Heritage of Langdale. By MRS. ALEXANDER. 
 
 A Second Life. By MRS. ALEXANDER. 
 
 Sam's Sweetheart. By HELEN MATHERS. 
 
 Roger Vanbrugh's Wife. By ADELINE SERGEANT. 
 
 The Idol-Maker. By ADELINE SERGEANT. 
 
 When Greek Meets Greek. By JOSEPH HATTON. 
 
 Grif. By B. L. FARJEON. 
 
 The Village Blacksmith. By BARLEY DALE. 
 
 A Stumbler in Wide Shoes. By E. SUTCLIFFE MARCH. 
 
 Tatterley. By TOM GALLON.
 
 io PRELIMINARY LIST OF ANNOUNCEMENTS 
 
 FOURTH AND CHEAP EDITION. 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF 
 ISABEL, LADY BURTON: 
 
 THE STORY OF HER LIFE. 
 
 Told in part by HERSELF and in part by W. H. WILKINS. 
 
 800 pages, in i vol., demy 8vo, cloth gilt, IQS. 6d. 
 With Photogravure Portrait and full-page Illustrations. 
 
 " One of the most absorbing and thrilling stories of love and adventure ever 
 written. " World. 
 
 Over IOO columns of favourable reviews have already appeared. 
 
 BEAUTY CULTURE. 
 
 By H. ELLEN BROWNING. 
 In crown Sv0, cloth gilt, 3*. 6d. 
 
 This work contains valuable and interesting information on the procurement 
 and preservation of health and beauty. The authoress is a most successful 
 lecturer on the subject, and her literary ability has been displayed in her suc- 
 cessful work " A Girl's Wanderings in Hungary." 
 
 CONTENTS 
 On Beauty as a Science. 
 On the Science of Personal Beauty. 
 On the Art of Dress as an Aid to Beauty. 
 On Good Circulation as an Aid to Beauty. 
 On Sound Nerves as a Source of Beauty. 
 On the Functions of the Skin with regard to Beauty. 
 On Diet as a means of Beauty. 
 On Happiness as a Beauty Philtre. 
 Practical Hints for Personal Beauty. 
 
 BY MRS. DE SALIS. 
 
 THE HOUSEWIFE'S REFEREE. 
 
 A Treatise on Culinary and Household Subjects. 
 In crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 The Kitchen, The Larder, The Dairy, The Pantry, Napkin Folding, The Linen 
 
 Cupboard, Hints for Housemaids, Fire, The Laundry, Medical Hints, On 
 
 Entertaining, Plain Cooking, Soup Making, Fish, Entrees, Savouries, 
 
 \ Sauces, Sweets, Cakes and Confections, Dessert, Hints for Tea and Coffee 
 
 \ Making, The Wine Cellar, Beverages, Menus, Etc., Etc
 
 FOR THE SPRING OF 1898. 
 
 ii 
 
 HutcMnson's Library of Popular Novels. 
 
 Each in crown Svo, cloth, richly gilt. 
 Price 2s. 6ci. per volume. 
 
 THE GUARDIAN says: 
 
 "Really a most promising and remarkable sign of the times. Hen 
 we have the old-established novel offered to the reader, neatly bound, 
 nicely printed, comfortable to handle, with plenty of matter and interest, 
 and all for the modest sum of 2s. 6d." 
 
 All these novels are copyright. 
 
 BY MRS. J. 
 
 Austin Friars 
 
 Too Much Alone 
 
 The Rich Husband 
 
 Maxwell Drewitt 
 
 Far Above Rubies 
 
 A Life's Assize 
 
 The World in the Church 
 
 Home, Sweet Home 
 
 Phemie Keller 
 
 H. RIDDELl. 
 
 The Race for Wealth 
 The Earl's Promise 
 Mortom ley's Estate 
 Frank Sinclair's Wife 
 The Ruling Passion 
 My First and Last Love 
 City and Suburb 
 Above Suspicion 
 Joy after Sorrow 
 
 BY JOSEPH HATTQN. 
 
 Under the Great Seal 
 
 The Princess Mazaroff 
 
 A Modern Ulysses 
 
 By Order of the Czar 
 
 Clytie 
 
 The Tallants of Barton 
 
 In the Lap of Fortune 
 The Valley of Poppies 
 Not in Society 
 Christopher Kenrick 
 Cruel London 
 The Queen of Bohemia 
 
 Bitter Sweets
 
 PRELIMINARY LIST OF ANNOUNCEMENTS. 
 
 HutcMnson's Library of Popular Noyels, 
 
 (Continued.) 
 
 Each in crown Sv0, cloth, richly gilt. 
 Price 2s. 6d. per volume. 
 
 All these novels are copyright, 
 
 BY FLORENCE MARRY AT. 
 
 Miss Harrington's Hus- 
 band 
 
 Mount Eden 
 Gerald Estcourt 
 Love's Conflict 
 Too Good for Him 
 Woman Against Woman 
 For Ever and Ever 
 
 Nellie Brooke 
 
 Veronique 
 
 Her Lord and Master 
 
 The Prey of the Gods 
 
 The Girls of Feversham 
 
 Mad Dumaresq 
 
 No Intentions 
 
 Petronel 
 
 BY F. W. 
 
 Christie's Faith 
 Carry's Confession 
 Under the Spell 
 The House of Elmore 
 Milly's Hero 
 Mr. Stewart's Intentions 
 No Man's Friend 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 Wild Flower 
 
 Poor Humanity 
 
 Owen, a Waif 
 
 Woodleigh 
 
 A Woman's Ransom 
 
 Mattie, a Stray 
 
 Slaves of the Ring 
 
 One and Twenty 
 
 LONDON : HUTCHINSON & CO., 34, PATERNOSTER Row, E.G.
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 000 051 685 6