The Curate in Charge. Oliphant Margaret

getting up with a blush, more conscious of the interruption than her sister was. The artist had the quickest eye.

      “Yes, it is Aunt Jane; I am glad you recollect,” said Miss Maydew. “I have come all the way from town to pay you a visit, and that is not a small matter on such a hot day.”

      “Papa will be very glad to see you,” said Cicely, looking up shy but pleased, with a flood of colour rushing over her face under the shade of her big hat. She was doubtful whether she should put up her pretty cheek to kiss the stranger, or wait for that salutation. She put out her hand, which seemed an intermediate measure. “I am Cicely,” she said, “and this is Mab; we are very glad to see you, Aunt Jane.”

      Miss Brown got up hastily from under the tree, and made the stranger a curtsy. She gave a troubled glance at the girls’ frocks, which were not so fresh as they might have been. “You will excuse their schoolroom dresses,” she said, “we were not expecting any one; and it was so fine this morning that I indulged the young ladies, and let them do their work here. Ask your aunt, my dears, to come in.”

      “Work!” said Miss Maydew, somewhat crossly, “I heard nothing but talk. Yes, I should like to go in, if you please. It is a long walk from the station – and so hot. Why, it is hotter here than in London, for all you talk about the country. There you can always get shade on one side of the street. This is like a furnace. I don’t know how you can live in such a blazing place;” and the old lady fanned herself with her large white handkerchief, a sight which brought gleams of mischief into Mab’s brown eyes. The red and blue pencil twirled more rapidly round than ever in her fingers, and she cast a longing glance at the sketch-book in Cicely’s hand. The girls were quite cool, and at their ease under the great beech-tree, which threw broken shadows far over the grass, – shadows which waved about as the big boughs did, and refreshed the mind with soft visionary fanning. Their big hats shadowed two faces, fresh and cool like flowers, with that downy bloom upon them which is the privilege of extreme youth. Miss Brown, who was concerned about their frocks, saw nothing but the creases in their pink and white garments; but what Miss Maydew saw was (she herself said) “a picture;” two fair slim things in white, with touches of pink, in soft shade, with bright patches of sunshine flitting about them, and the green background of the common rolled back in soft undulations behind. Poor lady! she was a great contrast to this picture; her cheeks flushed with the heat, her bonnet-strings loosed, fanning herself with her handkerchief. And this was what woke up those gleams of fun in Mab’s saucy eyes.

      “But it is not hot,” said Mab. “How can you speak of a street when you are on the common? Don’t you smell the pines, Aunt Jane, and the honey in the gorse? Come under the tree near to us; it is not the least hot here.”

      “You are a conceited little person,” said Aunt Jane.

      “Oh no! she is not conceited – she is only decided in her opinions,” said Cicely. “You see we are not hot in the shade. But come in this way, the back way, through the garden, which is always cool. Sit down here in the summer-house, Aunt Jane, and rest. I’ll run and get you some strawberries. They are just beginning to get ripe.”

      “You are a nice little person,” said Miss Maydew, sitting down with a sigh of relief. “I don’t want any strawberries, but you can come and kiss me. You are very like your poor mother. As for that thing, I don’t know who she is like – not our family, I am sure.”

      “She is like the St. John’s,” said Cicely solemnly; “she is like papa.”

      Mab only laughed. She did not mind what people said. “I’ll kiss you, too,” she said, “Aunt Jane, if you like; though you don’t like me.”

      “I never said I didn’t like you. I am not so very fond of my family as that. One can see you are a pickle, though I don’t so much mind that either; but I like to look at this one, because she is like your poor mother. Dear, dear! Hester’s very eyes, and her cheeks like two roses, and her nice brown wavy hair!”

      The girls drew near with eager interest, and Mab took up in her artist’s fingers a great handful of the hair which lay upon her sister’s shoulders. “Was mamma’s like that?” she said in awe and wonder; and Cicely, too, fixed her eyes upon her own bright locks reverentially. It gave them a new strange feeling for their mother to think that she had once been a girl like themselves. Strangest thought for a child’s mind to grasp; stranger even than the kindred thought, that one day those crisp half-curling locks, fall of threads of gold, would be blanched like the soft braids under Mrs. St. John’s cap. “Poor mamma!” they said simultaneously under their breath.

      “Brighter than that!” said Miss Maydew, seeing across the mists of years a glorified vision of youth, more lovely than Hester had ever been. “Ah, well!” she added with a sigh, “time goes very quickly, girls. Before you know, you will be old, too, and tell the young ones how pretty you were long ago. Yes, Miss Audacity! you mayn’t believe it, but I was pretty, too.”

      “Oh yes, I believe it!” cried Mab, relieved from the momentary gravity which had subdued her. “You have a handsome nose still, and not nearly so bad a mouth as most people. I should like to draw you, just as you stood under the beech-tree; that was beautiful!” she cried, clapping her hands. Miss Maydew was pleased. She recollected how she had admired the two young creatures under that far-spreading shade; and it did not seem at all unnatural that they should in their turn have admired her.

      “Mabel! Mabel!” said Miss Brown, who knew better, lifting a warning finger. Miss Maydew took up the sketch-book which Cicely had laid on the rough table in the summer-house. “Is this what you were all talking about?” she said. But at this moment the governess withdrew and followed Cicely into the house. She walked through the garden towards the rectory in a very dignified way. She could not stand by and laugh faintly at caricatures of herself as some high-minded people are capable of doing. “I hope Miss Maydew will say what she thinks very plainly,” she said to Cicely, who flew past her in a great hurry with a fresh clean white napkin out of the linen-press. But Cicely was much too busy to reply. As for Mab, I think she would have escaped too, had she been able; but as that was impossible, she stood up very demurely while her old aunt turned over the book, which was a note-book ruled with blue lines, and intended for a more virtuous purpose than that to which it had been appropriated; and it was not until Miss Maydew burst into a short but hearty laugh over a caricature of Miss Brown that Mab ventured to breathe.

      “You wicked little thing! Are these yours?” said Miss Maydew; “and how dared you let that poor woman see them? Why, she is there to the life!”

      “Oh! Aunt Jane, give me the book! She has never seen them: only a few innocent ones at the beginning. Oh! please give me the book! I don’t want her to see them!” cried Mab.

      “You hate her, I suppose?”

      “Oh! no, no! give me the book, Aunt Jane! We don’t hate her at all; we like her rather. Oh! please give it me before she comes back!”

      “Why do you make caricatures of her, then?” said Miss Maydew, fixing her eyes severely on the girl’s face.

      “Because she is such fun!” cried Mab; “because it is such fun. I don’t mean any harm, but if people will look funny, how can I help it? Give me the book, Aunt Jane!”

      “I suppose I looked funny too,” said Miss Maydew, “under the beech-tree, fanning myself with my pockethandkerchief. I thought I heard you giggle. Go away, you wicked little thing! Here is your sister coming. I like her a great deal better than you!”

      “So she is, a great deal better than me,” said Mab, picking up her book. She stole away, giving herself a serious lecture, as Cicely tripped into the summer-house carrying a tray. “I must not do it again,” she said to herself. “It is silly of me. It is always getting me into scrapes; even papa, when I showed him that one of himself!” Here Mab paused to laugh, for it had been very funny – and then blushed violently; for certainly it was wrong, very wrong to caricature one’s papa. “At all events,” she said under her breath, “I’ll get a book with a lock and key as soon as ever I have any money, and show them only to Cicely; but oh! I must, I must just this once, do Aunt Jane!”

      Cicely