The Third Miss St Quentin. Molesworth Mrs.

take the book and tell her you said it was like me and them.”

      Harvey caught hold of her.

      “If you do, Miss Ella,” she said, “you’ll get such a scolding as you’ve never had in your life. And I’ll be sent away – you’ll see – and it’ll be all your fault.” Ella stopped short.

      “Then why did you say it to me?” she asked, for she was a clever and quick-witted child.

      “Oh, well – I shouldn’t have said it. When you’re older you’ll understand better, darling. You see Harvey loves you so – she’d like you to be the eldest and have everything like a little princess. The third’s never the same – and Harvey doesn’t like to think of her Miss Ella coming in for the old clothes and the leavings, and the worst of it all, so to say.”

      Ella had calmed down now, but she sat listening intently with a startled, uneasy look, painful to see on her pretty little face.

      “But mamma won’t let me have the shabby old clothes, mamma loves me too, Harvey,” she persisted.

      “Yes, yes – but poor mamma’s very ill. But never mind, darling. While Harvey’s here no one shall put upon you, and then there’s your Auntie Phillis. She loves my Miss Ella, that she does.”

      “Auntie’s not here,” said the child.

      “No, but may be she’ll come some day soon,” said Harvey mysteriously, “only don’t you say I said so. You don’t want to get poor Harvey scolded again, do you, darling?”

      “No,” said Ella, but that was all, and when Harvey kissed her, though she submitted quietly, she did not in any way return the caress.

      Then she got down from her nurse’s knee and collected her picture books together, and put them away.

      “Sha’n’t I read anything to you? There’s lots of other pretty stories,” Harvey asked.

      “No,” said Ella again, “I don’t like no stories.”

      And once or twice during that day, even Harvey was startled, and a little conscience-stricken at the expression on the child’s face.

      That same morning in a pretty sitting-room on the ground floor of the house, Madelene St Quentin and her sister Ermine were reading, or rather preparing some lessons together, when the door opened and an elderly lady in walking dress came in. Madelene started to her feet.

      “Oh, Aunt Anna,” she exclaimed, “I am so glad you have come. I have felt so fidgety all the morning, I couldn’t settle to anything. It is so good of you to have come over again so early.”

      “I promised you I would, my dear,” the new-comer replied. “I knew you would be anxious to see me after your father being with us last night.”

      “You had a long talk with mamma first, and then you and papa had time to consider it all?” said Madelene, “oh, I do hope – ”

      Lady Cheynes interrupted her.

      “I will tell you all about it,” she said, “but first tell me – how is poor Ellen this morning? Had she a good night?”

      Madelene shook her head.

      “Not very, I’m afraid. It is so provoking – with all our care to save her anxiety – last night when Ella was taken to say good-night to her, mamma found out in an instant that the child had a cold, and she has been worrying about it ever since. I spoke as severely as I could to Harvey this morning. Of course it is all her fault.”

      Lady Cheynes in her turn shook her head.

      “Of course it is her fault. But I am afraid it is no use for you to say anything, my dear Maddie. It is a vicious circle. Ellen’s faith in Harvey must not be destroyed, for it could only be done at a terrible risk to your poor mother – and yet the more Harvey is left to herself the more and more she presumes upon it.”

      “I am not quite sure of that, Aunt Anna,” said Madelene. “There must be good in Harvey, I hope – Ella is very fond of her.”

      Lady Cheynes tapped the umbrella she held in her hand, impatiently on the floor. She was a small, handsome old lady, scarcely indeed old in point of years, but looking so, thanks to her white hair and the style of dress she affected. She was never seen except in black, but black of the richest, though as she had not changed the fashion of her garments since her widowhood some thirty years ago, she had something quaint and old-world-like about her, decidedly pleasing however when combined with freshness of material and exquisite neatness of finish. She had bright dark eyes, and delicate features. A very attractive old lady, but somewhat awe-inspiring nevertheless.

      “Rubbish, Maddie,” she said sharply. “I don’t mean,” she hastened to add, “that there is no good in the woman. If so, she would be a fiend. But as for the child being fond of her – that says nothing; people talk a good deal of nonsense about children’s innate discernment. There is nothing so easy as to humbug a child – up to a certain point, that’s to say. Harvey can easily wheedle Ella into fancying herself fond of her, when it suits the woman’s purpose. But at bottom I doubt if the child does care for her.”

      “Ella has a generous nature,” said Madelene.

      “Yes,” Ermine agreed, speaking for the first time; “she always flies up in defence of any one she thinks ill-used.”

      Lady Cheynes glanced across the room at the last speaker.

      “I did not notice you were there, Ermie,” she said abruptly, “Philip is kicking his heels somewhere about. Suppose you go out and look for him? The two of you can entertain each other for half an hour or so while I talk to Madelene. It’s no secrets – you needn’t feel hurt. But I never have been and never shall be able to talk comfortably à trois.”

      Ermine got up from her place at the table and moved towards the door, turning a laughing face to Lady Cheynes as she did so.

      “My feelings offended, auntie!” she said. “That would be something new, wouldn’t it? Now do make a nice and gratifying little speech to me for once.”

      Lady Cheynes smiled at Ermine as she left the room.

      “I wish Ella were as good tempered as Ermie,” said she, with a sigh. “The child is very spoilt; that is the worst of it. And that brings me to what you are so anxious about, my dear.”

      “Yes?” said Madelene eagerly, her face flushing, and her large soft eyes lighting up.

      But her aunt hesitated. She knew the extreme disappointment her next words must convey, and though her manner was abrupt, her heart was tender and sympathising.

      “It is no use, Maddie. I said everything I could think of yesterday to poor Ellen. And your father, as we know, agrees with us. But of course he cannot but give in now to that poor child of a wife of his. It would be brutal not to do so.”

      Madelene did not speak, but her eyes filled with tears.

      “Oh, auntie,” she said at last.

      “You must be truly unselfish, my dear, and not take it to heart too much.”

      “I had thought it would have been a comfort to poor mamma, for she has been very good to Ermine and me. I think – I do think, considering she has had us herself since we were quite little, that she might trust us,” said Madelene in a tremulous voice.

      “She does – thoroughly,” said Lady Cheynes, “don’t make it more painful for yourself by any doubts of that kind, my dear child. And there is reason in what she says, too. Ellen is not a foolish woman.”

      “No,” said Madelene, “I did not mean – ”

      “You are very young, you know, my dear, though older than your years. And even as it is, things will not be easy for you. That is what poor Ellen feels. There is your father – it is very hard upon him, still a young man, to be a second time left a widower. And he will never marry again – not a third time.”

      Madelene started. Her aunt patted her hand gently.

      “Don’t